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Every Night and All Appendix

The Titles

The title of this arc, and the stories in it, is taken from the Lyke-Wake Dirge which might seem like an odd choice for an arc centered around triumph. But one of the major threads that kept coming up, as I thought about what makes Nationals significant to the players and their growth, is the question of what they can give to each other: what opportunities the captains can give their players, what support teammates can give to each other, what push to grow opponents can give to each other. And that’s the heart of the Wake, after all, what you’ve given. "Fire and fleet and candle-light" are the shelters of the dead soul before it sets out on its journey, named over again in each refrain, so that was the title of the first story in the arc, when everyone is pulling together and readying to launch into the oddesy of Nationals. The body of the Wake makes it clear that progress in the soul’s journey is contingent on having supported one’s fellows in life: "If ever thou gavest meat or drink / The fire shall never make thee shrink." The Nationals story proper is about courage, yes, but courage rooted in connection and the sustenance any given player has been able to give to others, whether as leader, teammate, or opponent. Tezuka’s attitude, which is consistently held up as a correct one by the narrative through Regionals, suggests that only connection, having something greater than oneself to fight for, makes for good tennis. And the end of the Nationals story is the beginning of a new one, a new year, with new teams (partially or wholly) and new leaders who have to find their own way now. Death and rebirth, in a way.

I doubt I’ll ever actually get back around to it, but the Invitational arc would most definitely have been named "If Ever Thou Gavest," because that story, to my mind, has to come back around to the high-school captains, and what they gave or maybe did not yet succeed in giving to these alarmingly brilliant but certainly not perfect kouhai of theirs, who are coming back to them in the spring. Tezuka’s recklessness, Yukimura’s trauma, Tachibana and Chitose finding their way back, what path forward Kite will choose, all of those are going to be major challenges for the people who are about to be their captains (again, in some cases). Alas that we didn’t get many characters who seem even vaguely up to the challenge in the U-17 arc. By that point, canon was going for the gold in the multi-shark vaulting event.

Headcanons and Characterization

One of the things that this arc absolutely required was a re-consideration of Echizen’s character, based only on what we see up through Regionals. How would that character handle losing? Up to that point, we see exactly two examples of Echizen losing. One is against his father, and this is clearly an established state of affairs; he always loses against his father, and always has. Winning against his father, though, is just as clearly his personal measuring stick for his own progress. To date, it’s one that has yet to move at all. So I posit that, first of all, Echizen doesn’t actually have any real sense of how to measure his own progress, or even figure out whether he’s progressing at all.

He also has an extremely skewed relationship with winning and losing. The single other time we see him lose is against Tezuka, and it would be easy to dismiss that as a fluke. Every other match, no matter how stacked, no matter how daunting, he always wins. Echizen has only had those two unmoving absolutes in his game, so far. Winning is a given. At the same time, losing is an unpassable wall. So I further posit that Echizen doesn’t know how to deal with losing, doesn’t have any real concept of a loss as something less than absolute, something that can be worked past or overcome.

So Echizen expects to win against everyone who isn’t his father, but underneath it must run a constant, tiny thread of fear that he won’t, that he’ll fail, and to him, failure is an absolute. And to fail against someone his own age? That had to be a huge shock, something he couldn’t really process at all, and at that point I doubt he had even a little bit of the collectivist, team-play context to understand the anchor that Tezuka was trying to give him by giving him the responsibility of playing in support of the team (collective wins, collective losses, less individual pressure). So he had to be pretty at sea already, when they get to the Regional Finals.

And then it happens again.

At that point, I posit that the underlying thread of uncertainty and anxiety would come roaring to the surface. Echizen would be actively afraid that two loses to his own age bracket mean he’s hit another immovable wall, and that he has no idea when it might happen again (the latter, at least, is probably true). It would have unsettled his entire view of his own game, knocked out one of the two things he’d thought were absolutes. On the bright side, this is exactly what should happen, at this point in this kind of story; it’s Echizen’s opportunity for true growth. On the not-so-bright side, the story has not yet provided him with enough time to really understand any examples but his father’s. This is where the tennis season really constrains things. He’s only had a few months with Seigaku! In another season or two, he would have time to process, to struggle, to come to understand what happened and to rebuild his idea of what tennis is and how it should be played. In another half year, even, his teammates would have time to understand what his struggle really is. The story doesn’t give us that kind of time, though. This was actually quite a difficult issue to find a way past, narratively.

Fortunately, we do have a character with enough experience and perspective to bridge the gap, to understand where Echizen must be at and speak to him there: Ryuuzaki Sumire, the woman who trained Echizen Nanjirou and then saw him back down from the game, the woman who has trained Tezuka Kunimitsu and kept him from completely destroying himself. She clearly knows how to talk reckless geniuses down from the ledge. Ryuuzaki is the character who has the potential to understand why Echizen is afraid, and the integrity to support him while she urges him on past that fear.

So we’ll get Echizen where he needs to go. He’s just going to spend a lot of Nationals trying not to freak out.

Vocabulary

A few notes, because I made some unusual-for-me choices with translation this time.

For one thing, I have translated 無我 の 境地 (muga no kyouchi) as "no-self" throughout. That is both the most literal available translation of 無我, and one of the English phrases most commonly used for it. I do normally stick to fandom-consensus translations and author-glosses, if there are any, not least so most of my readers know at once what I’m talking about. But this one has grated on my soul from the first.

I’ve also rendered 寿中学 (chuugaku) as "junior high school." Normally I use "middle school" for this one, given the age ranges in question, but this is Tenipuri. Konomi declared that these characters are in middle school and then proceeded to draw and write them as if they were high-schoolers at the least. Junior high feels like it matches that feel just a bit better.

Nationals Venue

FET translated the name of the Nationals venue as Tokyo Municipal Arena (possibly this was the Metropolitan Gymnasium, since 育館 does indicate a competition site or arena), so I presume that’s what Konomi wrote down. If you look at the manga visuals, however, the venue is clearly the Ariake Tennis Forest and Coliseum. The center court is pretty unmistakeable. It looks as though Konomi clustered the first day on the courts nearest the coliseum parking lot, but I picked a little differently to allow for at least a little more mystery between different blocks. On the photo below I’ve designated courts A-H (lower set) to be used on the first day, for Rounds One and Two. Courts A-D (upper set), which have some nice margins or bleachers for onlookers, are used on the second day, for Quarter- and Semi-finals, which seems to match Konomi’s choice for QF at least. Finals are held on the stadium court, in the Coliseum. Courts are lettered rather than numbered, as is more common in professional tournaments, to discourage any inclination to assume that number equates to skill or talent (as is also quite common in professional tournaments).

 

aerial view of Ariake tennis park marking four pairs of courts all in a line, and two other pairs separated by trees

 

Note that Ariake has gotten a major renovation for the 2021 Olympics, and the latest pictures will no longer look quite like this.

 

Nationals Bracket, Every Night and All Universe

This whole section is for people who have a deep need to know crazy levels of detail. You don’t need any of this information to tell who’s playing whom, or to get the flow of the National games in this story. But the canon bracket drove me, personally, absolutely nuts, and I put a fair amount of time into re-working it, so here you go.

Picture version:

Prince of Tennis National tournament schedule

HTML version, with further revisions:

A Shitenhouji (Osaka), seed | |
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—Champion
BYE  
Nashikari Gakuen (Kanagawa) |
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Kushimakitou (Kagawa)
B Shishigaku (Kumamoto) |
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Saint Icarus (Yamagawa)
BYE   |
Fudoumine (Tokyo), seed
C Seishun Gakuen (Tokyo), seed | |
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BYE  
Maikozaka (Kyoto) |
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Joushuuin Dai Fuzoku Shimizu (Shizuoka)
D Takashiro Gakuin (Fukuoka) |
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Hikogashima (Yamaguchi)
BYE   |
Echigo Hira Daini (Niigata), seed
E Nagoya Seitoku (Aichi), seed | |
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BYE  
Maki no Fuji Gakuin (Hyogo) |
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Yamabuki (Tokyo)
F Tsubakikawa Gakuen (Hokkaido) |
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Hyoutei Gakuen (Tokyo)
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Okakura (Osaka), seed
G Higa (Okinawa), seed | |
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BYE  
Midoriyama (Saitama) |
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Rokkaku (Chiba)
H Kyouyou (Tochigi) |
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Murigaoka (Aichi)
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Rikkai Dai Fuzoku (Kanagawa), seed

Alterations

Most of my alterations have to do with better reflecting the populations of the regions and prefectures. I have redistributed the seeds, swapped a few teams around, and reassigning them to other locations. Konomi gave Kansai six teams to Kantou’s seven (six not counting Hyoutei). Kantou has just shy of twice the population of Kansai. Chuubu, which has roughly Kansai’s population, gets a much more reasonable four teams, so I swapped out Kabuto (from Nara, which is one of the smaller prefectures of Kansai) and Kuroshio (from Wakayama, which is tiny) with the last two teams from the Kantou Regional best eight to give them a more proportional eight (nine counting Hyoutei). This leaves another problem, though, because Konomi decided that both those schools would be from the Tochigi prefecture, which is one of the thinly populated inland prefectures. It’s less than a quarter the population of Kanagawa, who have, without further tinkering, only one team representing them. While statistics and averages are surely not the be all, end all of who has more strong teams, I have a hard time seeing this one. Given that, I reassigned Nashikari to the Kanagawa prefecture. For similar considerations of population density I reassigned Okakura to Osaka.

The results look like this (population given in millions, as of 2010 census):

Kantou: 42.6 (8 teams, plus host slot)
Tokyo: 13.1 (4 teams)
Kanagawa: 9 (2 teams)
Saitama: 7.1 (1 team)
Chiba: 6.2 (1 team)
Ibaraki: 2.9
Gunma: 2
Tochigi: 2 (1 team)
Kansai: 22.7 (4 teams)
Osaka: 8.8 (2 teams)
Hyougo: 5.5 (1 team)
Kyoto: 2.6 (1 team)
Mie: 1.8
Shiga: 1.4
Nara: 1.3
Wakayama: .9
Chuubu: 21.7 (4 teams)
Aichi: 7.4 (2 teams)
Shizuoka: 3.7 (1 team)
Niigata: 2.3 (1 team)
Nagano: 2.1
Gifu: 2
Ishikawa: 1.1
Toyama: 1.1
Yamanashi: .8
Fukui: .8
Kyuushuu: 13.2 (3 teams)
Fukuoka: 5 (1 team)
Kumamoto: 1.8 (1 team)
Kagoshima: 1.7
Nagasaki: 1.4
Okinawa: 1.3(1 team)
Ooita: 1.2
Miyazaki: 1.1
Saga: .8
Touhoku: 9.3 (1 team)
Miyagi: 2.3
Fukushima: 2
Iwate: 1.3
Aomori: 1.3
Yamagata: 1.1(1 team)
Akita: 1.1
Chuugoku: 7.5 (1 team)
Hiroshima: 2.8 (1 team)
Okayama: 1.9
Yamaguchi: 1.4
Shimane: .7
Tottori: .5
Hokkaidou: 5.5 (1 team)
Hokkaidou is a prefecture, but tends to get counted as a region as well, because of its area
Shikoku: 4.1 (1 team)
Kagawa: 1.8 (1 team)
Ehime: 1.4
Tokushima: .8
Kouchi: .7

Even more inexplicably, Kansai had four seeds to Kantou’s two, so I assigned one of those to Kantou (thus making Fudoumine seeded, as they deserve for being third at Kantou Regionals) and assigned another to Chuubu to level it with Kansai. For those who are curious about such things, in this ‘verse Shitenhouji was first in Kansai and Okakura was second. Nagoya Seitoku was the Chuubu champion and Echigo Hira Daini was second place.

The Fire Shall Never Make Thee Shrink – Day Three

Finals: Seigaku vs. Rikkai

The Ariake Coliseum filled slowly, the last day of Nationals, magazine writers and photographers and aficionados arriving early to stake out good seats, families and friends filtering in more slowly. Scouts lingered by the doors, watching for opportunities to stroll beside selected players as they arrived, business cards poised. The teams who had played in the tournament arrived in small knots, walking close together, a few laughing among themselves, a few still tight-lipped and angry from their own losses, but all of them there to bear witness to the final match.

There to see who would take the tournament flag home this year.


Fuji Yuuta leaned forward as the Singles Three match was announced and his brother stepped onto the court. He’d listened to Mizuki-san’s lecture, on the train over, about the importance of seeing different play styles and the necessity of always keeping his own game open to growth, but this was the match he was really here to see. From Rikkai’s side of the net, Yanagi stepped out, and Mizuki-san made a thoughtful noise, beside him.

“This could be interesting.”

Yuuta glanced over at him and thought for a moment. “Because of what Yanagisawa-senpai saw in the Semi-finals match?” While he’d been hauled off with Mizuki-san to watch Rikkai mop up Hyoutei, with the sole exception of Atobe himself, and that had been a great match, but he still wished he’d been able to see Aniki’s, instead.

Mizuki-san nodded, and cast a brief, approving look at Yanagisawa, where he was leaning on the back of Yuuta’s seat. “I wasn’t sure until I saw it myself, but I think you were right. That wasn’t just an intensification of his existing style; that must have been a genuine breakthrough. Fuji Shuusuke has never been hungry to win, before, but look at him now.”

Yuuta was already looking, and the change was a little amazing. He’d never seen his brother stand like he was now, as he and Yanagi shook hands, weight already on his toes, ready to move and leaning into the coming match.

“At one point, I thought that meant he wouldn’t be a true challenge,” Mizuki-san added in a tone that might have sounded neutral to an unsuspecting listener.

Given his brother, Yuuta hadn’t been unsuspecting since he’d been about seven years old, so instead of mentioning that it seemed like Aniki hadn’t been a real challenge to the top-level National players, he said, “Will the change throw off Yanagi, do you think?”

Mizuki-san bestowed an approving nod on him, this time, and Yuuta stomped hard on the urge to blush. “At the start, almost certainly. It gives your brother an advantage at the beginning of the match. We shall see whether Fuji Shuusuke can push that advantage far enough to win.” Mizuki-san leaned forward, eyes narrowing as Yanagi fell back to serve, and Yuuta let his own attention snap back to the match.

Once play started, he couldn’t look away.

A lot of people talked about how this player or that was on fire, when they had a good game, but Yuuta had never before seen a player give truth to the words the way his brother was right now. Aniki moved over the court like a flame flickering, now here, now there, always in the right place, always with a move that shone out clear and perfect. It seemed like the whole world was cheering Aniki on, from the gust of wind that carried his ball just beyond Yanagi’s racquet to the angle of sunlight that glanced off his racquet and hid the tilt of it at just the right moment.

And Yanagi was good, obviously, he was playing a National finals match. His game tightened up with every point, closing around Aniki’s like some kind of precision steel instrument. As they started into the fourth game, Yanagi started calling out predictions, more of them and more accurate ones as the points piled up. But Aniki didn’t stop, didn’t flag, never once drew back with that infuriating smile of his that said it was already decided. He drove forward and forward again, and didn’t stop, and by the last game Yuuta was on his feet, yelling with pure glee, because maybe, just maybe, if Aniki could play like this now, maybe Yuuta could play against that fire someday, himself.

In the end, Yanagi never did make up the first games, and Aniki won 6-4. Yuuta collapsed back into his seat, when the match was called, grinning like a loon and not caring at all.

“Your brother really annoys me, sometimes.”

Yuuta blinked and looked around at Mizuki-san, and then he edged back in his seat just a little. Mizuki-san was sitting straight and still, dangerously still, eyes locked on the court. “Mizuki-san?”

Instead of an explosion of cold temper, though, Mizuki-san settled slowly, slowly back in his seat, crossed his legs, and rested folded hands on his knee. Yuuta wasn’t sure that was actually better. Mizuki-san looked like he was thinking, full speed, and someone always regretted that. “Yuuta-kun.”

Yanagisawa-senpai gave him a ‘better you than me’ look, and Yuuta scowled at him before answering, still a bit leery. “Yes?”

“If you injure yourself in an unofficial match against Fuji Shuusuke before you return to me, I shall be exceedingly displeased.”

Pure reflex prompted an immediate, “I won’t!” And then Yuuta had to pause and blink. Unofficial match?

“Of course he’ll want to play, now,” Mizuki-san said, impatient as always with anyone who didn’t keep up. “He’ll want to play anyone who’s passionate about the game. He’ll be looking for the edges of his own ability, hoping to push further.” He held up an admonitory finger. “No more than one full match every other month, is that clear? Anything more will court injury, and I won’t be having that. Entertain yourselves, but understand that I will have a plan for your development when you join the Saint Christopher high school team.”

This time, the look Yuuta exchanged with Yanagisawa was rueful and amused. The broad, sweeping plan that rolled right over any objections was Mizuki-san all over. But Yuuta also couldn’t deny the little glow of pleasure that Mizuki-san had watched this match and still thought Yuuta might someday stand a chance of winning against Aniki. “Yes, Mizuki-san.”

Mizuki-san nodded firmly and sat back, crossing his arms and finally relaxing from that sharp edge of planning and calculation. Yuuta leaned his elbows on the chair back in front of him, so he could rest his chin in his hands and hide his grin.

The next couple years were going to be fun.


When the Doubles Two pairs were announced, Akaya sat up like he’d been jabbed with a pin. “No fair!” The entire team started laughing, and he slumped back down sulkily. “Why does Momoshiro get to play in the finals?” he muttered. And he didn’t!

“He’s just like a spoiled kitten sometimes, isn’t he?” Niou-senpai asked, sparing Akaya an amused glance. Most of his attention was obviously on the coming match, though. “They’re saving the Golden Pair for Doubles One, and they wanted an analytical player to throw at me, I’m guessing.”

“And an endurance player to place against me, one presumes.” Yagyuu-senpai adjusted his glasses with a sniff of disdain.

“Don’t disregard the threat Kaidou may be by now,” Yanagi-senpai scolded mildly. “All of Seigaku have been advancing quite rapidly, this year.”

“We’ll be fine.” Niou-senpai’s voice had the kind of lilt it got when he was looking forward to destroying someone, and Akaya watched Yagyuu-senpai relax and smile faintly. Well, at least the match should be entertaining for someone. He sighed and jammed his chin in his hands as his senpai walked out to greet Momoshiro and Kaidou.

Despite Yanagi-senpai’s caution, he couldn’t help but feel this was a sacrifice match, for Seigaku. Two second-years, up against Niou-senpai and Yagyuu-senpai? No matter how fast Momoshiro was growing into his intuition, or how crazy Kaidou’s endurance levels were by now, he doubted they had a real chance of winning Doubles Two. He winced at how quickly Yagyuu-senpai blew through Momoshiro’s defense, as the match started up. Case in point. He knew well just how much of a disadvantage second-years could be at, just because of how much growth third-years usually had on them. He’d been fighting that disadvantage steadily, as he tried to catch up with Sanada-san.

What he could see this being, though, was a kind of teaching match. Like his match with Kite had been. Like Sanada-san’s match with Atobe had been. Yukimura-buchou had made full use of the Nationals matches to make sure his players progressed; Akaya wasn’t really surprised that other captains might do the same.

He thought, he thought, now he’d had a night to consider it, that he might be able to do that, too. When he considered who was likely to be a regular two weeks from now, when he thought about the sharp edges of temper that Furuya couldn’t seem to tame without his partner Chiba to do it for him, about Tsunoda’s detachment, about Ueda’s tendency to overconfidence… yes, he could see himself throwing any or all of them in the way of a match with any opponent he thought might get through to them. Come to think of it, Kaidou might actually be a good lesson for Ueda. Or Echizen, if he thought the point really needed to be hammered home.

A roar from the crowd startled him out of his thoughts, and he checked the score quickly, wincing a little when he saw that Niou-senpai and Yagyuu-senpai were already three games ahead. That had to hurt. Opposing team or not, he couldn’t help sympathizing. He hoped what Momoshiro and Kaidou got out of this match was worth it to them.

When he looked back down, Yanagi-senpai and Sanada-san were both watching him. “What?” he asked, warily. Sanada-san smiled faintly, and Yanagi-senpai laughed outright, reaching out to ruffle his hair gently.

“You just can’t help thinking ahead, hm?”

Akaya flushed hot, remembering Yanagi-senpai’s admonition to focus on the games they had in front of them at Nationals. “I’m not playing in this round,” he defended himself. “I can think about it now, can’t I?”

“You can,” Sanada-san agreed, more quietly than usual. “Make sure you take what you can from these matches, though. Both what you can use later, and what you can use now.”

Akaya ducked his head, warmed that his senpai were still looking out for him, even with everyone knowing they were just about to leave. “Yes, Sanada-fukubuchou.”

He took a breath for calm, and settled himself to watch.

He couldn’t help frowning, though, watching Kaidou double down on receiving Yagyuu-senpai’s drives, obviously working to return them. Which was an extremely Kaidou sort of play, but Akaya thought it was a short-sighted choice. This was a Finals match; if ever there was a time for strategy, wasn’t it now? He eyed Momoshiro, wondering a little about the way he was leaving Kaidou to it to focus on Niou-senpai. It wasn’t unlike the way they’d played in Regionals against Marui-senpai and Jackal-senpai, but they’d lost that match 6-1. Given the things he’d heard from the scouts and (more importantly) from Yanagi-senpai about Seigaku’s advances, shouldn’t they be showing some of it now?

What, Akaya mused, would he do about Momoshiro and Kaidou, supposing they were some of the players about to become his?

Momoshiro… he wasn’t actually sure what he’d do about Momoshiro. He seemed so straightforward, like just another easy-going power player, but Akaya had seen Momoshiro turn his hand to more than just power-heavy shots. Momoshiro was flexible, could play doubles almost as well as he played singles. According to word from the scouts, he could back up a variety of very different kinds of partners, and he was down on the court right now facing off against Niou-senpai’s scary levels of flexibility and precision without flinching. He was volleying topspin shots out of the air just as well as he caught Niou-senpai’s heavy drives—not every time, but often enough to keep Niou-senpai’s attention.

If Akaya thought about Momoshiro as a kind of proto-Niou-senpai, well the first thing he had to do was suppress a cold shudder, but after that he kind of had to wonder if the best thing to do wouldn’t be to let Momoshiro do as he pleased. He’d never seen Yukimura-buchou trying to rein Niou-senpai in, particularly, or direct him to do anything except… Akaya slowly put the end of that thought together: except to amuse himself. That was how Yukimura-buchou directed Niou-senpai. By assuring him that he’d find something entertaining in the games Yukimura-buchou sent him into. Akaya took a slow breath, eyes fixed on Momoshiro as he slipped easily out of his current partner’s way and fell back to be in the right place to catch the slice Niou-senpai returned Kaidou’s ball with, just as it started to curve up. It was smoothly done, with no hesitation. Almost the way Akaya was used to people in no-self moving, but Momoshiro obviously wasn’t using that technique.

If Akaya had to guess, not that he was Yanagi-senpai, but if he had to guess himself, then he’d guess that Momoshiro was holding the whole game in his head right now, to see what was coming next. It might only be the fact that he was facing off against Niou-senpai himself that was holding the Seigaku’s pair’s score down.

Akaya put a mental check-mark by the thought that he was going to need to keep an eye out for more analytical talent to train up in his team, for next year. If he was right about how to manage that type, then Momoshiro himself should provide some good bait.

Now, Kaidou was easier. The thing to do with him would be to take advantage of his focus, Akaya thought, since that was one of Kaidou’s strengths. Encourage him to train his strength and technique further up. Probably find him a couple good targets to chase, since Kaidou was the driven type.

A good target…

Akaya straightened abruptly, eyes wide, staring out at the court. A good target like, say, Yagyuu Hiroshi? As he thought it, he saw Kaidou step into the next return, stance sliding wider into one Akaya knew from watching Yaguu-senpai train. It was the stance for a Laser Beam. Akaya’s breath caught in anticipation, and he leaned forward; would Kaidou be able to do it? The ball Kaidou hit streaked across the net at close to full speed, only to curve just as Yagyuu-senpai stepped to catch it, and Akaya whistled softly. Kaidou might not be able to match the pure force of Yagyuu-senpai’s Laser Beam, but he’d come up with his own version. "In one match?"

"Kaidou-kun has been watching Yagyuu for a while, now," Yanagi-senpai said calmly, from beside him. "I’m impressed that he found his own variation, though."

Akaya checked the score: 5-2. "I don’t think he found it soon enough to make a difference to this match."

"Not a winning difference, no, but look at Yaguu."

Akaya looked, and had a sudden urge to hide behind Yanagi-senpai. Yagyuu-senpai was watching Kaidou with a gracious little smile, the kind that everyone in Rikkai knew meant trouble. And Niou-senpai was lit up and grinning at his partner, which really meant trouble. "Um."

Yanagi-senpai chuckled. "Just watch."

So Akaya watched as Yagyuu-senpai proceeded to pound Kaidou with one Laser Beam after another, while Niou-senpai stayed up at the net, eyes locked with Momoshiro. Ready to keep him from interfering, Akaya guessed.

Not that he was sure Momoshiro would have, because Kaidou actually seemed to be enjoying himself in a weird way. He wasn’t backing down, at any rate, even when the racquet got blown out of his hands. And he actually managed two extended rallies with Yagyuu-senpai before game-point was slammed past him, ending the match 6-2.

All right, so a target to chase was exactly the way to handle a player like Kaidou. And a challenge was apparently the way to handle one like Yagyuu-senpai. Noted.

Niou-senpai was laughing under his breath as they came off the court, and Akaya honestly wasn’t sure whether he should hope to find someone else like Niou-senpai, who could match Momoshiro on what seemed increasingly to be his own ground, or whether he should pray to be spared that kind of trouble. He did notice that Yukimura-buchou seemed wryly amused by it all, and sighed a little, wondering if he’d ever have that kind of easy confidence.

Honestly, he thought he had a better chance at following in Sanada-san’s steps, so he settled in to pay close attention to the next match.


Given Tezuka’s choices this year, Genichirou wasn’t entirely surprised when Singles Two was announced. He still wasn’t sure if it was a gamble on Yuikimura’s recovery time—and if anyone could gauge that, this year, it would be Tezuka—or simply trying to give his obstreperous little genius the best match possible to push him forward, but it seemed Echizen would be Yukimura’s to deal with while Genichirou got Tezuka.

He didn’t object.

“Sanada,” Yukimura said, as he started to step out, delicate warning in his tone.

Genichirou sighed and had to push down the momentary urge to sulk as if he were Akaya. “I’m aware.”

After his Semi-finals match, he was very aware that he needed to pay more attention to where his opponents were right now. But a tiny part of him still felt it was unfair. Tezuka was a powerful opponent, and games against him were never sure, but he’d also always been one of the people Genichirou could relax against. For all his polished technique, Tezuka was a straightforward player. He didn’t hide his capabilities or use sneak-attacks or sudden changes of pace. He simply gave his all to every game and played. And while that did generally leave a trail of crushed opponents behind, there was neither malice nor arrogance, nor much strategy in it.

But thinking he could relax a bit against anyone was exactly the approach that had resulted in a loss against Atobe Keigo, which still smarted. Genichirou was not going to relax against Tezuka.

Yukimura settled back. “Good.”

Genichirou raked a measuring look over Tezuka, when they met at the net to shake hands. Like Yukimura, Tezuka had stayed out of most of the Nationals games. “Are you up for this?” he asked, bluntly.

Tezuka’s gaze was steady and serious. “I am.”

Genichirou nodded, satisfied, and turned toward his half of the court. If Tezuka were still injured, he would have said ‘of course’.

The first game was still a testing one, both of them watchful, both of them scattering pin-point slices and bruising drives through their rallies to see the response. Tezuka certainly seemed to be at full strength, catching even Fire without a flinch.

Diving into the second game without pausing, he did start to feel the tug of Tezuka’s growing control of the ball, and that made him smile. The Zone had always been a worthy challenge, and he let himself sink into the first stages of no-self, let his distractions ravel away to focus on the now. His awareness of the ball’s spin sharpened, and he breathed deep and let his body answer. Even the Forest couldn’t completely cancel Tezuka’s control of the spin, not during Tezuka’s service game, but the more he pushed against that control, the deeper his awareness of Tezuka’s current game ran. And the deeper his awareness ran, the more something caught at his attention.

This was the level of no-self that neither Echizen nor Akaya had fully grasped, yet, the state that balanced full awareness of the now with strategic awareness of the past and future. Genichirou rode that edge, balanced the now with the past, and let both speak to him. Out of that balance, he abandoned the Forest and drove Fire against the Zone, again and again, as if to test the sound of a bell by striking it.

By the fourth game, he was sure. Tezuka could catch Fire, yes. He was playing at full strength, yes. But his returns were not as precise as Genichirou’s experience of Tezuka led him to expect. Certainty settled into Genichirou’s mind.

Tezuka was rusty, at full strength.

Matching certainty shivered down his nerves, calling him toward a new stance. Now, while Tezuka’s control of his own strength was still unsteady, was the time to attack. Now, he had a window of opportunity. Now was the time to match his power against Tezuka’s blunted control and race against how quickly Tezuka might sharpen again.

Now was the time for Wind and Fire.

Tezuka’s eyes narrowed at him, across the net, and Genichirou realized he was smiling, wide and hungry. This would be the kind of game Genichirou loved best.

With another breath, Genichirou sank himself fully into no-self, let the balance tilt toward now, and called up all the strength and focus he’d trained into himself. He cut one stroke after another at Tezuka, building on the slight uncertainty of each return to drive the ball out of his reach. Again, and again, he sliced the Wind against the Zone and drove Fire through the cracks to force the ball out of Tezuka’s control. He could feel Tezuka slowly pulling those cracks closed again, felt the pace of it increasing like a hill he was running up; this would be close. He couldn’t let that knowledge slow him, though, so he let the points fade from his awareness, focused on nothing but driving the ball beyond Tezuka’s reach; the points would only matter again at the end, when he found out which of them had won this race.

The glee of pushing himself to the limit and always finding his opponent there, pushing back, sang through him. Genichirou dashed for the ball again and again to set himself perfectly behind it, willing to spend his strength exactly this freely for the chance he’d seen. Again Wind, and again, cutting against the steadily tightening threads of Tezuka’s Zone—steady but just as ferocious as Fire burned, that control. If he’d had breath to spare, Genichirou would have laughed.

When the end came, it was a shock, and Genichirou had to take a moment to understand why Tezuka wasn’t serving. When he shook off the absolute focus he’d been locked in and looked around, he was a bit dazed to realize that they’d just finished the tenth game, that the sound he’d just heard was the referee calling the final score.

Six games to four, in Genichirou’s favor.

It felt, after the fierce focus and rush of the last few games, like the score should have been tighter. When they met at the net, both of them panting for breath, he observed, “The next match will be closer.”

“Most likely. I’ll look forward to it.” Tezuka actually smiled, faintly. “Especially after your assistance, this match.”

Genichirou snorted. He’d known that pushing so hard would help Tezuka regain his full control that much faster, but that was the nature of the game, at their level, even if it had taken Yukimura’s ruthlessness and Atobe’s advances to remind him of the fact. Every match was an opportunity to grow. “I’ll look forward to it as well,” he returned.

When he got back to his team’s bench, Yukimura had his arms folded, smile crooked with a touch of exasperation. "You never change."

"I play to my strengths." Genichirou did not add Besides, it’s Tezuka, but he was fairly sure Yukimura heard it from the way he rolled his eyes.

“So?” Yukimura asked, more seriously. “What do you think?”

Genichirou’s smile bared his teeth. “One more all-out match against someone on our level, and he’ll be back in full condition.”

“Given Fuji’s leap in performance, I don’t expect that will be hard to find,” Renji mused as he tossed a water bottle at Genichirou. “Tezuka will probably be back up to speed by the Fall.”

“Excellent,” Yukimura murmured, eyes gleaming.

“Yeah, yeah, stop talking about Tezuka.” Marui popped a bubble, swinging his racquet up to his shoulder. “It’s time to be amazed by my genius, thanks.”

Yukimura chuckled and waved a hand at the court. “Should we? Show us, then.”

Genichirou took a long swallow and shook his head. He approved of confidence, but sometimes Marui got himself into trouble that way.


“Ooo, ouch,” Hitouji-senpai murmured, apparently at nothing. Konjiki-senpai was nodding, which didn’t necessarily mean anything given how much both of them liked to mess with people, but Shiraishi-buchou also made a thoughtful little humming sound. Hikaru sighed and resigned himself to asking.

“What ouch? Nobody did anything in particular just now.”

Hitouji-senpai nodded wisely. “Exactly.”

Hikaru tapped his foot and glared. “So?”

Both Hitouji-senpai and Konjiki-senpai glanced at Shiraishi-buchou, who sighed in turn and reached over to rumple Hikaru’s hair. “Strategy, Zaizen-kun. How has the flow of the match been going, so far?”

Hikaru really hated being reminded that he was the baby of the team, the one with the least hands-on experience, but his sense of fairness pointed out that the only way to stop being the baby was to learn more. So he took a breath for calm in the face of annoying senpai and considered the match thus far. “It’s been close.” He flicked his fingers at the score-board, which showed four games all. “There have been a lot of long rallies, though.” More slowly, he added, “More than I expected, I guess. It’s Jackal Kuwahara who’s the endurance player, isn’t it? But most of the rallies have been with Marui.”

Shiraishi-buchou nodded approvingly. “Good. And what about the formations each pair is using?”

Hikaru frowned out at the court, because he’d noticed that part. “They’re really different. Marui and Kuwahara have a pretty classic formation with their endurance player to the back and their more agile player at the net. But Ooishi and Kikumaru have stayed a lot closer together, almost the whole match.” He wrestled with himself for a moment before admitting, low, “I thought it was just sloppy of them.”

“It’s a risky strategy,” Hitouji-senpai allowed. “They’re keeping both players up near the net to put pressure on the opponent with the least endurance.”

“So they’re hoping to divide and conquer,” Hikaru concluded, satisfied by the nods he got back. “They want to wear down Marui. But if he’s flagging, can’t he just—” he broke off, eyes widening as it finally clicked. All three of his senpai grinned at him.

“By my calculations, this game was the one where Marui should have called Kuwahara to come forward and support him.” Hitouji-senpai leaned forward, stacking his hands on the back of the seat in front of him to rest his chin on, watching as the next game started. “Marui is serving this game, and they’re going to lose it.”

Hikaru sat back, crossing his arms. “Isn’t that a dangerous strategy, though? Counting on your opponent to make a mistake?”

“Good boy, that’s how you’ll need to think as captain.” Shiraishi-buchou kindly didn’t tease him for how he flushed at the compliment. “It would be dangerous if it were a strategy they set in stone beforehand, and didn’t have a backup for or a signal to change. But one of the greatest strengths of the Golden Pair is their teamwork, their ability to think together.”

“So, their flexibility,” Hikaru said, slowly.

“Exactly. Of course, Marui and Kuwahara are a very tight pair also. The other piece of this is that Marui is the game-maker for his pair.”

Hikaru sucked in a sharp breath. “Oh. So they’ve been adjusting play as they go to wear down the one who makes the strategic decisions.” And tired people made more mistakes. That was… actually a really elegant strategy, right there.

He watched the last games of the match with new attention, starting to see the seamless flow of communication that started Kikumaru moving to the side to draw Marui’s attention even as Ooishi dashed for the net to volley Kuwahara’s drive out of the air. Even worn down, he could also see that the Rikkai pair was probably the technically stronger one. The last game was a fierce battle between the Golden Pair’s edge in team play and the Rikkai pair’s more powerful shots, and it went to deuce twelve times before Marui faltered for one fatal second too long in reversing his momentum to catch Kikumaru’s last drop shot.

“There was still a lot of luck involved in how that worked out,” he said, under the wave of cheers as both pairs went to the net.

“There always is, unless one player or the other is overwhelmingly better.” Shiraishi-buchou cocked his head, though, as if knowing Hikaru had more to say.

Hikaru laced his hands together, looking down at them instead of at his captain. “How… how do you know what strategy to go with, then?”

“Some of it is experience,” Shiraishi-buchou answered quietly, not making anything of the fact that this was the first time Hikaru had asked one of his senpai for advice, like this, and Hikaru’s pride was grateful for that. “The more games you see, the more games you play, the more of a sense you have for what works when. But some of it is always a gamble. You pick your best players, and you make your best guess, and you throw the dice.” He ruffled Hikaru’s hair. “Don’t worry. The Coach will help, and I wouldn’t be throwing you into this if I didn’t think you’d find your way all right.”

“That was very encouraging, except for the part about the Coach,” Hikaru observed dryly, and was careful to hide his satisfaction when Shiraishi-buchou burst out laughing.


“Singles One! Yukimura versus Echizen!”

He’d been trying not to worry so much about losing, trying to think more broadly, really he had, but the nagging of the thought was old enough and the fresh edge on it was new enough that Ryouma still twitched a little with reflex nerves when the referee called the start of the match. He took a breath and told himself (again) to stop worrying and just play. Just like always.

“Echizen.”

He looked up at Tezuka-buchou, and a fresh wave of twitchiness hit him at the reminder that his captain had just lost, himself. Lost but not really minded, not the way Ryouma was used to minding it, and could Ryouma really do that too, here and now when the result of Nationals rested on his game…? Tezuka-san’s hand on his shoulder shook him out of the spinning thoughts, and he tried to pay attention.

“One of your greatest strengths has always been that you take what you can use, of your opponent’s game, and make it your own,” Tezuka-buchou said quietly. “Don’t forget that.”

Ryouma glanced over at where Yukimura was stepping out onto the court, looking so calm that Ryouma couldn’t help a brief glower. When he looked back up, though, Tezuka-buchou was still watching him, level and serious, and he sighed. “You think I can learn something from him?”

“I expect you to learn from anyone you play.” Tezuka-buchou’s voice was stern, but there was, maybe, a tiny glint of something lighter in his eyes. “But yes, Yukimura’s game should show you some useful things.”

Ryouma took another breath to re-settle himself and get his head back approximately where it should be, and nodded. “Okay.”

Tezuka-buchou nodded back, firm and steady, and squeezed his shoulder once before letting go. “Have a good game, then.”

As he headed to meet Yukimura at the net, Ryouma heard Ryuuzaki-sensei remark, behind him, “Look at that, you’re actually saying these things out loud, now and then. And it only took me three years to get you to start!” Tezuka-san did not, of course, say anything in response, and Ryouma couldn’t help a tiny snicker. Getting a good look at Yukimura, when they shook hands, stifled any urge to laugh, though. The sharpness of his eyes brought Ryouma up onto his toes, alert and ready, every instinct for the game saying this was a serious opponent.

Yukimura smiled, cool and calm for all that barely-covered ferocity, shaking hands once, firmly. “I’ve been hoping we might meet here, ever since Akaya and Sanada spoke of their games with you.”

That was a challenge, and a raw one. Ryouma had won against Kirihara but lost against Sanada. Which way did he think this match against Sanada’s captain would go? that cool smile asked. Ryouma bridled at the silent question and lifted his chin and traded back the smirk he’d given so many opponents who thought they knew what he could do. Nerves and doubts could go screw themselves. He knew what to do with this kind of challenge. “Let’s play, then.”

They both fell back into their own courts, Yukimura stepping to his baseline to serve. Ryouma settled into his stance, bouncing on his toes, keeping all his muscles warm and ready to move in an instant.

And suddenly, everything changed.

It was like being plunged underwater, like the air itself was suddenly thicker, dragging against him, like he couldn’t breathe because to breathe might suddenly be dangerous. For a shocked moment, he froze.

And heard the sharp thop of the ball striking behind him.

Ryouma spun on his heel to stare at it. He hadn’t seen it coming. Hadn’t felt it coming. Hadn’t felt the weight of a drive like that burning over the court, the way he normally would have. That overwhelming pressure had drowned it out.

Okay. Now he got it.

When they’d settled on this match order, and he’d asked his team about Yukimura’s play style, he hadn’t felt the discussion was particularly useful.

“Yukimura’s style is very like Tezuka’s, in some ways,” Inui lectured. “He has considerable power available, but his primary focus is technique. He’s an all-around payer, defense isn’t his speciality, but he is exceptionally good at breaking through the techniques of other players and reclaiming control of the ball. You’ll need to watch for that.”

“Inui!” Kikumaru protested. “You aren’t telling him the good stuff!

Inui looked like he’d just bitten a lemon, or, well, like a normal person who had just bitten a lemon would look. “What good stuff?” Ryouma asked, warily.

Kikumaru grinned at him and waggled his fingers. “Yukimura hypnotizes people with his tennis,” he proclaimed in a spooky voice. “Opponents can’t even move, once he has them in his clutches!

“He does not hypnotize people.” Inui sounded downright exasperated. “It’s simple intimidation, the subliminal cues generated by Yukimura’s confidence.”

Ryouma backed hastily out of the developing argument, wondering how he was going to get his questions answered now. Beside him, Kawamura pulled off his jersey and smiled down at him sympathetically. “Do you know what ki is, Echizen?”

Ryouma frowned. How mystical was this explanation going to get? “Kind of. It’s like your focus, right?”

“Your focus, or your energy, or sometimes your life-force,” Kawamura agreed. “There are a lot of different ways of describing ki, depending on how a school approaches it. I like to think of it as your strength of spirit.”

“So, kind of like your fighting spirit?” Ryouma essayed, trying to bring this back to things that made sense. Even if it did make Kawamura look kind of dotingly entertained by him.

“That works, too. So think about it like this: Yukimura’s fighting spirit is so strong that it can stun people. Some players never really recover from it, at least not over the course of their match with him.”

Ryouma had been pretty skeptical, because he hadn’t seen how that could possibly work. But now he got it. The weight of Yukimura’s ki, spirit, confidence, whatever, the weight of his game actually was kind of stunning. But it wasn’t anything Ryouma couldn’t handle. He re-settled himself, as Yukimura bounced his next ball, and focused, focused tight on Yukimura’s movements, and when Yukimura threw the ball up and that surge of heaviness washed over him again, he drove his attention through it, stayed tight on the ball, and dashed to return it. One ball, another, and he felt like he was getting the hang of this. It was just a matter of tightening up his own focus to cut through that heaviness.

When the serve switched to him, he rolled his shoulders, fingers working around the ball, and smirked across the net. He’d played two of Yukimura’s team already, so he didn’t think a twist serve would really surprise him, but a lot of people who should have known better still had trouble with Ryouma’s variation. It was worth a try.

He cast the ball up and leaped, reveling in the familiar sense of lightness, of feeling the racquet and ball like they were extensions of him, and sliced the ball across the net with vicious topspin.

Sure enough, Yukimura stepped smoothly out of the way, so smoothly it didn’t even seem fast, and drove the ball back. Ryouma could feel, in the ball against his strings, that his ferocious spin had been killed, and that plucked at his nerves again, that Yukimura had done it so easily. There was something else nudging at his intuition for the game, also, but he couldn’t make that come clear yet.

No matter. He had plenty of other techniques to try, while the back of his head figured things out.

He used his service game to push, trying to find the edges of Yukimura’s technique. It felt frustratingly like his first game with Tezuka-san—not quite that bad, obviously his training had paid off some, but close enough to that sense of a bottomless pool whose edges he couldn’t reach that he had to grit his teeth against a fresh spike of fear.

He kept his service game, barely, with a Drive A when Yukimura got just close enough to the net. And the way Yukimura moved when he ducked out of its path tugged at his attention again. There was something about Yukimura’s movements. Ryouma reached for that clear, deep perception that everyone called no-self, but his thoughts were churning and he couldn’t settle far enough into it to find that perfect knowing he’d felt before.

It was the middle of the third game before he understood.

When Yukimura dashed forward to volley down a Drive B, he was just a little late. He caught it on the first bounce, but he had to reach for it. He returned the ball, but softer than Ryouma was expecting, and he landed hard. Almost hard enough to fall. Ryouma’s own return went awry when he froze, shocked all over again, because Yukimura stayed in a crouch for just one breath too long, far too still, still as though…

As though he were hurt.

When he straightened up, he looked fine, as annoyingly calm as he’d been this whole match. But Ryouma’s intuition was screaming that this was it, this was what had made Yukimura’s movements just a little bit strange. He was protecting an injury. Or maybe playing through the pain of one.

The nagging fear that Ryouma had spent a lot of this tournament repeatedly kicking into the back of his mind suddenly had company, because he’d never had someone try to play him while injured before. What did you do? What should he do? Indecision dragged at his speed, and he lost the next rally to a drop shot, of all ridiculous things. Alarm and frustration chased themselves around and around, and Ryouma scowled. He had to pull it together.

It was hard, though. His perception, inside a game, was one of his greatest advantages, and now it was showing him all the tiny hitches in Yukimura’s strokes. Ryouma hated it, hated having to know that Yukimura was hurting for those stunningly precise shots that claimed all the momentum and spin of the ball and made it Yukimura’s. The worst part was that Ryouma was pretty sure he’d be enjoying himself, if he didn’t know. This was a game of technique; it was playing to all of his strengths as well as Yukimura’s. He’d be nervous, but having some fun if he wasn’t freaking out over his opponent, for god’s sake!

They had changed court without a glance at each other, previously, but this time Yukimura caught his eye as they passed. “You had better stop holding back,” Yukimura said, quiet and hard. “Even now, you won’t stand a chance of winning this unless you play with everything you have.”

Ryouma stiffened at the cutting edge of Yukimura’s tone, all his frustration surging to the front, though fear that Yukimura was right still wound through it. “Seriously, do you get off on pain or something?” he snapped.

Yukimura actually stopped walking and turned to stare down at him, startled, and Ryouma tried not to blush. He hadn’t actually meant to put it quite like that. “Why on earth would you…” Yukimura started, only to trail off, examining him more closely. “I know you were there for Tezuka’s match with Atobe,” he finally said, mouth quirking up at one corner. “Do you think that of your captain?”

Ryouma promptly lost the battle against blushing, feeling his face heat. “Of course not,” he muttered, yanking his cap down. “And that was different!”

“How so?” Yukimura was definitely getting some amusement from this, and Ryouma glared.

“That was just…” and then he had to trail off himself, because the word on his tongue was ‘determination’. Which was true, but wasn’t it also true of Yukimura? His gut said immediately that it was.

So, why hadn’t playing against Tezuka-buchou been this uncomfortable for Atobe?

Ryouma frowned, remembering that match, suddenly wondering about that difference. Atobe had… he had… well, enjoyed it, yes, but not like he was enjoying his opponent being in pain or trouble. Ryouma did know what that looked like; that was the kind of opponent he’d always taken the most pleasure in crushing, when he met one. No, Atobe hadn’t been like that. He’d been… excited, that was close, but not just that. Fascinated? Delighted? In love? None of this was sounding any less borderline perverted, but it hadn’t been like that, he’d just looked at Tezuka-buchou like…

He glanced back up at Yukimura and lost his breath all at once. The pressure that had been so crushing at the start of the game was back and Yukimura was smiling, not broad but bright and wild, completely intent on Ryouma. A smile that invited, demanded, dared him to step up and meet it. He actually took a reflex step forward in answer, and Yukimura laughed, softly.

Atobe had looked at Tezuka-buchou like that.

“If we don’t play all out, no matter what, then what are we standing on this court for, Echizen?” Yukimura asked, voice low, just between the two of them. “How is there any fun in holding back?”

This was crazy, completely crazy, he could still see the pained shortness of Yukimura’s breathing, from this close, but something in Ryouma still leaped up in answer, bright and wild and wanting what Yukimura was showing him right now. He thought Yukimura saw it, too, because he laughed again as he stepped past, toward his court. “Now. Come and show me what you’ve got, Echizen. All of it.”

Because there wasn’t any fun in holding back. Not for sanity or for pity. Not for either of them. The thought shook Ryouma as he stepped up to his baseline to serve. It felt like something was shaking open, deep in his chest or stomach, and when the force of Yukimura’s focus landed on him, twice as heavy as before, drowning deep this time, it was so very easy to reach out and meet it, easy as breathing. His senses went crystal clear, perception and action running into one thing with the perfect transparency he hadn’t been able to find earlier, and the weight of Yukimura’s game against his felt right, now. Right and inevitable and good, and it wasn’t a struggle with himself at all to serve with all his strength and precision to exactly the point that Yukimura would have to stretch himself to return.

It would have felt like cheating to do anything else.

Yukimura slid behind the ball with the same perfect timing Ryouma could feel waiting in his own muscles, and the game took off, fast and hard. One ball after another, Yukimura caught drives and curving slices against his racquet, spinning them back into his control, and firing them back with relentless precision. Ryouma forgot frustration and fear and alarm, all of them pushed back by the absolute clarity of now. He could nearly feel the ball moving between them, feel Yukimura’s control of the pace, and the places he was pushing that control back. Feel the blaze of Yukimura’s determination and, yes, delight, because it matched his own.

He wanted it to never stop.


Seiichi pushed again and again past the hot stab of pain that came with every stretch to catch the ball, every hard clench of his core muscles to drive it back. By now it barely registered as pain, but he could feel the steady drain on his endurance, the catching-short in the power of his shots. Beyond all of that, though, there was the joy of stretching full out, of using every bit of his technical skill to steal the force from Echizen’s shots, make the ball his own again, and turn points his way. Not all of them, just possibly not even enough of them, but that was what put a bright edge on the game. He pushed away the knowledge of more pain in his near future to answer every moment of pure knowing with the equally pure response that Echizen’s movements absolutely required of him, in this state.

His own experience of no-self had never been a thing without thought, though. He held the future as well as the now in his perceptions, like feeling an incline that a ball would roll down. So it settled into his mind that Echizen had clearly not achieved a completed state of no-self, as some of Rikkai’s scouts had suggested. Rather his apparently ability to think beyond the consuming moment of instantaneous response had been fear holding him back. A well entrenched fear, if Seiichi was any judge. The moment he’d reached past that fear, today, any sign of thought or strategy had burned up like paper in the fiery, brilliant rush of his all-out game. Instead of strategy, it was the incredible range of Echizen’s technical ability that was pushing against Seiichi’s own game, ferocious drives and unpredictable spins exactly when each would be most effective. It was delicious to match his own technique against that, and feel the weight of Echizen’s potential—not a true match for him, yet, but close enough to make this almost as challenging as a game against Tezuka would have been. If the wearing jab of pain weren’t clenching his teeth so hard, Seiichi would be smiling.

And when they reached a six game tie, there was pure delight to match his own in the look Echizen gave him, and an eagerness that pulled a smile past the grinding pain anyway. Seiichi had always loved opponents with the strength to stand against him.

Seiichi’s own strategies were narrowing fast, as his endurance drained, but he could also see the weariness in the harder scuff of Echizen’s feet against the court, the lower height of his balls as he served. Seiichi worked the ball toward the corners, spinning the ball hard against Echizen’s control. A point to Echizen. Two to him. Another to Echizen, and one more when Seiichi couldn’t quite reach that steep, double-bouncing drive this time. Seiichi killed the force of Fire against his racquet and gentled the ball into a drop shot just over the net, and he could see that Echizen’s dash wouldn’t be in time to catch this one. The ball kissed the cord, and he hadn’t meant it to be quite that short—his estimation of his own declining endurance steepened in his mind. Echizen caught it after all, but had to bat it up into a lob, and the angle for a drive into the back corner drew itself so perfectly in Seiichi’s perception that he couldn’t possibly have stopped himself from going up for the ball.

A sharper stab of pain then he’d felt this whole game speared through his chest just on the downstroke, and he folded up, as he landed, gasping, hands on his knees barely bracing him mostly upright. Even past the pounding of his own blood in his ears, though, he should have heard the ball land, and he hadn’t. When he forced himself to straighten, he wasn’t entirely surprised to see the ball at the foot of the net, on his own side.

As a roar went up from the spectators, Seiichi sighed. That wasn’t how he’d have preferred to end this match. From the glare Echizen was giving the ball, it wasn’t what he’d wanted, either. Seiichi couldn’t help smiling at his opponent’s disgruntled scowl, as they met at the net, even through the ominous ache spreading out from what might no longer be a healed incision on the right side of his chest.

“I want another match,” Echizen practically ordered as they shook hands. “Later.”

“I’d like that also.” Seiichi’s voice came out more breathless than he was expecting, and Echizen’s eyes narrowed, so reminiscent of Sanada’s disapproving expression whenever Seiichi had pushed his recovery too hard that Seiichi had to bite back a laugh. Laughing hurt again. “Later,” he promised.

“Good.” Echizen tugged down the brim of his cap and stepped back, adding more quietly, “Good game.”

“Mm, eventually, yes.” Seiichi, and caught back another laugh at the indignant look Echizen gave him before turning on his heel and stalking back toward his waiting team, weaving just a little side to side. Seiichi had to move considerably more slowly, and Sanada came out to meet him halfway.

“How bad is it?” Sanada asked, setting a hand under his arm and frowning at how heavily Seiichi leaned on it.

“I think I regret just a little that I didn’t bring something stronger than aspirin,” Seiichi admitted. He couldn’t hold back a wince as he sat, grip tightening hard on Sanada’s shoulder to keep from falling.

“Fortunately, I entirely expected this,” Renji told him, briskly, and pressed a water bottle into one hand and a small, peach-colored pill into the other. Seiichi blinked at it; he hadn’t been taking those for a month, now.

“Renji…?”

“I talked with your physical therapist about what was likely to happen during this match, especially if either Tezuka or Echizen met you here. She was unsurprised.” Renji folded his arms and frowned at him until Yukimura swallowed the pill, which he was not actually reluctant to do at this point.

“Thank you,” he said, quietly.

Renji snorted and held out both hands as the referee called for the teams to line up. “I knew from the start what you were like, Seiichi. Come on, then.”

With both Renji’s and Genichirou’s help, he got upright again without another stab of pain, and managed to walk fairly steadily to the net. He smiled serenely back at Tezuka’s raised eyebrow. “As if you have any room to talk.” The faint flicker of Tezuka’s gaze was almost certainly agreement, and Seiichi rationed himself one soft huff of laughter.

They shook hands, and the roar of the crowd surged again.


Ryouma scowled down at his bag as he packed up to go. He didn’t like this. He’d won, and it had been a win for his team also, and that felt good. He liked that part, the part where it felt almost like his game and all his teammates’ games were one thing, like they linked together. That part was kind of nice, but…

“You aren’t satisfied?” Tezuka-buchou asked from behind him.

Ryouma jammed his towel into the bag and crossed his arms, glowering at the air in front of him. “No.” Tezuka-buchou was silent, but it was the preparatory sort of silence, so Ryouma huffed and waited.

“You saw enough of what you need, in Yukimura’s game; I’m not surprised. Winning alone isn’t the end we play for, at this level.” Ryouma turned at that, startled, to find Tezuka-san looking less stern than usual. “When the two of you play again, it will be a good game from the start.”

Ryouma stared up at him, hearing the words repeat in his head. Winning alone… not the end… That was it. He’d won, but that wasn’t enough, wasn’t all he’d wanted. His match with Yukimura hadn’t gotten a proper end. It had just stopped. He’d wanted to play to a real end, and they hadn’t been able to.

The thought after that crept up on him slowly, an unfamiliar shape in his head: just like his matches with his dad didn’t have a real end. And maybe it wasn’t the losing he’d always hated most, though he was still pretty sure he hated that with a passion. It was the stopping, the not going all the way. That didn’t make a good game.

The next breath Ryouma took was shaky. He could almost feel the last remainder of something heavy melting off his shoulders, letting him stand really straight without having to strain for it or defend it. “Oh.” It felt so light, like maybe he could play forever if he played like this, and he wondered if this was how Tezuka-san had felt when he played against Atobe at Regionals, if that was how he’d kept going to the game’s true end.

Tezuka-san rested a hand on his shoulder, and Ryouma had to swallow hard, reaching up to yank his cap down over his stinging eyes. “Yeah,” he said, low, hoping Tezuka-san heard the promise he was making. “It will be.” Tezuka-san’s hand tightened on his shoulder, so Ryouma thought he probably did.

He felt a lot calmer by the time they all lined up for the closing ceremonies, though he still frowned at the way Sanada was keeping a hand under Yukimura’s arm. “Hey.” He poked Momo in the back. “How long do you think, until Yukimura is really better?”

“You’re a maniac,” Momo told him, grinning over his shoulder. “Hard to know for sure, but it’s two months until the Fall invitational camp. Winner and runner-up from Nationals always get their full teams there. Maybe by then?”

Ryouma settled at that, smiling. “Good.” He wanted to play Yukimura for real, all the way through to the end, even though the thought made his stomach flutter a little with the knowledge that he might not win. This time, he was pretty sure that flutter was excitement.

He tipped his face up to the sun, smiling as the officials declared Seishun Gakuen the National champions for this year. Yeah, he was almost sure the flutter was excitement, especially when he thought about the matches that might be in his future now.

It felt so light.

End

The Fire Shall Never Make Thee Shrink – Day Two Afternoon

Second Day: Interlude

It was the afternoon of the second day of Nationals, a bright, lovely afternoon, and all the remaining teams and onlookers were finding a corner of the Ariake park to have lunch in. Kuranosuke had been planning to do the same, but he finally thought he knew what his coach had been plotting about Kintarou. The first hint was Kenya’s exasperated yell, from ahead of them, of "Shiraishi!"

When Kuranosuke saw Kintarou, trailing his assigned minder, standing in front of the Rikkai team, he understood at once.

"Kin-chan," he sighed, coming up behind them with the rest of the team trailing after, "you’re supposed to be watching and learning, not harassing the other teams for unofficial matches."

Kintarou spun around, nearly stamping his foot. "I haven’t gotten to play at all! And you said they were the best! If they’re the best, I want to play him!" He pointed straight at Yukimura, whose mouth was twitching helplessly at the corners as he watched the show.

"I never thought I’d say it," Kirihara muttered, eying their little monster, "but I think I like Echizen better." Yanagi coughed a few times, very much like someone covering a laugh.

And now Kuranosuke had a dilemma on his hands. He understood what Watanabe-sensei had been thinking. Maybe someone of Yukimura’s caliber (or Tezuka’s, if Kintarou had chanced across Seigaku instead) really could show Kintarou how important training and experience were, show him on the court, where he might finally get it. Kuranosuke would have to ask for the match himself, though, because Kintarou alone would just get brushed off.

Which might be a salutary lesson all its own, but wouldn’t affect his tennis much.

Kuranosuke struggled briefly with his pride, but in the end his responsibility to his team won. He suspected Watanabe-sensei had figured on that, too. He sighed and rested a quieting hand on Kintarou’s shoulder. "If Yukimura agrees, I suppose I will too." He wasn’t watching Kintarou when he said it; he was watching Yukimura, and when their eyes met he flicked his ever so briefly at Kirihara—the one Yukimura was responsible for training.

Yukimura’s brows rose, and his smile turned thoughtful. "Hm." He glanced at Kirihara, too. "Well, Akaya, since I suspect it’s you who’s going to be dealing with Touyama-kun next year, what do you think? Should I play him?"

Kirihara actually sputtered, wheeling on Yukimura. "Of course no—" he began, indignant, only to break off sharply, eyes locked with Yukimura’s. Kuranosuke didn’t understand all of what passed between them, but some of it might as well have been written across Kirihara’s forehead in pen. Outrage and then startlement, likely that Yukimura seemed to be serious. Sudden calculation, wondering whether either crushing or encouraging a player from another team would be a benefit to Rikkai next year.

When Kirihara’s glance flicked over his team, though, and the way they were all watching him with gleaming eyes, the calculation halted. He straightened slowly, chin lifting, and looked back at Yukimura. "Of course you should," he said firmly.

The entire rest of the team looked approving of that pride and certainty in Kirihara’s and Rikkai’s strength, Marui grinning around a bubble, Niou ruffling Kirihara’s hair. Kuranosuke suddenly wondered just how bad Yukimura’s illness had been. If the tight, unthinking bond among this year’s Rikkai was anything to judge by, it might have been very bad indeed. He frowned, suddenly wondering if Yukimura could play Kintarou right now, and caught Yukimura’s eye again, glancing at Sanada with a raised brow. Yukimura just looked back, perfectly serene.

"One game," he told Kintarou, eyes not leaving Kuranosuke’s. "We’ll trade the serve after each point."

It was Kuranosuke who nodded slowly, appreciating Yukimura’s canniness. That much would only be a warm-up for a fully recovered player, and wouldn’t be enough to strain one who was still injured. Not enough to show whether Yukimura had a weakness for Shitenhouji to exploit in the Finals or not. Kuranosuke smiled faintly. He hoped they did meet there; he’d like to play this year’s Rikkai.

Kintarou was bouncing with glee. "All right, I get to play a game! Come on, hurry up!" He scampered for the nearest court, and Yukimura laughed out loud, and Kenya sighed.

"Seriously, Shiraishi, why do you hate me?" he asked under his breath as they followed after their youngest member. "Couldn’t you have gotten Watanabe-sensei to watch him, or something?"

"Next time, think twice about slacking off on your training so much that it costs you a game," Kuranosuke directed calmly. Konjiki and Hitouji made exaggeratedly impressed sounds, behind them, over the severity of their captain and Kenya rolled his eyes. "That was a month ago," he muttered, though not as if he thought that would change his captain’s mind. Kuranosuke smiled calmly as he held the gate open for the rest of his team, satisfied that his point was being taken. They all clustered one one side of the empty court Kin-chan had found, watching as the two players readied themselves.

"So," Yukimura mused, bouncing a ball against the hardtop of the court, "you want a game against the best, is that it, Touyama-kun?"

"Of course!" Kintarou was still bouncing himself, over on his side of the court, eager for the first serve. "’Cause then Shiraishi will have to admit I’m good enough to play this year!"

"I see." Yukimura’s fingers closed around the ball. "Very well, then." When he looked up, his face was perfectly still and the weight of his focus hammered down on the court, hard as a summer rainstorm. Even Kuranosuke rocked back on his heels, and the sound Yukimura’s own team made was something like a growl and something like a purr. Yukimura cast the ball up gracefully and served, hard and fast; it hit deep in Kintarou’s court, near the corner, a clean service ace.

Kintarou hadn’t moved.

Koishikawa’s hands were in fists. "That," he said quietly. "That’s what he did to me last year. Took me two games to completely snap out of it, and there went my first service game. I never did catch up."

"Touyama-kun," Yukimura called, sharp and demanding, and Kintarou started out of his blankness, staring around at the ball he’d missed, shocked. "It’s your serve."

Kintarou pulled himself together enough to serve, but Kuranosuke could see his hands were unsteady. The serve was a strong one, even so, but Yukimura reacted almost before the ball left the racquet, was precisely in place to catch it when it bounced. He sent it back in a long, deceptive curve that hooked down just as Kintarou was swinging for it. Kuranosuke could just about feel his whole team bracing themselves for for the howls of protest, the hopping up and down with outrage. The dares to do that again so Kin-chan could catch it next time.

Kintarou just stared at Yukimura, chewing furiously on his lip, and walked back to his baseline.

"Thirty-love," Yukimura announced coolly, and served again, even sharper than the last one.

This ball Kintarou caught, some of his usual irrepressible determination showing through again, but however he returned it, Yukimura was there behind the ball, fiercely intent and yet completely untroubled. Even just watching, his control was intimidating, and Kuranosuke understood Kintarou’s bared teeth and the edge of desperation in his shots perfectly well. He actually caught the painfully precise lob that Yukimura took the third point with, diving bodily for the baseline as it came down; he just didn’t get it back across the net.

"Why are you smiling?" Kenya asked softly, as Kintarou climbed back to his feet and stomped back to serve, growling all the way. "I don’t think I’ve ever seen the kid this frustrated."

"Because he’s never been this frustrated." Kuranosuke glanced sidelong his friend. "Do you want to bet on whether he’ll work seriously on his training after this?"

Kenya pursed his lips in a soundless whistle. "Pretty hard way to teach him the lesson."

"If it stops him being a dilettante, and a drain on the team, what’s the problem?" Zaizen asked coolly, watching as Kintarou served.

Kenya eyed their kouhai and cocked a brow at Kuranosuke, who sighed and shook his head a little. Zaizen might very well have learned something from the matches against Fudoumine, but if so it wasn’t showing in his everyday attitude, yet. Kenya gave him a look of commiseration and turned back to the court.

Kintarou was fighting hard for game-point, sweating as he pulled out all his speed and flexibility to chase the ball, all his native feel for how to spin it on the returns. Kuranosuke could see, though, that it wasn’t going to be enough. Yukimura was in control of the rally, running Kintarou back and forth across his court, spinning his own shots to bounce outward so they’d be that much harder to return with any kind of precision. And after long minutes of driving Kintarou back into the corners, Yukimura gentled the last ball just barely over the net. It kissed the cord and dropped easily, and even Kintarou’s last desperate dive wasn’t fast enough to catch it before it struck the clay with a soft thop.

"Game," Yukimura said quietly into the silence. He hadn’t, Kuranosuke realized, even taken the jacket off his shoulders.

Slowly, Kintarou levered himself back upright, out of breath and stunned. He and Yukimura looked at each other for a long moment before Yukimura came to the net and held out his hand, more a demand than an offer. Kintarou scowled, but he scuffed up to the net and shook Yukimura’s hand.

"Be better, next time," Yukimura told him, before letting him go and turning to collect his balls and tuck away his racquet.

Kintarou whirled and stomped back toward his own team with a thunderous look. "Shiraishi! Hurry up and finish these matches! I want to go home! You said training would make me stronger, so hurry up and get home so we can train some!"

Konjiki and Hitouji stifled helpless whoops of laughter in each other’s shoulders, and even Ishida was clearly biting back chuckles.

"We’ll be home tomorrow, Kin-chan," Kenya offered. "In the meantime, I bet the coach has some good ideas." Kintarou brightened a bit at that, and Kenya looked smug at having successfully inflicted Kintarou on someone else for the rest of the day, and possibly for the foreseeable future.

"Very nostalgic," Kuranosuke heard Niou remark, and glanced over to see Kirihara promptly bristle.

"I was never that bad!" he protested, indignant.

"Yes you were," Sanada, Yagyuu, and Yanagi all said, more or less as one. Kirihara hunched up grumpily, only to have his hair ruffled by Yukimura as he joined them, and un-hunch with a sheepish look up at his captain.

Kuranosuke thought he saw, now, why Yukimura had understood what he’d asked for so promptly; this was a lesson they’d had to teach one of their own, too. He stepped toward them and nodded courteously to Yukimura. "Thank you for agreeing to Kin-chan’s request." Kintarou crossed his arms and huffed at the reminder that he’d asked for this himself, and a corner of Yukimura’s mouth curled up.

"Not at all," he said smoothly, still resting a hand on Kirihara’s shoulder. "I’ll be very interested to see what comes of it."

Kuranosuke smiled back, quiet and hard. "I trust you will be, yes." If Yukimura had done this to give his successor a worthy opponent, well that was fine. Kuranosuke had every confidence that Kin-chan would be that and more.

"Shiraishi!" Watanabe-sensei hollered from a few courts down, breaking their locked gaze. "Koishikawa! Where are you guys, your lunches are getting cold!"

"Looks like we’d better be going," Kuranosuke murmured, jerking his head at his team before slanting one last glance back at Rikkai. "We’ll see you at Finals."

Yukimura smiled, sharp as a knife. "I’ll look forward to it."

They hurried down the walkways, Kintarou trotted along beside Kuranosuke. "So, that was the strongest player around?" he asked.

"One of the top five, at any rate," Kuranosuke agreed.

Kintarou nodded with great determination. "Okay. Then I’ll get strong enough to beat him!"

Kuranosuke laughed softly. "That’s a start."

"Right!" Kintarou thrust a fist into the air and took off running toward where their coach stood at the entrance to another court. "Let’s go!"

The rest of Shitenhouji followed after, grinning.

Semi-finals: Hyoutei vs. Rikkai

After lunch, Kippei directed Shinji, Ishida, and Sakurai back toward the A-B courts and beckoned Kamio, Mori, and Uchimura to follow him up the walk to the C-D courts. He was pleased that their potential new team members decided to tag along with one group or the other. Akechi still seemed a bit shy of him, and had stayed with Shinji, which hadn’t surprised him. What had was that Matsuda had just grinned at his partner, when Yamura stood to follow after Kamio, and said he wanted to watch the Golden Pair. Kippei had read them as a very tight pair, and most pairs like that spent a great deal of time with each other, but Yamura had just grinned back and promised to report on Rikkai. Kippei couldn’t help approving of that kind of strategizing, and he thought Kamio did as well from the friendly nod he’d given Yamura. Good.

He was a little amused when they met Kite on the walk, going in the opposite direction with Kai and a Higa player Kippei didn’t recognize. Probably a second-year, then. Kite looked Kippei’s party up and down, and his mouth quirked faintly, obviously as amused as Kippei by their parallel errands.

“Off to see Rikkai and Hyoutei?” he asked.

“It seemed wise,” Kippei admitted. “I’ve heard enough rumors, by now, about Kirihara having changed his game that I thought some of next year’s team had better have a look.”

Kite’s eyes turned distant for a moment. “He has changed. More than I would have thought possible.”

That wiped away Kippei’s amusement, after the rumors he’d heard about Higa. He’d always known Kite had the potential to go that road, but the kind of things he’d heard suggested something far colder than a simple loss of temper. This was Kite Eishirou; he didn’t let things happen by chance. If he was playing violently, he’d chosen that for a reason. “If anyone would know about that, you would.”

The vicious temper that Kite always kept under such steely control flashed for a moment in Kite’s eyes. “If anyone would know why, it would be you,” he shot back. Kippei’s jaw tightned. This was all because of a bad coach, then? He started to snap that Kite could have just done what he did and tossed the asshole out, but remembered who he was talking to again and stopped. Kite didn’t work like that, and never had.

“Sometimes I think your calculation just gets you into trouble,” he finally said.

Kite adjusted his glasses with delicacy and precision, and Kippei couldn’t help grinning, reminded. That was Kite’s personal version of giving someone the finger. “As much trouble as your passion gets you into, so perhaps we’re even.”

Kippei inclined his head, giving Kite that point. Kite had always been sharpest with his mental game. “Good luck with high school exams, in any case. I’ll see you at Regionals next year.”

Kite actually smiled a little at that. “Chitose is dragging you back after all, hm? I’ll look forward to it, I’m sure.” He beckoned his players after him and strode on down the walk. Kai rolled his eyes at Kippei as he passed with a ‘what can you do with him?’ shrug, and Kippei chuckled.

“You knew them?” Kamio asked, as they started walking again.

“Higa was Okinawa prefecture’s champions, both our first and second year.” Kippei smiled reminiscently. “Kite and Kai were the only two really strong players they had, at the time, though, so they didn’t make it past Regionals. It was a shame, because both of them are higher-level than that.” He looked down at Kamio, suddenly serious. “Kite is a very calculating player, and I don’t doubt he’s like that as captain too. I don’t know what kind of legacy he’ll leave, but if you meet Higa next year, be careful of them.”

Kamio nodded, quite serious and attentive, but his eyes were gleaming at the idea of a challenge. “Yes, Tachibana-san.”

Kippei was quite sure the legacy he left would be up to it, and the knowledge settled warmly in his chest. “Let’s go see if Rikkai’s second-year is playing in this round, then.” He turned down a smaller walk and led them out of the trees into the bright sun falling across two courts flanked by bleachers, and the teams bowing to each other across the net.

“So,” he continued, as they settled onto the end of the bleachers, “if you had to create a line-up out of Hyoutei’s players, to meet Rikkai, who would you put where?”

Kamio made a thoughtful sound, frowning at Hyoutei’s team. “They don’t really have anyone else at Atobe’s level, do they?”

“No. No one else is really a national-level player, though one or two are close.” Kippei smiled, watching Kamio work through his thoughts. He was getting better at judging other teams.

“Then maybe Atobe in Singles Two,” Kamio said, slowly. “I think, after Prefecturals, they sharpened up a little, so they wouldn’t leave him for One.”

“After us, you mean.” Mori leaned back, looking satisfied, and Kamio grinned, sharp.

“That too. So probably not Shishido, either.”

“Oshitari is supposed to be strong, and he used to play singles on the Elementary circuit,” Yamura offered.

“If they’re willing to sacrifice one of the doubles matches, they might.” Kamio glanced over at Kippei, questioning. “Would they front-load a match that heavily?”

“They might, for Nationals.” Kippei nodded at the many different school jerseys around them. “A lot of schools do, knowing that Nationals is a completely different level than Regionals. It would be one good choice of line-up. But remember that Atobe often plays a psychological game. If they want to set Rikkai a little off their stride, there’s another player they might use for the first match.”

From the Rikkai side, Yanagi Renji stepped out onto the court. And from the Hyoutei side, sure enough, Akutagawa Jirou positively bounced out and seized Yanagi’s hand across the net to pump it, beaming all over his face. Kippei could see Yanagi’s bemused expression from the stands.

Kamio’s rather matched. “I… guess so, yeah.”

Kippei laughed, as the match got started. “Something to remember, about Rikkai—they don’t change their line-up much. I’d say it’s a bit of a point of pride, with them, to be strong enough that they don’t need to. So once you see who they put where at Regionals, you’ll know where to find them at Nationals, also.”

“And Yanagi Renji is a pretty serious type,” Yamura murmured, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees, watching Akutagawa start bouncing around the court to catch Yanagi’s balls.

Kamio paused and cocked his head at Yamura. “You… know Yanagi?” Yamura snorted.

“I wish. No, Kyou and I never got to play him. But Yanagi and Inui were kind of a legend in doubles, when we were in the Elementary circuit.”

Uchimura eyed the score, steady racking up in Yanagi’s favor, and whistled through his teeth. “I guess I can see why.”

Kamio’s bemused expression was back. “Akutagawa… doesn’t seem to mind, much, does he?”

Kippei turned his hands up in a helpless shrug as Akutagawa caught a ball just about no other player would have the flexibility to catch, nearly behind his back, only to miss the precise drive Yanagi returned and practically sparkle over it. “That’s Akutagawa. He’s the single most ungrudging player I’ve ever met.”

Kamio paused and suddenly looked more closely at the Rikkai players still on the bench. “And some of them don’t think much of that,” he stated, certain, and Kippei smiled.

“Exactly.” Sanada, in particular, looked disapproving, even as the match was called 6-2 in Yanagi’s favor. “And I imagine that’s just who Atobe is aiming for.”

Yamura made an interested sound, straightening up, as the Doubles Two pairs walked out. “Oh, now that’s interesting.”

Kamio glanced at Niou and Yagyuu, shaking hands apparently quite cordially with Oshitari and Mukahi. “Why?”

“Oshitari is an analytical player, and from what I saw at the tournaments last year Niou is also. But Mukahi relies on agility, and Yagyuu more on power.” Yamura narrowed his eyes as the two pairs fell back into their courts. “Look. Their formations put Niou at the net against Mukahi and Oshitari in the back of the court to deal with the deep drives. Are Niou and Oshitari really both counting on being able to match the specialist on the other side?”

“Or are they going to give up those points when they happen and play a game of strategy against each other?” Kamio finished. “I see it.”

Kippei smiled and kept quiet as they tossed ideas back and forth, watching the match unfold. Sure enough, neither Niou nor Oshitari were straining themselves to catch the tricky angle of Mukahi’s Moon Volley or the raw power of Yagyuu’s Laser Beam, and the points were moving fast and almost evenly. Personally, he thought both Yamura and Kamio were still missing a piece of Niou’s likely planning, but that was due to lack of familiarity more than anything. If Kamio had a chance to attend the invitational training camp this fall, and the Best Eight teams usually got to send at least a few players each, that would go a long way toward improving his analysis next year.

When the score turned over to four games all, he broke in quietly. “If Rikkai’s pair is planning something, it should be right about now. Watch carefully.” Yamura hesitated a moment longer than Kamio, but finally nodded and turned back to the court.

And then nearly choked as Niou stepped, quite casually, into precise position to return a Moon Volley. From Mukahi’s stumble on landing, Kippei thought that had probably had exactly the effect Niou was going for.

“You thought that would be hard to catch?” Niou asked, clear enough for the stands to hear, and showed his teeth when he smiled. “Yagyuu.”

His partner adjusted his glasses with a faint smile of his own and stepped just up to mid-court. “Enjoy yourself.”

“Is he actually going to—” Yamura cut himself off with a soft whistle as Yagyuu caught two drives in a row, each aimed at opposite corners.

“Yagyuu Hiroshi is a very powerful player, and not purely because of the strength of his shots,” Kippei agreed, a bit rueful with the memory of playing Yagyuu in his first year, at the fall training camp. Yagyuu hadn’t won by all that much, but his immovability in face of Kippei’s play style had been a bit of a shock.

“And in the meantime, Niou is knocking down Mukahi’s mental game,” Kamio added, as Niou caught the third Moon Volley in a row, and made it look easy. As they started into the next game, though, Niou let the first Moon Volley through, and Kamio wasn’t the only onlooker to sit back in surprise at the abrupt change of focus as both Niou and Yagyuu double-teamed Oshitari and slammed four points through his defense in the space of minutes.

Even the referee sounded a little stunned as he called, “The Niou-Yagyuu pair wins, six games to four!”

“Well.” Yamura drew the word out. “I guess Kyou and I will have to step up our game if we want to get past those two, at the high school level.”

Kamio glanced at him and snorted, mouth curling up. “And yet, you’re smiling.”

The smile in question got a bit toothier, and Kippei stifled a chuckle. Yamura and Matsuda would definitely fit in well with Fudoumine.

And then Atobe and Sanada stepped out onto the court, and all his attention focused down on his rivals.


Atobe Keigo shook hands briskly with Sanada, barely hearing his jab, “I hope this game will be better than our last one.”

Keigo made a noncommittal sound and noted but didn’t take time to savor Sanada’s startlement at the lack of a return barb. He’d spent the first two matches halfway into the World of Ice, and now he was pushing his perception deeper, wider. A corner of his mind observed that he would need to get here faster, in the future, but that thought was set aside for later. Now was only for the white lines of the court enclosing them and the tension of potential movement in Sanada’s body as he fell back to serve. Keigo’s smile stretched over his teeth as the downstroke of Sanada’s arm drew the first line of their game, nearly a tangible weight in his mind, and he dashed forward to return, hungry to see more, to grasp the shape of Sanada’s whole game.

Admittedly, there was a bit of a snarl in there, by the third serve. The balls came in fast and heavy, but Keigo knew from experience that this wasn’t Sanada’s top speed or strength. He felt potential crystallize with the last serve; this one could be his. He could slice this one to the corner too fast for Sanada to reverse himself and catch. The serve after that would be full strength, and he could catch that too, he knew it now—and knew Sanada wouldn’t believe it, wouldn’t be in position to save it. The first game, Sanada’s service game, could be his.

But that cool line of calculation drew out further. If he took the first game, the next game broke against Sanada’s fury and focus, broke into a starburst of possibilities he couldn’t track yet. If he let this one go… then the next would be his and still conceal his hand, would draw more of Sanada’s game out for him to see and grasp.

Yes, that was the way.

So Keigo pulled the strength of his return, just a little, just enough for Sanada to catch the ball and slam it into Keigo’s far corner. He bared his teeth again at the dismissive glance Sanada gave him before settling into his court to receive. He breathed through the rush of rage and let it power his arm with the force needed for a Tannhäuser serve, and smirked at the exclamations from the stands as the ball scudded along the court without rising. The way Sanada’s eyes narrowed sang to him like the note of struck crystal—exactly the response he’d expected and aimed for.

Sanada tracked the next serve closely, and straightened with a snort. “Interesting, but certainly not unbreakable,” he called across the net, and Keigo laughed, exhilarated by the solid weight of knowledge in his mind, the knowledge of what Sanada would do with this serve.

“Let’s see, shall we?”

Sure enough, Sanada dashed forward into the next serve to catch it before it bounced. That ball spun wild, nearly hitting the top row of the stands. The fourth ball went wild too, but not nearly as far, and new strokes layered themselves into Keigo’s vision of Sanada’s game. Sanada knew extreme topspin was the way to counter; the next time Keigo’s serve came around, he’d be ready.

Ready to be pulled up to the net, and sacrifice oh so much of his back-court.

Keigo laughed softly, delight singing through him. This… this was the full realization of the World of Ice, to see and to know and to use what he knew to build his whole game, not just individual shots.

This was his game.


Sanada Genichirou growled, mostly at himself to be honest, when the score turned over two games in Atobe’s favor. He’d let himself be lulled by that serve. It was exactly the kind of move he’d expected from Atobe—a high-level technique, but not a game-changer, not against a National level player. It turned out that the serve itself was only a part of the play, though, and that… that told him that he was on the edge of making a mistake.

Yukimura’s words, after that abortive match with Atobe, a few weeks ago, came back to him.

“I would not have lost.”

“Then wait until it’s an official match.” Yukimura stowed his racquet away and held out his hand, frowning critically at the shake of it. “Don’t be so impatient, Sanada.”

Genichirou snorted. “Why should I waste time on Atobe?”

Yukimura shook his head, smiling though his eyes still glinted sharp and cool. “Be careful. I know you know your own strength. And unlike nearly every other player in the middle school or high school circuit, your confidence in it is fully justified. But that,” he added, pointedly, “is exactly what slows you down in face of the unexpected.”

Genichirou took a slow breath and let it out, and made himself look at the thought straight on. Yukimura was right. Six games in was far longer than it should have taken him to realize this. He glanced over at the coach’s bench, and snorted at the serene smile Yukimura gave him back. Normally it was Akaya who got that look, and it stung a little to have it directed at him, but he probably deserved it.

All right, then, enough fooling around.

He stood at his baseline and closed his eyes for a moment, feeling the flow of his breath down to the bottom of his belly and back, feeling the absolute solidity of the ground under his feet and the bounds of the court around him. He breathed out all his thoughts and expectations, and opened his eyes.

Across the court, Atobe threw his head back, laughing out loud, arms spread wide as if in welcome. “About time, Sanada!”

Beyond casual banter, now, Genichirou only tossed the ball up and served with his full strength.

Even in locked into the clear perception of no-self, a shock ran through him when Atobe caught the ball and threw it back, one handed. A return with Wind put the ball away behind Atobe before he could catch it, but the focus of Atobe’s eyes on him, intent and gleaming over a fierce smile, tugged at him, drew the force of Fire out of him for the next rally. That one, Atobe caught two-handed, and how close the ball came to going back across the net drove his arm harder.

He would give everything this game demanded of him.


Keigo’s arms were starting to ache with the demand of the Tannhäuser serve, and the weight of Sanada’s balls, but he could hardly keep from laughing all the same. Neither of them had broken the other’s service game since Sanada plunged into no-self, but that was all right. It would be fine as long as he could outlast Sanada by even one ball, and while Sanada’s sheer power was still a shade beyond him, those brutally heavy balls were starting to soften as Sanada’s endurance began to wane under the demands of no-self.

And Keigo could see it. He’d drawn out every one of Sanada’s techniques, and he felt them like a weight in his hands, a powerful shape but still one with gaps. When they reached the tenth game, he felt opportunity open, in the shape of the game, and bared his teeth across the net at Sanada, delight dancing through him even as he had to work his hand around the grip of his racquet to hold it firmly.

This time he didn’t serve with the Tannhäuser technique, and he was in position when Sanada smashed the ball back with Fire, inevitable as water flowing downhill. In position to brace his whole body against the force of that shot and return it perfectly to Sanada’s blind spot. Sanada’s shock as the point was called, jarring even Sanada out of the calm of his no-self, pulled a shudder down Keigo’s spine, sweet with the knowledge of how this game would end.

Another point, and Sanada pulled himself together, cutting at Keigo’s control with Wind.

Another, and he could feel the edge of Sanada’s focus on him, so heavy it stole his breath, and then stole a point before he regathered his vision of the court and the game.

Another point lost to the Mountain, and Sanada was starting to know what it was Keigo was doing, but that was all right, because he’d seen the blind spot in Mountain during their last game, and that was another point to him.

He gathered himself for the last serve, and this one was a Tannhäuser serve. Like water flowing, Sanada caught it with the Forest, killed the spin, sliced the ball back to the open side of the court.

Exactly where Keigo had known he would send it.

The last ball slammed into the court just past Sanada’s racquet as he spun, almost breaking the World of Ice. Almost, but not yet.

Not in time, because that was match point, and Keigo released a breath that was half a laugh and half a sob, because he’d done it. He’d won, against Sanada Genichirou.

He scrubbed a tingling hand over his face and walked to the net, slowly because his muscles felt a bit rubbery after ten games of returning those heavy balls. Sanada didn’t look in much better shape when he came to meet Keigo, and neither of them had much grip worth the name when they shook hands. Keigo had to stifle a helpless snicker over the fact, and Sanada growled.

“Stop acting like a giggling idiot. I’ll win next time.”

Keigo smiled back, bright with the knowledge that he’d finally caught up, that they would run neck and neck, now. “Maybe. Maybe not.”

Sanada glared, but there was focus in it, now, rather than contempt. Focus on Keigo and his game and the threat he offered. Keigo smiled back, bright and wild, if still breathless.

“Go shut your club up, so we can hear the referee calling the next game,” Sanada told him, turning back toward Rikkai’s bench. Keigo blinked, only then realizing that his club was, in fact, chanting. Well, he didn’t object to doing Sanada a favor, at the moment. He lifted a languid hand and waved them down, as he came in, and they broke up into more regular cheers and chattering. Sakaki-sensei gave him a steady nod, only his eyes warming to show his pleasure that Keigo had succeeded.

“Sit down before you fall down,” Shishido advised, clapping Keigo on the shoulder as he and his partner stepped out.

Since the gesture nearly made him fall down, Keigo though that would probably be wise, yes.


Sanada Genichirou found it harder than usual to keep his shoulders straight as he returned to the Rikkai benches, and not just because that had been an exhausting game. Yukimura watched him come, not moving, hands still folded and resting on his knee, eyes cool and steady. Genichirou stopped in front of him and made himself say clearly, “I was careless. I offer no excuse.”

Yukimura just nodded. “Very well, then. Marui. Jackal.” As they stepped forward, Yukimura turned to them, leaving Genichirou to sit down with only his own thoughts for company. “It’s Shishido’s sense for the ball, more than his speed, you’ll need to watch for. I leave it to your own judgment whether to try catching Ohtori’s serve or not, but remember we have Finals still to go. Don’t court injury.”

Genichirou took a seat and scrubbed a towel over his face, mouth tight. He wasn’t surprised Yukimura was leaving him to stew; he couldn’t believe he’d been taken so off guard that he’d lost. He took a quick drink and leaned with his elbows on his knees, watching Marui grinning over the net at Shishido, already up on his toes and poised. Finally, Yukimura looked over his shoulder at him, measuring.

“You’re still breathing hard; Atobe definitely has the edge in endurance, right now.” As Genichirou grimaced, a corner of Yukimura’s mouth quirked up. “He did the last time you played, also.”

Genichirou was quiet for a moment, looking down at his hands clenched tight around his towel. “You think he was already at this point, when we played before the National games started.”

“Yes.”

At that, Genichirou looked up, annoyed. “Then why didn’t you say so?”

Yukimura’s brows rose. “Should I have needed to?” When Genichirou didn’t answer, he went on, voice sharpening. “You’ve been focused far too tightly on Tezuka the past two years. You needed to remember he’s not the only one who can challenge us.”

Genichirou bit back the He has been, because that was an unworthy response and he knew it. There could always be someone better; that was basic mental discipline, to keep in mind. Had he really fallen into such complacency?

Pathetic!

“So you put me in Atobe’s way for an official match?” So the loss would have the most impact, presumably.

“I made the opportunity for it to happen,” Yukimura agreed. “Knowing Hyoutei would be at Nationals after all, there was enough chance of encountering them to wait for it. All the more so once they drew a place on our side of the bracket and I knew we’d meet them before we met Seigaku again.”

Before Genichirou met Tezuka again, in other words. Before his tunnel vision could be reinforced. Thinking five steps ahead of everyone else was one of the things Yukimura did best, and the biggest reason Sanada had never considered contending to be captain of the team. This had been a useful lesson. Genichirou still had to take a good breath and remind himself sternly of that fact before he could say, low, “Thank you.”

Seiichi’s true smile, rare to see during competition, blossomed at that, bright and warm. “That’s better. You promised years ago that we’d advance together. I won’t forgive you falling behind now.”

Genichirou blinked, suddenly feeling the tightness of his shoulders as it eased, feeling like his thoughts had been knocked sideways by the memory of that promise, of the bright excitement that had been in Seiichi’s eyes that day. “We promised each other that,” he pointed out.

Seiichi’s smile turned satisfied. “So we did.” He turned back to watch Marui steal the force from Shishido’s drive and send it rolling along the cord out of reach. Genichirou snorted softly at his captain’s back. Yes, fine, he took the point; after what Yukimura had done to return to the game, Genichirou had no excuse. He’d do better next time.

He straightened to watch as Jackal finally caught one of Ohtori’s serves, firmly ignoring the faint smile that tugged at his mouth.


Kirihara Akaya sat quietly on the far side of Yanagi-senpai and pretended to be watching the game instead of eavesdropping on his captain and vice-captain. Yanagi-senpai’s faint smile said he probably wasn’t fooled, but at least he wasn’t giving Akaya away.

He really should be paying attention to the game. Ohtori was certainly going to be showing up in next year’s tournament matches, and while Akaya didn’t honestly have many doubts about his ability to deal with a power player after years of chasing Sanada, he should still at least be thinking about how his future team members could deal with Ohtori. That’s what Yukimura-buchou was doing, wasn’t it? Thinking about how his team members could advance. Making sure that they would, even if it meant pushing them into the path of a loss.

Akaya didn’t know if he could do that. And he would need to know whether or not he could, eight days from now. The realization felt like ice sliding down his spine. He was about to be the one in charge of getting Rikkai to this tournament again.

Yanagi-senpai’s hand on his back made him start.

“Easy, Akaya,” Yanagi-senpai said, quietly. “Don’t think of next week, yet.”

Akaya looked up at him, startled. He was used to Yanagi-senpai knowing what he was about to do on the court, but this seemed a little closer to telepathy than normal. Yanagi-senpai’s mouth quirked up at the corner.

“You were starting to hyperventilate.”

Akaya blushed and scrunched down on the bench. Okay, that had probably been a pretty easy guess after all.

“For now, just think about the tournament,” Yanagi-senpai advised. “But for later on… remember that you don’t need to lead the way Seiichi does. You just need to lead the way you do.” Softer, he added, “I know we probably haven’t made that easy for you. But I also know that you can do it. Remember that, as well.”

The thought that his team’s very best analyst thought so got Akaya through the end of the match without getting too distracted, and through the final line-up without snickering at Atobe’s smirk or Sanada-fukubuchou’s eye rolling or how obviously Yukimura-buchou was refraining from laughing at them both.

Tomorrow was plenty to worry about, for now.

Semi-finals: Seigaku vs. Shitenhouji

The afternoon matches were not off to a good start for Shitenhouji. Kuranosuke had been afraid it would play out like this.

He couldn’t quite stifle his wince as Seigaku’s Kawamura sank into a crouch and dashed forward against Gin’s drive. Kawamura’s variant of Hadoukyuu was brutal, and he just hoped Gin wasn’t going to be stubborn about this… He blew out a relieved breath as Gin let his racquet go.

“That was match point,” Zaizen pointed out, behind him, sounding disapproving. When Kuranosuke glanced back, though, Zaizen’s frown was more thoughtful than anything.

“Courting a serious injury in a middle-school match, even if this is Nationals, is foolish,” he answered plainly, hoping to encourage that new thoughtful edge. “I told Gin I would trust him to know what he needed to do, and it was true. But it’s also true that it’s easy to get caught up in what’s right in front of you and forget the bigger picture.” He nodded out at the court where, if he wasn’t mistaken, Kawamura was preparing to catch Gin’s serve with another Hadoukyuu. “So what does that tell you about Seigaku’s Kawamura?”

Zaizen frowned deeper, chewing on his lip as he turned sharp eyes on Kawamura’s stance, the hard bunch of his muscles. “He… is probably going to be injured after this, isn’t he? Is he just bad at the big picture?” Zaizen’s head cocked as his gaze flicked toward Seigaku’s coach, at her tightly folded arms and resigned expression. “Or does he not care?” Zaizen finished, slowly.

Kuranosuke restrained his urge to get up and do a little dance of triumph right there in the bleachers. Finally, they were getting somewhere! “I would bet he plans to retire from the sport after this year,” he confirmed.

“And Ishida-senpai doesn’t.” Zaizen sat back as the match was called, a win for Kawamura. For once, he wasn’t stiff with outrage over a loss. “Okay.”

Kuranosuke watched his kouhai watch the remarkably similar fuss the two teams were making over their players, with ice packs and athletic wrap, and smiled. This tournament season had been good for Zaizen. His smile faded a little, though, as he turned back to the court, where Oshitari and Koishikawa were greeting Seigaku’s Inui and Kaidou at the net. This wasn’t going to be a good combination for Shitenhouji, either, so soon after Oshitari had to play all out, and he had to wonder if Inui had planned for it, had expected Fudoumine to blunt Shitenhouji’s edge. He leaned down between his own strategists, on the bench below his, and murmured, “Predictions?”

Konjiki and Hitouji exchanged a long look, full of little glances and gestures toward the court. Kuranosuke’s brows rose as the silent exchange went on. These two usually agreed on an answer faster than this, both of them constantly running calculations and bouncing ideas off each other, even when anyone else (and especially Zaizen) would swear they were only clowning for the crowd. Finally Hitouji shook his head firmly and Konjiki gave in with a tiny sigh. “I would have said Kaidou was at least half as worn-down as Oshitari, after his match against Hikogashima’s Hisakawa, but Yuuji’s paid more attention to everyone’s rate of change, this year. If he says Kaidou still has the endurance to outlast Oshitari, then he does.”

Out on the court, Inui held the center without moving while Kaidou sprinted across the back to catch Koishikawa’s ball as it went deep. The sinuous whiplash of his entire body sliced the ball in a tight, nasty curve to strike behind Oshitari’s feet before he could get himself turned around. And the glint in his eye as the point was called made Kuranosuke sigh. That was definitely the look of someone with a truckload of grit, and maybe a second one coming along after, too. “Likely two down, then. Tezuka, for Singles Two, do you think? Or Fuji?”

Hitouji made a face. “Imponderables in the calculation. Hate it when that happens.”

“It depends on how Fuji is responding to his last match from Regionals,” Konjiki expanded at Kuranosuke’s exasperated look. “And no one has drawn him out far enough, yet, to tell.”

Kuranosuke smiled, slowly. “Well. Either way, then, it sounds like I’ll have an interesting match.”

Konjiki smirked. “Have fun, then. We’ll be here to back you up, after.”

Kuranosuke leaned back, keeping his smile in place. None of them mentioned that the best case still left a wild card in play.

They’d put Zaizen in Singles One, for this line-up.


Fuji Shuusuke watched his teammates come off the court, Inui with a subtle hand under Kaidou’s arm to keep him upright, watched Momoshiro cheerfully call Kaidou names to distract from how quickly he had a towel and water bottle to hand for his year-mate, watched Tezuka give them a firm, approving nod, and tried to keep his breath even.

He was next.

And this was really absolutely ridiculous. He hadn’t had butterflies in his stomach over a match since he’d barely been taller than a racquet.

But even Tezuka spoke well of Shiraishi’s game, and Shuusuke had gotten a couple tastes, now, of what impressed Tezuka, and…

And he didn’t know how this match was going to end. Shuusuke took another slow breath, reminding himself that most players dealt with this, and most seemed to do just fine. He still jumped a little when Ryuuzaki-sensei clapped him on the shoulder.

“Don’t get too far down inside your own head,” she said, quietly. “All you have to do is pay attention, the way you usually do, and don’t make assumptions.” Her grip shifted and she gave him a brisk shove toward the court. “Now get out there and play!”

Shuusuke was laughing as he stumbled forward, and he took her brisk assurance, Tezuka’s steady eyes on him, Eiji’s victory sign, Echizen’s companionable smirk, with him to meet Shiraishi at the net.

“Tezuka in Singles One, then?” Shiraishi murmured as they shook hands.

“I suppose we’ll see,” Shuusuke parried automatically. “I’ll try to keep you from feeling neglected.”

Shiraishi smiled, slow and sharp. “Excellent.”

And that was the other interesting thing, Shuusuke reflected, as he fell back to serve. The best players, one and all, genuinely enjoyed a real challenge, enjoyed this uncertainty. That might honestly be the thing he most doubted his ability to reach. He gripped the ball hard and looked down the length of the court, studying Shiraishi’s poised stance, balanced to break in any direction after the ball. He didn’t know whether playing by listening to his instinct for the game would work this time; it wouldn’t have, quite, against Tachibana, and Shiraishi had just won against Tachibana. But he also didn’t quite know how to play another way. Maybe he just had to push harder?

“Let’s see how this goes, then,” he said, very softly, and threw the ball up to serve.

And maybe this would be easier than he thought, because the smoothness of Shiraishi’s return locked his attention immediately, drew his eye and thoughts to Shiraishi’s perfect balance, to the pure arc of his racquet and the precise measure of spin it gave to the ball. This was Shiraishi’s strength, laid out for him to see as clearly as he’d ever seen Tezuka’s fierce control of the ball or Echizen’s confident range of techniques. The knowing drew his body along, just as surely as ever, like a spark flashing from his thought to his hand and back again as he caught the ball, felt its weight on his racquet. This was familiar.

And yet, it wasn’t, because there was no ready knowledge of how to counter, leaping to his hands. Shiraishi’s shots drove him toward the sides, cut one ball and then another into the corners past his reach. His feet felt mired by the heat of the afternoon, not fast enough to keep up, and the lost points nagged at him, because this time he wasn’t sure of making them up, of finding the holes in Shiraishi’s game if only he waited and watched. The tension pulled on him, made him step too hard on the unforgiving court surface, made his hand too tight on the smooth grip of his racquet, and he lost a third point as the angle of his return went too high. He shook himself, mentally, and caught Shiraishi’s smash in Higuma Otoshi, as smooth as ever… only to lose the point when Shiraishi sprinted for the baseline and actually made the return, perfectly balanced to move, where Shuusuke took a fatal moment too long to shift forward and catch the drop shot Shiraishi gentled over the net.

Shuusuke stopped, flat footed in the middle of the court, and huffed, exasperated. This wasn’t getting him anywhere, and he could feel his endurance starting to fall. He hadn’t trained for the speed to catch those wide-ranging balls or the endurance to constantly dash after them. He’d never had to, and now maybe he understood why that had always made Tezuka frown.

All right, so he really was going to have to push a lot harder, and hope he lasted long enough. He had the technique to make it work. He had to believe that.

He closed his eyes and took a long breath in, letting it out slowly. Took the score and set it aside, in his mind, on a shelf for later. Took the nagging knowledge of Tezuka’s eyes on him, watching and waiting and quite probably hoping, and put that on the shelf too. He would act like that packing away was real, until it became real. He took the slick feel of Shiraishi’s tennis, in his thoughts, and held it on mental palms, let the new openness of his thoughts flow out to his body and re-settle his stance. He didn’t need to encompass Shiraishi’s game. All he had to do was meet it, play against it. What happened then—he shoved the surge of nerves relentlessly back onto its shelf—well, that was what they were playing to find out.

It would be interesting, to see.

When that thought finally came to the fore, Shuusuke smiled and opened his eyes.

Both Taka-san and Eiji were grinning, from the sidelines, and on the bench below them Echizen had his chin resting in his hands and a challenging smirk not at all hidden under his cap. Shuusuke snorted and pushed that onto a shelf, too, though not as far back as most of the rest. Echizen had always been a challenge, but never pressure. Shuusuke scuffed a foot against the hardcourt surface, feeling his balance again, and finally looked across the net to where his opponent was preparing to serve. Shiraishi was smiling, too, sharp and fierce, like he thought this was going to be interesting, too, and Shuusuke set that at the front of his thoughts, a bright, new mark to steer by. It made his breath come quicker.

When Shiraishi served, Shuusuke took the pure line of the ball and sliced it back forehand, slamming the return down past Shiraishi’s knees.

The quick cheers of his team were distant. It was the glint in Shiraishi’s eyes that drew Shuusuke forward to meet the next serve.

It still wasn’t easy, not the way tennis usually was for him. Habit tried, again and again, to close his mind’s grip on Shiraishi’s game, and every time, he slipped off the hard perfection of Shiraishi’s form that had no easy counter. Again and again, Shiraishi knew exactly where to be to catch the trickiest of backspins. But there was still another person on the other end of the game, a person making choices from moment to moment, and that Shuusuke could match, could counter. Shots ranged over the whole court, now in the corners, now at the net, now driving for the baseline, and the scuffle of shoes as they chased each other’s balls was loud in Shuusuke’s ears. The score see-sawed back and forth, balanced on Shuusuke’s rapid-fire changes of pace and technique, and on Shiraishi’s relentless precision.

Shuusuke could still feel himself wearing down, though, even wringing all the advantage he could out of his edge in technique.

As they switched sides at the end of the seventh game, Shiraishi paused beside him and eyed him up and down. “Hm.”

Shuusuke’s brows rose. That was nearly Tezuka levels of significant hmph-ing. “Yes?”

“If that’s all you’ve got, I suppose a part of me is relieved,” Shiraishi answered, lightly enough, and turned toward his mid-court, settling himself to receive.

The unspoken ending, that a part of him was also disappointed, stung, flicking Shuusuke where he was still raw and uncertain. He set his jaw and stalked back to his baseline to serve. The score pushed itself to the front of his mind again, and he had to take a moment to wrestle it back. The fact of it remained, though; he was down one game. He frowned down at the court as he bounced the ball, feeling the comforting jolt as it returned smartly to his hand. He needed to get one of Shiraishi’s service games from him, and to stop Shiraishi from running him all over the court. He needed…

The image of Echizen rose in his mind, of those expressive eyes narrowed with ferocious determination, of Echizen throwing himself against someone’s game over and over and over until he found a way over, under, around, or through. Shuusuke’s mouth curled in a helpless smile. Yes. Maybe he needed some of that.

Needed to attack.

He worked his fingers around the ball, looking across the net at his opponent, habit drawing his shoulders tense. To attack was to make openings in one’s game; his entire style was based on that simple fact. But against an equal opponent, he reminded himself firmly, to attack was also to hold the initiative. So how could he spin the ball his way, not just as it returned to him, using his opponent’s force, but before it returned to him? Shuusuke’s focus on Shiraishi narrowed, drank in his position, his stance, so perfectly balanced. Shuusuke knew he needed something more than his usual technique to break that. Something more. Something, anything, he wanted this, and the calculation that usually ran so deep he barely felt it started to rise like a river, inside him.

Something. The breeze, as it brushed his cheek from the direction of the stands. It would push the slower balls ever so slightly. The glare of the sun, sliding further and further down in the same direction. It would be in the eyes of anyone who had to turn too far in that direction, soon.

Anything. The court surface had grit on it, but in one or two places, dust had settled into a faint dip, and those would be slicker to step on, would absorb the force of any ball that landed there.

Everything.

Shuusuke’s breath came quicker as he held it all balanced in his mind, in his muscles, feeling half blind with the rush of detail he was trying to encompass, to really perceive this time instead of just letting it feed his instinct for the ball. Right now, he needed to know and choose among these possibilities. He could feel the weight of Shiraishi’s focus on him, too, as he threw the ball up to serve, feel it turning heavier and hotter, almost heavy enough to be steadying.

He served with as much backspin as he could give the ball right from the outset, not waiting this time, aiming for the point just past Shiraishi’s feet—not just to break his stance but to hit one of the tiny ripples in the court surface that would bounce the ball to the side as well. Even Shiraishi wavered a moment, shifting toward that unexpected bounce, and this time he didn’t recover fast enough. Shuusuke smiled, sharp. Yes, this was the way.

He threw himself into the game as it sped up, eyes wide as he let the entirety of the court, the park, the day, come to him, feeling like he was listening with his very skin for the details that would let him turn the ball away from Shiraishi. It was electrifying and exhilarating and a little alarming and… and familiar. As ball after ball cut through the spaces his senses encompassed, as the serve changed and changed again and points piled up faster still, he remembered listening this hard, feeling this much. He remembered it from the end of Regionals. His opponent this time wasn’t enraged, though, or blank with that strange overdrive of no-self.

Shiraishi was laughing.

“That’s more like it, Fuji,” Shiraishi called as the serve returned to him again. His smile was a little wild, but his stance was as sleekly perfect as ever. Maybe even more solid, now, than at the start of the match. Shiraishi bounced the ball and bared his teeth at Shuusuke. “You’re a good match. I’ll look forward to doing this again, some time.”

It seemed a little early to say so, but Shuusuke let the thought slip away as he dashed to catch Shiraishi’s serve, a slow, tricky one that just dropped the ball over the net. He had to return a lob, but caught Shiraishi’s smash, slowing Higuma Otoshi in turn to make it fall shorter than anyone would expect.

They were even, now, he could feel it in the breathless speeding of the game. He could do this.

They rallied ferociously, techniques straining against each other for each point. Shiraishi was serving balls that had no spin, which a small part of Shuusuke was both impressed and annoyed by, but he could still work with them, still spin them with the weight of his body and the stroke of the breeze, still place them where the court itself would carry them further. The last point of the game was Shiraishi’s, but Shuusuke could feel his momentum increasing, like running downhill. This was…

Shiraishi straightened, not stepping back into his court to receive, but toward the net instead.

“Game and set! Shiraishi!”

The referee’s words didn’t make sense for a long moment. And then Shiraishi reached the net, racquet down at his side, and stood watching Shuusuke with eyes still bright, but now also calm. Shuusuke turned his head, slowly, to the score board he’d been ignoring so successfully.

It read 7-5.

Shuusuke felt like he’d tripped over something and taken a hard fall, all the breath knocked out of him.

“Fuji,” Shiraishi said, quiet enough that maybe only the two of them heard, under the cheers from Shitenhouji. He held out his hand, and Shuusuke moved forward, automatically, to take it, mind still full of static. Shiraishi caught his hand and shook it firmly. “It was a good game.”

A harsh breath of a laugh yanked itself out of Shuusuke’s chest. “I suppose it was, from your side.”

“So start sooner, next time,” Shiraishi returned, coolly. “Now that you know how.”

The memory, in every sense, of the focus that he’d just been pulled up out of shook Shuusuke for a breath, and he had to swallow before he could speak. “I… suppose so.”

Shiraishi snorted. “You hyper-focused types, honestly. Go talk to Tezuka about it, Fuji.” He stepped back, still with that bright glint in his eyes. “I meant what I said. I’ll look forward to our next match.”

Shuusuke hesitated, but finally nodded. It was polite, and he might feel the same. Once he was sure what he was feeling, again. He turned back toward his team, attention catching on the warmth in Tezuka’s eyes, for all his expression was as stern as ever, on the solemn way Echizen, probably the one among them that best understood his disorientation, watched, on the sharp determination behind Eiji’s smile. That last made him wince, a little, as he came in. “Eiji…” He’d never needed a teammate to pick up after him, before.

Eiji clapped him on the shoulder. “Don’t mind it!” He pushed Shuusuke gently toward the benches. “We’ll take care of it.”

Shuusuke nodded, biting back anything else, and accepted the water bottle Taka-san had gotten out for him. He sat a bit gingerly, feeling like he needed to double check where everything was, like maybe he couldn’t trust just his eyes to tell him, and he couldn’t even tell whether that was the shock of losing or the loss of that incredible focus he’d found in the game. When Tezuka came to stand behind him, he couldn’t help leaning back just a little, enough to let his shirt brush Tezuka’s legs and confirm that solid presence.

Tezuka rested a hand on his shoulder like he thought Shuusuke’s balance might be in question, too. “That was a good game.”

Shuusuke twitched at hearing it again, anger starting to stir. “I lost.”

“Everyone loses sometimes.” When Shuusuke glanced over his shoulder, tight-lipped, Tezuka’s eyes met his, level and uncompromising, and that… that steadied him, somehow. This, at least, hadn’t changed.

“So, I train harder and do better next time?” he asked, a little challenging. He’d seen the whole team do that, at one time or another, this year. He’d just never really thought that would apply to him the same way.

“You said you wanted to be stronger than you are.”

The simple words stopped his burst of irritation short. It was true. He’d said that. He’d tested himself against Tachibana, found a true challenge, and he’d known in that moment that he wanted to get stronger. He looked back down at the water bottle in his hands. “I do,” he answered slowly, “I just…”

The taste of the next words on his tongue pulled him up short again.

I just didn’t think I’d lose.

Shuusuke pressed a hand over his eyes with a short laugh. That was arrogant, wasn’t it? To think he could have the thrill of a real challenge and never face a loss? He rubbed his fingers over his forehead, feeling the cool condensation from his water bottle, focusing on that. Better that than the hot weight of embarrassment in his chest.

“It’s never easy for natural talent, once you get this far.” When Shuusuke looked up, Ryuuzaki-sensei had half turned on the coach’s bench, one elbow propped on the back. There was sympathy in the crooked line of her smile, but no pity, and Shuusuke thought, not for the first time, that Tezuka and Ryuuzaki-sensei were really just made for each other, as captain and coach. “You haven’t really learned how to try,” she continued, calm and matter-of-fact, “let alone how to be knocked down and get up again. It’s not easy. A lot of naturals stop right where you are now.”

Shuusuke straightened, stung. “I’m not stopping.”

Ryuuzaki-sensei’s smile turned wide and sharp, and Shuusuke was ruefully aware of having walked right into that. “Good.” She turned back around to watch the Doubles One match and settled back on the bench, arms crossed.

Shuusuke laughed helplessly, scrubbing his hands over his face, and took a deeper breath. “All right, then.” Tezuka’s hand on his shoulder tightened for a moment before lifting, and Shuusuke looked up at his friend with a little more of his humor restored. “Tezuka, will you…?” He trailed off, unsure how to put it.

Help me.

Make sure I keep moving forward.

Stay with me until I know the way, know how this even works.

Shuusuke bit his lip on that tangle of uncertainty and nerves. Maybe it was too selfish to ask.

Tezuka’s voice broke the tangle, stopped the spin of his thoughts, certain as stone. “Of course.”

Shuusuke closed his eyes and turned his face up to the sun. He had to swallow before he could finally speak, softly.

“Thank you.”


Ryouma watched the match in front of him, not really seeing it, barely hearing the cheers of the two schools. Later on, he might be annoyed by that; it was a good game, fast and high level, as long as you ignored the Shitenhouji pair’s joking between points. Right now, though, the echo of memories in his head was taking up all of his attention.

Ryuuzaki-sensei, and the knowing look in her eyes when she said, Everyone loses sometimes. If they don’t, that just means they aren’t playing hard enough or long enough.

The quietness of Tezuka-san’s voice when he said it again, Everyone loses sometimes. Not uncaring, certainly not happy about it, but as if it just wasn’t that big a thing.

The tightness of Fuji-senpai’s hands on his water bottle when he’d asked, Will you…? The easy certainty of Tezuka-san’s answer. Of course.

Ryouma had felt that tightness in his own muscles for weeks on end, and he hated it. Could the answer to it really be so simple? If he asked, would Tezuka-san, Ryuuzaki-sensei, his senpai, answer him like that too? So readily, so easily?

Of course.

Ryouma swallowed hard and blinked back to the present, to the game in front of him, to the onlookers who were…

Not cheering?

He looked around, puzzled, and sure enough, the entire Shitenhouji half of the stands was silent, a breathless quiet so deep that he heard it clearly when the first few words dropped into it.

“Is that…?”

“Are they really…?”

“No wonder everyone calls them the Golden Pair.”

“Konjiki and Hitouji are getting serious!”

Looking out at the court, Ryouma could see at once that it was true, though he wasn’t sure why this was so amazing. The Shitenhouji pair had stopped wise-cracking and were watching Ooishi-senpai and Kikumaru-senpai with absolute focus. Ooishi-senpai was watching them right back, with a hard glint in his eyes, and Kikumaru-senpai’s smile was showing a lot of teeth. The intensity of that locked attention between the pairs felt like it might burn up any stray leaf or paper that blew onto the court.

Okay, maybe Ryouma did get why everyone was impressed.

When Hitouji served, the match took off, twice as fast as before, each pair hammering down on the other, shot after shot. Shitenhouji focused the game-breaking shots on Kikumaru-senpai, and after a game and a half Ryouma realized they were forcing all the strategic choices onto him. Ooishi-senpai came in for the tricky shots, scorching fast or wickedly curving, the kind of shots that required high athleticism to catch. It was impressive to see a pair who could target their shots so precisely, plan so far in advance and work like one person’s two hands to achieve it. His senpai weren’t going down easily, though, and Ryouma smirked, feeling a little seed of warm satisfaction in his chest every time Kikumaru-senpai broke out of Shitenhouji’s careful targeting to catch one of those tricky balls, every time Ooishi-senpai shattered the game’s momentum with a long, high lob or sudden drive that Kikumaru-senpai slid so easily out of the way of. For once, Ryouma didn’t really mind the way his senpai pounded on his shoulders in their excitement, appreciated why the whole stands were going crazy. This kind of tennis was worth that kind of yelling.

The score went to tie-break. Nine points, and then fifteen, and then eighteen, drop shot after sizzling drive after precise lob, and the cheers on both sides had a wild, gleeful edge now, answering the intensity of the game. Ryouma realized he was nearly holding his breath.

The twentieth point was the one that ended it, a sharp, curving slice that Kikumaru-senpai was just a moment too slow to reverse and catch. Ryouma leaned back on his bench, blowing out a slow breath. That had been almost as intense as Tezuka-buchou’s match against Atobe. His senpai clustered around Ooishi and Kikumaru as they came off the court, exclaiming and passing over towels, and even though they’d lost, Ryouma could see confidence and pride still, in the set of Ooishi-senpai’s shoulders, the lift of Kikumaru-senpai’s chin.

Ryouma hated losing. But he’d like to be able to feel that way, when he did.

“Singles One! Seigaku’s Echizen versus Shitenhouji’s Zaizen!”

The announcement jolted Ryouma with the reminder that, this round, it wasn’t Tezuka-buchou in Singles One. It was him again. And it wasn’t that he thought he was going to lose; of course he didn’t. But this round had been full of unsettling matches, and he couldn’t quite help the quick glance he threw at Tezuka-san, just to have something stable to catch his balance against.

Tezuka-san was looking back.

Ryouma froze for a moment, uncertain; was there something to be said about this match, this opponent, after all? But all Tezuka-san did was nod to him, firm, eyes perfectly steady, and Ryouma heard the echo of it again.

Will you…? Of course.

After a long moment, Ryouma nodded back.

As he stepped out onto the court he couldn’t help the wry snort that escaped as he noticed that his opponent was also having a quick talk with his captain. Apparently this really was an ‘of course’ sort of thing. Well okay, then.

He bounced on his toes a little bit, feeling the loosening of his muscles, settling into a familiar readiness to play, feeling the weight of his captain’s gaze against his back.

It felt good, today.


Zaizen Hikaru left his seniors to congratulate Honjiki-senpai and Hitouji-senpai, to tease them over having to get completely serious, and tested the gut of his racquet, taking a deep breath to settle himself. This wasn’t going to be an easy match, and it was possible he was about to lose, considering that he was playing—

“Singles One! Seigaku’s Echizen versus Shitenhouji’s Zaizen!”

Not Tezuka?

Hikaru lost his focus on a sputter of indignation. “What kind of team doesn’t even use their best player…” he started, only to break off as Shiraishi-buchou grabbed his shoulder and shook him once, firmly.

“Maybe one whose captain is still recovering. We knew that was a possibility for Seigaku, as well as Rikkai. Now stop thinking about that and think about your opponent, instead.”

“He’s a first-year,” Hikaru said, though far more neutrally than he would have as recently as yesterday. This round had shaken his confidence in his ability to gauge an opponent, that was for certain. Still…

Shiraishi-buchou shook his head, unsmiling. “Seigaku has always been ruthless about their rankings. Not quite as ferocious as Hyoutei, but close. If this kid is in their regular line-up, then he’s good. Pay attention, this match.”

Hikaru nodded, slowly. If his normally laid-back captain was this serious about it, then yes; he’d pay attention. Shiraishi-buchou’s hand tightened on his shoulder for a moment and let him go with an encouraging pat, and Hikaru stepped out onto the court to go and meet his opponent at the net. He would take the match seriously.

Even if he was instantly possessed of a deep desire to wipe the smirk off this kid’s face.

He couldn’t think about that for long, though, because as soon as Echizen went to serve, Hikaru found himself pushed back, scrambling to catch each ball and more than a little dazed by the sheer breadth of Echizen’s repertoire. Not only did the kid seem to know exactly where all of Hikaru’s balls would land, and be right there behind them, his control of his own shots was unbelievable. Again and again, a point slipped past when the ball dropped or curved unexpectedly, and when Echizen hit a version of Kaidou’s crazy around-the-net-pole topspin slice, Hikaru had to stop for a moment and just stare and not even his annoyance at that cocky grin quite stopped him.

This kid was unreal.

One thing was sticking in Hikaru’s thoughts, though. Shiraishi-buchou hadn’t needed to warn him about not making assumptions, this time. There was nothing he could assume, here, no history to tell him anything about Echizen’s trajectory as a player. And if that was the case… well, then, he’d have to expect everything. He’d have to watch what Echizen was doing right now, this very match, and judge only from that.

All right, then.

Hikaru turned back toward his baseline, pulling out a ball for his serve and bouncing it a few times before holding it cupped in his hand and letting all his breath out. He did his best to breathe out his annoyance with it. He needed calm for this. Calm observation. Calm.

Slowly he opened his eyes, and the court seemed just a little clearer. Even Echizen’s smile seemed less pointed. Hikaru tossed up the ball and served hard to the corner, and watched the speed of Echizen’s dash to catch it, the degree of control in grip and angle that sent back a drive Hikaru had to dash forward to catch because that one wasn’t going to rise on the bounce. He mentally batted down the flash of incredulity, reaching instead for the speed to match Echizen’s, the technique to kill those unpredictable spins. He held onto his calm with his fingernails, and watched, and made himself keep reaching. It was the seventh game before he couldn’t ignore the his own conclusion any more.

He wasn’t going to win this.

Echizen had five games to Hikaru’s two, and he could feel the burn in his muscles that said he’d reached nearly as far as he could and still walk at the end of the match. Hikaru bounced the ball a few times, considering one more time whether he couldn’t take advantage of his service game and push further, but… he’d never been one for flashy, specialized shots. There was no special way he could spin his serve that would save this score. He bounced the ball one more time, hard, and gripped it with all his strength. His game had always been like Echizen’s; a game that relied on breadth of knowledge and evenly balanced strengths.

Echizen was just better at it.

Hikaru shook off the surge of disbelief and anger that came with that thought, getting fairly practiced by now. Maybe he couldn’t win this match, and maybe he wasn’t as insane as Fudoumine’s brash speed-player, to drive himself to dropping while he tried. But there was such a thing as going down fighting.

Even as he thought it, he glanced over at his captain, self-conscious at losing like this after Shiraishi-buchou’s display of steely competence, one round after another. Shiraishi-buchou was watching him, leaning forward with his elbows braced on his knees, but when he saw Hikaru looking, he straightened. Smiled, sharper than usual. And gave Hikaru a slow, steady nod. Hikaru had never thought he’d be one to depend on anyone else’s approval, but that helped ease the coil of tightness out of his shoulders.

He looked over the net at Echizen, and while that smile was still there it was a bit less annoying, somehow. Bright and knowing, yes, but a friendlier knowing. Even welcoming, maybe. Hikaru narrowed his eyes and nodded back, just a little. And then he cast the ball up and served, hard and precise.


Ryouma was bouncing on his toes a little, as he came off the court. That had been a good match. Not a particularly challenging one, but still a good one, which he still wasn’t really used to. But even when Zaizen had clearly realized that he wasn’t going to win, he hadn’t lost his temper or been an asshole—and he hadn’t backed down, either. Ryouma could respect that. He’d even restrained himself from needling Zaizen when they shook hands, even though the furious straightness of his opponent’s spine had made it awfully tempting.

Of course, his good mood was promptly buried under excited team-mates, the moment he set foot over the white line.

“We made it to Finals!”

“Great work, Ochibi-chan!”

“Echizen…!”

Ryouma finally squirmed free and dodged around the far side of Fuji-senpai to keep anyone from grabbing him again while he re-settled his cap and caught his breath.

“Everyone line up,” Tezuka-buchou ordered firmly, leading the way back to the net, though Ryouma couldn’t help noticing that he didn’t say anything until after Ryouma had been thoroughly mauled. Tezuka-buchou was not really very subtle about this whole thing with Ryouma knowing he was part of a team.

Zaizen looked nearly as rumpled as he felt, still trying to re-order his hair as the teams lined up. Possibly his team had been trying to encourage him, or maybe just congratulate him on playing a good game. That seemed to be how this worked. Ryouma was feeling ruffled enough to give him a silent eye-roll at their senpai, and Zaizen unbent enough to make a face in what was obviously agreement.

“Good to see you getting along so well with other players, Echizen,” Fuji-senpai remarked, as they broke apart again, each to their own sidelines. Ryouma stifled a sigh; the risk of using Fuji-senpai for protection was always that it brought you to his attention, and then you got teased instead of mauled. He usually felt it was worth the price. Sometimes, though, he wondered if the back-pounding was really that much worse than Fuji-senpai’s sense of humor.

“I wonder who we’ll be playing, tomorrow.” Momo rolled his towel into his bag and tossed Ryouma his water bottle. “Think we should go check on the other match?”

“I think it’s already decided,” Fuji-senpai murmured. When the rest of the team blinked at him, he jerked his chin toward the far end of the court.

Rikkai stood there, watching.

Tezuka-buchou hefted his bag over his shoulder and took one long step to stand at the front of the team. Even from this distance, Ryouma could see how Yukimura smiled before nodding to Tezuka and turning away. His own team fell in at his heels, and Ryouma crossed his arms, feeling sudden and unwelcome butterflies in his stomach as Sanada’s glance raked over him before Sanada turned to follow Yukimura. He could do this, he told himself firmly; he’d been training hard exactly so he wouldn’t wind up losing again.

Or, at least, would be able to still hold his head up, if he did, like Ooishi-senpai and Kikumaru-senpai. Like Zaizen, even. The thought was still uncomfortable, though, and he tried to shake it off.

Tezuka-buchou’s hand on his shoulder startled him out of his thoughts, and he looked up, blinking. “You need to think beyond any one game, any one win or loss,” his captain told him, quietly.

Ryouma frowned. “That isn’t it.” He stopped as soon as the words were out of his mouth, startled, but… it was true, wasn’t it? He knew it was true, all the way down to his gut; those words had been pure reflex.

Quieter still, Tezuka-buchou asked, “Then why are you afraid of losing?”

Ryouma looked up at him, remembering how readily Tezuka-san had promised his support, earlier. Of course. Maybe it was time to trust that, a little. “Because I don’t know how to stop losing,” he said, simply.

Tezuka-san actually looked startled, at that. Before he found words again, though, Ryuuzaki-sensei was beside them, nudging them both a little further away from the chatter of packing up. “Ryouma,” she said, very quietly and so very level that a little crinkle went up his spine, warning him there might be yelling coming soon, “how often do you play tennis against your father?”

Ryouma tried not to tense up. “Used to be every day. Now he acts all old and lazy, so maybe once or twice a week?”

“Have you ever won against him?” She sounded like she knew what the answer was already. Ryouma shrugged, quick and tight.

“No.”

He heard the breath Tezuka-san took in, and dared a glance up at him. He didn’t look disappointed or surprised. He looked… he looked like he’d just understood something, and he looked kind of ticked off about it, Ryouma realized. A soft smacking sound made him look around to see Ryuuzaki-sensei had a hand over her eyes.

“That little idiot,” she muttered, and dragged her hand down to plant it on her hip. “It’s good that you’re playing him less often, now,” she said briskly. “I doubt there’s much he can show you, any more. Probably hasn’t been for a few years, frankly, and his example isn’t one I want you following. And believe me, the day will come when you do win against him, especially if he keeps messing around and not keeping his own training up. But Ryouma,” she set a hand on top of his head and shook him back and forth just a little, “you are twelve years old. Of course you can’t beat everyone in the world, yet! And of course that’s more likely with players who are older and bigger!” She flicked dismissive fingers as Ryouma re-settled his cap yet again and glared a bit. “You’re not going to stay this size forever, you know. You don’t have to figure out how to beat the entire world of tennis players from down there.”

Ryouma was torn right down the middle between indignation (he was so tired of being small and having everyone comment on it) and relief (Oyaji’s own teacher said he would get better, would be good enough). He settled for tugging his cap down over that confused mix. For some reason that made Ryuuzaki-sensei laugh.

“You got his temper, but I think you must take after your mother for everything else. Good.” She patted his shoulder. “So, now we know.” When he glanced up from under his cap, she was giving Tezuka-buchou a significant look. It must have made sense to him, because Tezuka-buchou just nodded, hand tightening for a moment on Ryouma’s shoulder.

“You already know how to stop losing, Echizen,” Tezuka-san said, quietly. “You train to become stronger. It may take longer some times than others, but as long as you don’t stop, it will work in the end.” He didn’t smile, but the steadiness of his eyes, meeting Ryouma’s, felt better than all the encouraging smiles in the world. This wasn’t just encouragement. This was something Tezuka-san really believed.

And something he really believed Ryouma could do, too.

Ryouma took what felt like the first breath in a while, and nodded. “Okay.” He would try to believe it, too.

“Better,” Ryuuzaki-sensei declared. “Trust your team to help you, Ryouma. Not just with the training, but with figuring all this out. You’re not on your own any more.” She shoved them both briskly back toward the benches. “Now pack up, and let’s get moving!”

As soon as Tezuka-san guided him back into the knot of the team, Momo draped an arm around his shoulders and Kikumaru-senpai leaned folded arms on top of his head, grinning at Tezuka-san. “So? Are you letting Ochibi have a rematch yet?”

Tezuka-buchou beckoned them all after him as he turned toward the Ariake entrance gates. “Not yet.”

Ryouma ducked out from under his senpai, at that. “But—!” He’d been training for that! Hadn’t they just agreed that was the right thing to do?

Tezuka gave him a stern look. “Not yet.”

Ryouma hesitated, scowling, but finally gave in to the echo in his head of as long as you don’t stop, grumbling. “Fine.”

Momo promptly reeled him in again, laughing. “Quit worrying, so much! You’ll get him sooner or later.” The rest of the team looked amused or exasperated, so apparently this idea of building up and waiting for later was another of those ‘of course’ things. As they made their way down the last tree-shaded path toward the parking lot, Ryouma wondered just how many of those things there were, that he’d never realized.

Maybe he’d find out, now he had a team to show him.

The thought still felt odd, a little like his Regular jersey when he’d first gotten it. A little stiff in places. But the jersey had worn in; maybe this would too. Ryouma decided he didn’t dislike the idea.

“Hurry up, Echizen!” Momo called from the door of the Seigaku bus. “No need to stay the night; they’ll be waiting for us, tomorrow!”

The thought didn’t feel like boredom, the way most of the season had, or like fear, the way the last weeks kind of had. It felt like anticipation.

Ryouma grinned and ran the last few strides.

The Fire Shall Never Make Thee Shrink – Day Two Morning

Quarter-finals: Fudoumine vs. Shitenhouji

Tachibana Kippei glanced around at his team, standing in a close group and talking quietly about homework due on Monday and which teachers had complained about letting the tennis club out of school yesterday, swaying a little as the train started and stopped. They were easy and confident, nudging each other and grinning, not worried about taking on the Kansai champions, but discussing a stroke or bit of footwork that might help, now and then. Vast pride in how far they’d come in a single season made Kippei’s throat a little tight as Kokusai-tenjijou station was announced.

Kippei and his team filed off the train, and he couldn’t help smiling a little as a handful of half-familiar faces slipped out after them. It had taken a whole year, but what he’d hoped for had finally happened. “Going to watch Nationals?” he asked casually, and the knot of Fudoumine students shuffled, a little uncertainly. It looked like he was the only third-year on the platform.

“Yeah,” one of the second-years finally ventured and Kippei gave him an encouraging nod.

“It’s just across the road; this way.” He led the whole group up the stairs, though the modest bustle of the tall, airy station, and along the tree-lined walk that skirted the station’s little parking lot and led to the high pedestrian bridge. The other students stayed a few steps away, but they kept sneaking sidelong looks at the team. Finally, as they started up the long stairs to the bridge, it was one of the first-years who sidled up to Ishida, Kippei was a little amused to note, and asked, “So, um. How many teams are playing today?”

Ishida grinned down at the kid. “Only eight. We made it into the Quarter-finals, and if we get past Shitenhouji we’ll play in the Semi-finals this afternoon!”

“Is this really the first year you’ve played?” the first-year asked, sounding a little awed. “I heard, but…”

“Yep.” Ishida straightened his shoulders, proud, and a little old anger glinted in his eyes as he looked up the steps. “First year we’ve been able to, thanks to the old coach.”

The other students, who had been making impressed sounds, abruptly fell quiet at that, and the first-year looked like he suddenly felt a little trapped. But he cleared his throat and took hold of his nerve and asked, quavering just a tiny bit, “Is… is it true there was a fight with the coach?”

Kippei nudged Kamio discreetly and tipped his head toward the conversation. Kamio colored a little at the encouragement, but stepped in to answer steadily. “The old club had a lot of problems with bullying. The second- and third-years wouldn’t let the first-years use the courts at all, even after club hours. Not until Tachibana-san transferred in.”

“A problem like that is hard to undo, once it starts.” Kippei waved a hand as if to dismiss his intervention. “An outside view sees that more easily.” He turned his head to give his team a secret grin as they stirred, clearly wanting to protest that, and nudged Kamio to go on.

Kamio gave him a faintly exasperated look, but he’d gotten the message. This was his show, with his prospective new club members. “We actually started a new club then, and got permission to draw out a new dirt court on one of the back lots. That was when the coach got involved and, um.” He gave the other students a wry, tilted smile as they all started across the bridge. “I guess things got a little out of hand, yeah. But we just wanted to play.”

“That’s when the coach left,” Ishida put in, and grinned at Kippei. “Well, what else was he going to do, after being scolded in public by a second-year for being such a bad coach?”

Kippei nearly laughed. ‘Scolded’ was certainly one way to put it.

“We were suspended for three months,” Kamio finished, “but we got permission to form as the official club.” He chuckled. “The ‘staff’ chart still looks a little strange, though.”

“I’m the Physical Trainer.” Ishida laughed. “And Shinji’s the Grounds Manager.”

Shinji sniffed. “It’s really just being Treasurer and filling in order forms.”

“After this tournament, I think we’ll have better luck finding a faculty advisor.” Kippei smiled at his team, more gently now.

One of the second-years half raised his hand, hesitantly. “I heard that Enoki-sensei, the science teacher, used to play tennis.”

Kippei barely restrained himself from punching the air in triumph, at this contribution. There would be a team next year. “I’ll definitely speak to her, then,” he said, just as if she hadn’t been on his short-list already. The other boy brightened up, and walked a little closer to the team.

By the time they got all the way down the stairs on the other side of the bridge, the second-year, Matsuda, had admitted to playing a little street-tennis now and then, and Akechi, the first-year who’d first approached Ishida, was asking eager questions about how to do good strength training. They crossed the Ariake parking lot in a group that looked more like the other clubs than they ever had before, and Kippei could feel his team warming to their school-mates, relaxing some of the stiff pride that had covered discomfort all this summer.

The tournament was using different courts, for the second day, with only four Quarter-final matches to accommodate. The two courts just before the park field had wide, grassy margins inside the fence on either end, and the organizers had set out some temporary bleachers there for the increasing number of players and spectators who gathered to watch those still in the running. His team took the lowest two rows on A court’s north end, behind the coach’s bench, and Kippei beckoned to the other students. “Here. Sit behind us, and the team can tell you what’s going on if you have any questions.”

“And we can cheer for you,” Akechi offered, shyly, and Tachibana clapped him gently on the shoulder.

“That too.”

Shitenhouji was starting to filter into the court, one of their doubles pairs shoving each other playfully as they pretended to get stuck in the gate. Seigaku was setting up on the other side, across from Hikogashima, and Inui appeared to be threatening his teammates with… a thermos? All of them looked focused and intent, for all the laughing and horse-play going on between team members.

No one who made it to Quarter-finals assumed they’d be having an easy match.

Players from other teams were climbing into the bleachers, too. Kippei grinned as Senri strolled past, trailed by his vice-captain and his little sister, and pummeled Kippei hard on the shoulder in passing. Three players in Kushimakitou’s red and white jerseys were up in the top row, too, and Yamabuki’s first-year scout was perched in the middle, pencil and pad at the ready. Most of St. Icarus, as well as Echigo Hira Daini was across the way to watch Hikogashima against Seigaku, smaller regions lending each other support against a Tokyo team, maybe. Kippei wasn’t a child of the city, like most of his current team, and couldn’t help approving.

Finally, Kippei’s phone chimed ten o’clock, from his bag.

“It’s time,” Kippei said quietly, and a thread of tense anticipation wound through his team and drew them together as he turned to them. “We’re attacking with everything, right from the start, but Shiraishi will almost certainly be doing the same; Shitenhouji lost, last year, by holding their full strength until later matches. Be ready for a hard fight.” His team nodded, eyes bright, and he chuckled at their eagerness as the referee called for the teams on the court. “Let’s go, then.”

They met Shitenhouji at the net, and Kippei felt a little glow of satisfaction at the calculating look Shiraishi was giving them. He ran a measuring eye of his own over their line-up and nodded to himself. All of Shiraishi’s team were new players, only Shiraishi himself familiar from last year’s Shitenhouji, though Kippei was sure he remembered at least one other second-year.1 Interesting. Shiraishi had built an entirely new team, then, after being defeated so crushingly by Rikkai last year. “Let’s have a good game,” he stated, shaking Shiraishi’s hand firmly.

“We’ll certainly try,” Shiraishi murmured with a small, sharp smile.

Yes. He rather thought they both would.

Kippei retired to the coach’s bench as the Singles Three match was announced. A quick gust of amusement rustled through the bleachers as the names were called, Ishida versus Ishida. “Any relation?” he asked his own Ishida, joking. It was a common enough name that this had already happened once at the Prefectural tournament.

“Nope.” Ishida grinned and patted the bandana around his head. “Nice hair-style, though.”

Kippei chuckled, eyeing the tall, broad, and quite bald Ishida from Shitenhouji with a twinge of concern he didn’t show. “Maybe you can trade hair-care tips after you win.”

Ishida straightened up, hand flexing around his racquet. “Yes, Tachibana-san.”

Kippei watched them as the two players met at the net. Tetsu was grinning, sharp and challenging. Shitenhouji’s Gin was perfectly serene, in a way that Kippei wasn’t sure he liked.

He’d gambled, for these matches, putting Ishida’s strength first, hoping to overwhelm whoever Shiraishi sent in for Singles Three. It was looking like Shiraishi might have turned that strategy back on him, though. He folded his arms and leaned back, offering his player as much confidence as he could from the side of the court as Gin served, solid and hard, a little into the right side.

Before they’d exchanged three balls, he was sure of it. Gin was a power player, exactly like Tetsu. Neither of them were aiming for the lines or the corners, and neither of them were lobbing the ball. They were challenging each other directly, all powerful drives and deep overhead shots. This match would all come down to who was stronger.

“Wasn’t Ishida playing doubles yesterday?” Matsuda asked, behind him. “Do you guys mix singles and doubles, then?”

“Some of us,” Kamio answered with confidence that gave Kippei a lot of personal satisfaction, considering Kamio’s prickliness at the start of the season. “Ishida is usually in doubles. Shinji and I are usually in singles. But sometimes, when we know we’re playing a really strong team, Tachibana-san says… well…” the confidence trailed off into diffidence, and Kippei glanced over his shoulder with a little smile.

“Go on,” he urged, and had to stifle a chuckle as Kamio colored a little at the encouragement and squared up his shoulders.

“Tachibana-san says that arrogance can lose a match as fast as being timid, and that when we know the opponent is strong there’s no point in leaving the strongest players in Doubles One or Singles One. We beat a lot of schools that tried to do that.”

“I’ve heard that happens a lot in the pro and semi-pro tournaments, too,” one of the other second-years, Hirata if Kippei recalled correctly, put in. “Everyone wanting to be on first or second court and pitching fits if they don’t get it.”

“Divas, they’re everywhere,” Mori snorted, and Kippei’s mouth quirked as he watched Tetsu dashing to catch a deep drive. Mori and Uchimura had both been thoroughly unimpressed by Hyoutei, at Prefecturals, and seeing the quality Hyoutei could have played Fudoumine with, in the first round of Regionals, hadn’t made them any less annoyed.

“And we have no intention of losing that way. So when we know someone’s strong,” Kamio brought the discussion back to the point deftly, “we use the strongest line-up we possibly can. Ishida if it’s singles or Uchimura and Mori if it’s doubles, me and Shinji, and Tachibana-san.”

“Does that really work?” Matsuda asked, doubtful. “It’s really important to have a stable partner, for doubles. It’s why I never joined the club; so many school tennis clubs mix up doubles partners.”

“Not the teams who are playing to win,” Shinji said quietly from where he was leaning his elbows on his knees, watching the match. “We’ve seen a lot of that, this summer. Once a pair is settled, you don’t try to shake them up. We only see that from the winning teams when a team doesn’t have two settled pairs to use, or someone is injured.”

“But then what about this line-up of yours?” Matsuda argued.

Kamio laughed. “We don’t mix pairs up. Shinji and I aren’t partners with anyone but each other. Ishida can play singles, when we need a power player, but he doesn’t play doubles with anyone but Sakurai. And Sakurai is taking Singles One, for this match.”

“Oh.” Matsuda sounded struck by that. “So, um. If I maybe had someone I partner with a lot, and we both were thinking about the club…” Tachibana glanced over his shoulder again, curious. Matsuda sounded like he was asking a different question than he’d put words to, and he wasn’t looking at Kamio, or anyone else.

“It’s okay, Kyou.” One of the second-years who’d been hanging back and not talking much finally spoke, sliding down a row to sit beside Matsuda, smiling a little. “They’re serious. I think we can go for it.”

Everyone, including Kippei stared at them for a moment, and then Mori and Uchimura were laughing. Kippei smiled slowly. “Very smooth technique,” he complimented them. Even he hadn’t identified those two as a pair. Matsuda’s partner smiled back, thin and sharp, and Matsuda himself just grinned, leaning against his partner’s shoulder a little.

“We’re good,” his partner said. “I wasn’t about to let us screw around in something like the Fudoumine club used to be, or join this one if you were just going to break us up. Maybe it’s supposed to be educational or good training or something, but we’re already settled.”

“Yeah, we can see that,” Kamio said dryly, but there was a definite glint of approval as he looked Matsuda’s partner up and down. “Didn’t catch your name, at the station.”

“Yamura Masao.” He took the hand Kamio offered and shook it briskly.

“Looks like you and me are playing singles next year,” Kamio told Shinji, and they showed their teeth, grinning at each other. And then they looked over at Kippei, hopeful and eager and a little proud of themselves.

“Fudoumine will have an excellent team,” he agreed, and gave Yamura and Matsuda a firm nod. “Welcome to the club.” Both of them straightened, at that, sharp edges settled a little by the acknowledgement. But only a little. They’d fit in just fine.

And if Kippei felt a twinge that he wouldn’t be around to see next year’s team, to encourage them and watch their edge get sharper, he also caught Senri’s eyes on him as he turned back to the match. Senri gave him a crooked smile, tolerant and amused, obviously knowing exactly what Kippei wanted. Which was why he was going back, of course. That was his partner, up there.

But now wasn’t the time to be thinking about that. The match was heating up. Tetsu had been working for every point, but he’d been making his opponent work, too, and they’d been pushing each other harder, step by step. Gin had taken the last game, putting them at three games all, and Tetsu had thrown himself into the seventh game, playing harder than ever. This time, though, he was having trouble matching Gin’s increase in force. Another heavy ball forced Tetsu’s racquet off angle and the return drive shot into the net, giving Gin the second point. Tetsu stood, hand clenched around his next ball, for a long moment, and finally looked over at Kippei and raised his arm, flexing it tight in their signal for his most powerful shot. Kippei’s mouth tightened, and Tetsu turned back to serve, waiting for his decision.

It might turn the match. But Kippei doubted that one Hadoukyuu would suffice against a player as composed as Gin, and he was not, by damn, going to let one of his players injure himself, especially for the sake of a junior high match! On the other hand…

Tetsu powered a shot back over the net with a ferocious yell and Gin’s focus tightened just as fiercely for a moment. The return tore the racquet out of Tetsu’s hands, and that was the seventh game—four games to three, in Shitenhouji’s favor. The referee called for them to change courts, and Kippei beckoned. Tetsu was still swearing under his breath and flexing his wrists carefully as he came to the bench.

“I have to use it, Tachibana-san,” he said, low and intense. “I can’t let him keep control of the pace!”

“I know,” Kippei said, raising a quieting hand. “Listen. You can use it three times, today. There’s still semi-finals to go, but it’s true we won’t get there at all if we lose here. I’ll do my best to help you decide if and when to use it, but in the end, you’re the one playing this game.” He clasped Ishida’s shoulder, meeting his eyes steadily. “I trust your judgement.”

Ishida straightened up, shoulders settling as he calmed under that assurance. “Yes, Tachibana-san.”

Kippei clapped his shoulder. “Go on, then.” He watched Tetsu take the other side of the court, narrow-eyed and determined, and watched Shitenhouji’s Gin closely too. It was even more obvious, from here, that Gin was powerful and had conditioned his strength carefully.

Kippei hoped three would be enough.


Shiraishi Kuranosuke smiled a little as he watched the eighth game get underway. Fudoumine’s player was very strong, but Gin was stronger. Kuranosuke had called this one right, when he’d made the line-up.

Zaizen stirred restlessly, beside Kuranosuke on the lowest bleacher. “Ishida-senpai is taking his own time about this match,” he criticized, and Kuranosuke sighed as he contemplated the continued weakness of his prospective successor when it came to re-evaluating opponents he had preconceptions about.

“You could learn a few things from Gin,” their coach drawled from his bench, not looking around.

“Like what?” Zaizen wanted to know, and Watanabe-sensei snorted.

“If I told you, you wouldn’t be learning, now, would you?”

Kuranosuke rolled his eyes a little as Zaizen bristled. It might be true, but he didn’t think the team could actually afford to wait while Zaizen worked it out himself. “Gin has more patience than the rest of the team put together. He never rushes a match, and that,” he eyed Zaizen sternly, “is why he almost never loses one.”

Watanabe-sensei waved his hands in the air. “Gin builds his games like a temple, every level solid on the one before it. He might or might not reach enlightenment, that way, but he sure reaches victory.”

Zaizen, who had been looking a little thoughtful, gave their coach an exasperated glance for this bit of fancy.

“Fudoumine’s Ishida is stronger than even I really expected,” Kuranosuke explained, stifling a laugh. “Gin is right to take his measure and build up a good picture of his opponent. He has the match well in hand, now, though. This game will put him two ahead, and then it’s just one more to a clean win.”

He wondered, later, whether all the superstitions about not saying such things aloud had some validity after all, because no sooner were the words out of his mouth than Fudoumine’s Ishida crouched into a deep stance, one arm back, and a cheer went up from the Fudoumine team. Ishida caught the heavy ball that had been roaring right down the middle of his court, and every muscle in his body seemed to flex at once, winding tighter, harder, until, all in a moment, he let it go and the ball whipped back so fast it should have torn the air. Gin was in place to catch it, though, this wasn’t a trick ball or anything…

Gin’s racquet bent back in his grip and the ball slammed against his court like a shot from a gun.

“Hadoukyuu! Yeah!” someone yelled from Fudoumine’s side, and Ishida smiled like a tiger, all teeth, and jerked his chin at Gin, inviting the next ball.

Kuranosuke hissed softly as Gin served; it was just a little stiff, and Ishida got a return ace off it, right past Gin’s feet. Konjiki whistled through his teeth.

“Was that ball actually strong enough to hurt Ishida-senpai,” Zaizen demanded, “or is he just shook up?”

“There’s no ‘just’ to facing a shot like that,” Koishikawa said firmly from the next row up. “Getting beaten in your own specialty sets anyone off their game; that’s why we put Gin in first, to catch just this player with that tactic.”

Zaizen glanced over his shoulder to give Koishikawa a cool look. “Didn’t work out all the way.”

Kuranosuke decided his kouhai’s allotment of back-talk had been used up and cuffed Zaizen across the back of the head. “Quit being so obnoxious. Plans never work all the way, that’s why we still have to work for the victories worth having.” He frowned out at the court. “And, yeah, I think that ball was hard enough to numb even Gin’s grip for a while. Look.”

Gin’s stance was flawless, as he caught Ishida’s drive, but the angle of his racquet was off. It was a net ball.

“It’s wearing off, though,” Hitouji observed, chin resting in his cupped hands. “Watch. He’ll have the next one.”

Sure enough, Gin’s angle was true in the next volley, and he took game point. Five games to three, in their favor. Kuranosuke’s eyes narrowed and he nodded, satisfied. He’d built this team of players who weren’t easily shaken; challenging games were what they’d all come here for.

“Next game is their Ishida’s service again, though.” Koishikawa leaned forward, eyeing the other team. “How many times does he have the endurance to hit that shot?”

Tension and a breath of excitement threaded through the team as everyone looked over at the fierce smile Fudoumine’s captain-coach was wearing.


Kippei kept his arms folded, outwardly calm, though he clenched the hand hidden under his arm. Shitenhouji only needed one more game, but Tetsu might just make it, after all. Tetsu had kept his service game with another Hadoukyuu to blunt Gin’s honed strength; Kippei hadn’t even had to signal the right timing. Tetsu had pulled it off beautifully. If he could take Gin’s own service game, they’d be five all, and Kippei could see that Gin was feeling the effects of that numbing blow longer this time. If they timed it right, then maybe, just maybe, Tetsu could take the last two games he needed. Both of them were wearing down at about the same rate, Kippei thought, both of them breathing hard by now and dripping with sweat from sending back the bruising drives and smashes they’d hammered each other with.

Gin took another point with a two-handed drive. Tetsu took the next, muscles standing out down his arms and neck as he hurled the ball deep into Gin’s court. They were three points all. Kippei could see Gin’s jaw tighten as he drove his next serve right between Tetsu’s feet. Advantage to Shitenhouji. Tetsu glanced at Kippei and he nodded back; it was still a gamble, but now was the time for the last Hadoukyuu, to take two points from Gin and blunt his control of the next game. The last game would be the hardest, but if they could pressure this player, shake his calm enough to impair his judgement, Tetsu might take the match.

If only Tetsu could keep Gin from taking this match and ending it all right here.

Their team cheered, at Kippei’s back, as Tetsu wound up for the shot and smashed Gin’s racquet right out of his hands. Deuce again. Gin eyes were narrow as he picked the racquet up, focused on Tetsu like there was nothing else but the two of them and the court they were on. Tetsu drove his stiff serve back with a flat smash that Gin returned into the net, control shaken again.

Advantage to Fudoumine. The team was on their feet, calling encouragement against the shouts of “Two more points!” from Shitenhouji. At the next ball, though, Gin charged the net to catch it early and slammed it past Tetsu with a shout. Deuce again. Tetsu dashed to meet Gin at the net, for the next ball, and even he couldn’t hold Gin’s smash at close range. Advantage to Shitenhouji.

Tetsu looked over at him, eyes burning, and Kippei knew without needing the signal what Tetsu wanted to do. He actually wavered for a moment, because it would end this game in their favor all right, but… Gin was finding ways around the Hadoukyuu’s effects. He shook his head firmly, holding Tetsu’s gaze until he finally nodded.

The next rally was brutal, neither player backing down, and the sound of those heavy balls against the court and racquets had more than one onlooker wincing. Kippei hoped, until the last moment, that Tetsu’s strength and determination would carry the game, but in the end it was Tetsu’s racquet that was driven off its angle and his ball that went into the net.

“Game, set, and match!” the referee declared. “Six games to four, won by Shitenhouji!”

Kippei was on his feet when Tetsu came off the court, tense with frustration, and caught Tetsu’s shoulders as he burst out, “I could have done it!”

“And then what?” Kippei demanded, holding him still. “Used that shot even more in the next game? And tomorrow? And more after that, because it worked, until you’ve permanently injured your arm?” He shook Tetsu a little, voice dropping low and fierce. “I’m not Tezuka, and I’m not going to let you do something so reckless!”

Tetsu blinked at him. “Tezuka…?”

Kippei snorted, secretly pleased that he’d broken Tetsu out of his too-narrow focus, and led his player over to the rest of the team. “You’ve never heard Sanada talk about how Tezuka used to play; what you’ve seen this season isn’t his real strength.” With a meaningful lift of his brow, he finished, “Tezuka was injured, played too hard on it, had to restrict his game for a year, played too hard again against Atobe, and nearly missed Nationals because he was in physical therapy.”

Everyone was starting. “Tezuka-san?” Kamio asked, disbelieving. “But… I mean, he’s…”

“Don’t fall for the calm expression,” Kippei told them dryly. “He’s worse than I used to be for playing recklessly.” He eyed Ishida sternly. “And I won’t have my team injuring themselves that way.”

Ishida bit his lip, looking down at his hands, still flexing around the grip of his racquet, and Kippei knew he wasn’t the only one to catch the faint wince as his right hand tightened and flexed his forearm muscles. Sakurai made a disapproving sound and grabbed for the team’s medical bag, snapping the cold-pack from it.

“Listen.” Kippei shook Ishida’s shoulder again, gentler, as his partner pressed the cold-pack to his arm with a frown. “This is Nationals, yes. It’s important, yes. But this is also only your second year of junior high school. A loss isn’t the end of anything, or the last word on anything.” He gathered his team in with a glance, willing them to hear him. “It’s just an invitation to even the score next time. So don’t waste time resenting this; train for your rematch, when you catch up to Ishida Gin again.”

Ishida straightened at the word ‘rematch’, chin lifting. “Yes, Tachibana-san.”

“Better.” Kippei patted Ishida’s shoulder and beckoned Kamio and Shinji close as Sakurai started quietly scolding his partner and Akechi leaned over his shoulder, bright-eyed, to ask about Hadoukyuu. “All right, obviously Shitenhouji earned their reputation. Keep in mind that they’re strong, but don’t let it slow you down. Just play with all you’ve got.”

“Yes, Tachibana-san,” they murmured, and glanced at each other in a moment of silent communication. Kippei smiled as he watched them take the court, shaking the other team’s hands and falling back into perfect formation without a word or sign. These two were his best, the most brilliant of Fudoumine’s team, as strong in doubles as they were in singles. One reason he’d prayed for more players, to keep the club going, was to give these two a chance to keep growing.

Win or lose, he thought they would. They all would.


“You don’t have to look so suspicious,” Shitenhouji’s cheery blond told them, as Akira and Shinji met the other pair at the net. “Neither of us are as strong as Gin.”

“Speak for yourself, senpai,” the dark-haired player muttered, testing his gut.

“And Zaizen-kun doesn’t really have the experience to judge yet,” the blond finished without missing a beat. If that was Zaizen, this must be Oshitari.

Akira snorted a little. “We’ll keep that in mind.” Not saying that they’d believe it, of course, but they would certainly keep it in mind, along with the note that Zaizen didn’t seem to like his partner all that much. That could be useful. Though it did make him wonder why a team like Shitenhouji would field a pair with such a flaw against them. Unless, of course, it was all an act. He ran a hand through his hair, frowning.

Shinji elbowed him lightly in passing as he walked back to the baseline to serve. “Don’t overthink it,” he murmured. “Tachibana-san said it. We just have to play.”

Akira’s lips quirked wryly; there was a reason he and Shinji played as partners. “You’re right. Let’s do it.”

Shinji gave them a Kick Serve right from the start, and Zaizen ducked aside, swing missing the ball. His eyes narrowed, though, and his feet shifted; he was ready for the next one. Akira sprinted for the net to meet the return and found Oshitari there already. An unpleasant surprise, but Akira just bared his teeth in a grin and faded aside to let Shinji slip out of his shadow and poach the ball.

The glare Zaizen shot them gave Akira a nice, warm glow of accomplishment.

“Never mind!” Oshitari told his partner, waving a cheerful hand. “My miss, I was too slow!”

“Too slow to catch a cross shot to his partner?” Shinji murmured, at Akira’s shoulder. “Not what most people would call slow.”

“Yeah, I think he’s the one we need to look out for,” Akira answered, soft, watching Oshitari bounce on his toes.

Oshitari caught the next return, all right, fast and sure and light on his feet. Akira marked him tightly, trusting the mid-court to Shinji. This was his job, right here, to stop the player dashing along the net with dark, intent eyes behind that light smile, and Akira let himself fall into the breathless flow of speed. They rallied at the net, fast and furious, until Akira finally got the angle to send the ball past Oshitari’s off side. They stood for a moment, at the net, and Oshitari smiled slowly.

“I see why Shiraishi put us in Doubles Two, for this match. I haven’t had a chance to test my speed in a while.” He flexed on his toes just a little. “Let’s see who’s faster, then.”

Akira felt a growl rising in his chest. Shitenhouji had done it twice, challenged them in their own specialties. He flung around and met Shinji’s eyes with a hot glare. Shinji’s lips quirked and he nodded. They slipped into an I formation, Akira crouched at the net, under the line of Shinji’s serve, focused on Oshitari like a laser. The serve whipped over his head and he…

…stayed right where he was.

Oshitari wobbled, his dash for the return checked, attention split between the ball and Akira’s stillness. Shinji caught the return right at Akira’s shoulder and put the last point away with a nasty slice that curved past Zaizen’s racquet.

The weakness of a speed player, as Akira knew very well, was just how fast the reflexes followed the thought. Make a speed player think twice, and he’d move twice, too, and maybe not finish either one. “Let’s see who’s better,” he finally answered, standing back up, shoulder to shoulder with his partner.

Oshitari and Zaizen both bared their teeth this time.

Zaizen’s serve was hard and sharp, and Akira’s breath came faster as he stayed at the net to mark Oshitari, and Zaizen aimed for the back of the court, relentlessly attacking Shinji. Again, it was their own tactic turned back on them, and Akira’s brain spun, turning over how they might make use of this.

Maybe that was what distracted him when Oshitari started pushing the pace faster.

Back and forth through the court they chased each other, through the second game and the third, sprinting after each ball that fell between them, volleying back and forth across the net, and it wasn’t until Shinji caught his arm and murmured, “You’re breathing hard for this early in the match,” that Akira realized just how fast they’d been going.

“Oshitari’s pushing the pace,” he answered, and had to take a breath in the middle of even that short sentence. “Damn it.”

“He trusts his endurance that much?” Shinji frowned.

Akira glanced at his opponent and had to laugh, breathless. “Maybe. Maybe he doesn’t care.” Oshitari had the kind of light in his eyes that Akira recognized from the mirror. Shinji gave him a long look and snorted.

“Two of a kind.”

“Maybe.” Akira took a deeper breath, deliberately slower. “Maybe he’s doing it to keep us from tripping him up again. The faster we go, the smoother his reflexes seem to get. I think that’s how they got that last two points to take the third game.”

Shinji made a thoughtful sound, fingers working around the ball he fished out. “Zaizen is good, but he can’t read me very well, yet. A fast match could keep him from learning my game too well.” He met Akira’s gaze, face calm, but there was fire at the back of his eyes—the fury that made him dangerous and brilliant on the court. “You want to do it?”

Akira grinned, feeling the crazy edge of the challenge catch him. “Yeah.”

Shinji nodded and they set themselves to receive as the fourth game started. Now they were both going fast, and even Zaizen was swept up in the relentless momentum of the match. No point took more than five shots to decide it. Akira focused on his breath, on the rising burn in his leg muscles, on… not pushing himself, no, that wasn’t now this worked. On releasing himself into the flow of speed, feet flying over the hard surface of the court to match Oshitari, racquet singing through the heavy heat of the air to reach the ball. Shot after shot cut through the courts, spinning wickedly with Shinji’s touch, reaching for the lines and corners with Zaizen’s pinpoint precision, burning with Akira’s and Oshitari’s force and speed. One game to them. One to Shitenhouji. And again.

“We need to take a service game from them,” Shinji said quietly on his way back to serve again. “They’re one ahead of us.”

“Target Oshitari. His serve is weaker.” Rather like his own, Akira acknowledged wryly.

“That will be the twelfth game.” It was a statement, not an objection, but Akira heard the warning in it.

“I can make it.” He snorted softly. “Might not be good for much after, but I’m in the rhythm right now. I’ll make it.”

One of the reasons Akira liked Shinji was that Shinji didn’t waste time trying to convince him he was crazy. Shinji knew perfectly well Akira was crazy. It was why they played together.

They matched.

Akira slid back into the flow of the game, preparing himself. It was like walking to the crest of a steep hill and looking over it. Leaning over it. Not leaping yet but hovering, feeling the pull of gravity, and letting it build. Through one game. Another. Another.

And then it was time to let the pull take him, and fly.

Akira dashed to meet Oshitari’s first serve and drive it right back at him, calling for him to come get it. Sure enough, Oshitari came, volleying the ball sharply down the width of the court, and Akira threw himself after it, caught it, spiked it just over the net. Zaizen growled, and Oshitari, still a few steps away, laughed.

“About time! I thought you guys were never going to make a counter-attack.” He fell back to serve again, bouncing on his toes. “Don’t worry, Zaizen-kun. I’ve got it.”

They’d see about that.

The next rally was a vicious zig-zag back and forth along the net, and Akira gritted his teeth at the growing protest from his ankles. Back and forth, back and forth, he couldn’t break away from Oshitari long enough to get the ball past him, and when he slipped aside to let Shinji lob it behind the other pair, Oshitari sprinted for the base line and caught it. The return was clumsy, but Oshitari was at the net again before Akira could put the ball past Zaizen’s reach, and caught Akira turning the wrong way.

Thirty all.

Akira drove his breathing deeper and pushed harder. The next ball, he caught and slammed past Oshitari’s feet as he sprinted to meet the return.

The next one, Oshitari caught up with him again.

Akira could feel the tremble in his muscles that told him he was in trouble. He’d gotten to recognize it painfully well during the last month of training, pushing that edge further and further out. But here he was at the edge again. Shinji’s fingers brushed his wrist as they set themselves again, and he nodded just a little, fading back to let Shinji take the next ball and drive it toward Zaizen. They rallied for a long minute before Shinji caught Zaizen with Spot. Even Oshitari was caught by surprise, and they were forty to thirty. Shinji smiled faintly and aimed the next return at Zaizen, too.

“That won’t work twice on me,” Zaizen gritted out, and his other hand flashed up to take a two-handed grip when his muscles froze up. It was awkward, but it got the ball back over the net. Shinji was waiting for it, and went up for a vicious smash that Zaizen would never be able to recover fast enough to return. Akira wasn’t surprised when Oshitari cut in to take it instead. It was the weakness of using Spot in a doubles game.

But by then, of course, Akira had steadied himself, and was ready. When Oshitari dashed to catch the scorching return, Akira was there to meet him again, to drive down the net with him, volleying wildly back and forth. Akira saw the turn coming, when they would both have to change direction, saw the chance. If he turned early, he could catch Oshitari the way he’d been caught earlier. If he could just find the strength to make it work…

A breath before the natural turning point, at the first side line, Akira spun on his toes, pulled every ounce of speed he had out of his muscles, his very bones it felt like. He drove his feet against the court and slammed the ball straight through the gap Oshitari hadn’t quite turned enough to cover and Zaizen hadn’t closed enough to protect. The little weakness in their pair that Akira had seen from the first was finally decisive.

“Five games all!” the referee announced, and Akira clenched his free hand triumphantly.

When he took a step, his leg muscles shook.

“Akira,” Shinji said at his shoulder, soft and sharp.

“Don’t stop,” Akira said through his teeth. If he stopped, he wasn’t going to be able to start again.

When Shinji fell back, quickly, to serve, and Akira looked over the net at the other pair, Oshitari was focused on him, eyes dark and calm. The ball sang by Akira’s shoulder and Zaizen slammed it back, straight at Shinji. Akira waited for it, as if to let Shinji poach this one, only to pop up at the last second and drive the ball toward the far corner.

Oshitari was behind it in less than a breath, and drove the ball back, right on the side line, faster than Akira could catch.

Furious frustration surged up, tightening Akira’s chest. They were so close. They’d just leveled the score again!

He pushed harder, as the game ground on, drove himself faster, feeling the rhythm of his breathing break and his legs burn with the slow pain of over-extension. Shinji’s game leaped to meet his, and they hammered at the other pair with slices that spun the ball beyond reach and sprints that screamed from one side of the court to the other in a breath. Every time Akira thought thought they had a decisive advantage, though, Oshitari was there, supporting his partner, catching Akira’s balls. Akira focused tighter and tighter, pulled more speed out of his body than he’d thought he had, and still one game slid through their fingers.

And then another.

“Game, set, and match! Seven games to five, won by Shitenhouji!”

Akira stumbled to a stop at last, wavering on his feet. It was… over. They’d lost. Shitenhouji had defeated him in his own specialty after all. A rush of blinding frustration shook him, and he stumbled again, starting to go down as the trembling in his legs finally overcame his stubbornness.

“Akira!” Shinji’s hand closed on his arm, and then there was a solid shoulder under him, catching him.

“Easy, Kamio,” Tachibana-san said, quietly, in his ear.

“Tachibana-san…” Akira bit his lip hard, hearing the unsteadiness in his own voice.

“Enough,” his captain said firmly. “Seven to five against someone who’s been training far longer than you have is nothing to be ashamed of. Now, can you stand?”

Akira, steadied between Tachibana-san and Shinji, managed to wobble his way upright again, though he had to lean on them if he wanted to step anywhere. The other pair was watching them from across the net.

“What was the point of letting him do that, when he couldn’t beat Oshitari-senpai?” Zaizen asked, arms folded. “You should have stopped him, the way you did your Ishida.”

“Without letting Kamio go as far as he could, none of us would have known whether or not he could beat Oshitari, yet.” Tachibana-san fixed Zaizen with a steady look that the other player shifted under, uncomfortably. “Kamio has already trained enough not to break himself by doing it. I trusted him, just as I trusted Ishida to restrain himself.”

Zaizen drew back at that, silent, eyes dark. Akira scraped up the energy to smirk, feeling Shinji’s equal satisfaction at his side. Nobody got away with criticizing their captain.

Oshitari herded his partner to the net and held out his hand, and Akira leaned on Shinji’s shoulder to go shake it. Oshitari was still breathing hard, himself, which was some comfort. “So, hey,” he gasped. “Tell me something. How long have you been training for?”

Akira thought about it, how long it had been since Tachibana-san joined the club and they’d been able to do more than mess around on street courts trying to figure things out for themselves. “Nine months, I guess.” He winced a little at the wheeze in his voice. Oshitari’s suddenly wide-eyed stare was gratifying, though.

“Well.” Oshitari smiled, slow and sharp. “I’ll be looking forward to our rematch, when you catch up, Kamio-kun.”

Akira lifted his chin. “Good.” And then he had to hang on to both Shinji and Tachibana-san while he hobbled back to his team.


Zaizen Hikaru was not in a good mood. First he’d effectively lost to Fudoumine’s Ibu, unable to fully counter those alternating shots that froze his muscles up. He’d had to depend on Oshitari-senpai for way too many saves from the sharp, tricky curves of Ibu’s shots, shots he should have been able to catch. It wasn’t like he hadn’t known Ibu’s profile, after all. And then Fudoumine’s captain had talked as if he didn’t already know what his own player could do, which was just ridiculous.

“Hey, what are you sulking about now?” Oshitari-senpai demanded, elbowing him lightly as they came back to the bleachers. “We won.”

“You won,” Hikaru corrected, bluntly. He didn’t mince words about these things, not for other people and not for himself either. “I couldn’t catch Ibu.” And he should have been able to!

Oshitari-senpai collapsed onto the lowest bench with a theatrical huff. “Sometimes, I swear, you don’t know what the word ‘doubles’ actually means.” Zaizen growled at him, but pulled Oshitari-senpai’s bag over and fished out his water bottle. Oshitari-senpai nodded wordless thanks and started taking tiny sips, holding the bottle with both hands.

That raised Shiraishi-buchou’s eyebrows. “They pushed you that hard?”

Oshitari-senpai laughed and lifted one leg. It wavered as he held it in the air. “Yep. Said he’d only been training for nine months, too!” He took another sip, looking wistful. “I’d love to be able to play him more often; you know how hard it is to find someone who can really push my speed.”

Shiraishi-buchou was sitting up straight. “Nine months? I knew they were a new team, but…” He frowned over at Fudoumine, thoughtfully. “They’re all second-years except for Tachibana, aren’t they? Zaizen. Watch out for Fudoumine, next year. They might be even more dangerous than next year’s Rikkai.”

“I will,” Hikaru answered, clipped. He didn’t need anyone to tell him that, not after what Ibu had pulled on him.

“Will you be recovered by the afternoon match?” Gin-senpai leaned down to ask Oshitari-senpai quietly as Shiraishi-buchou stretched and rummaged in his bag for racquet and balls.

Oshitari-senpai flexed his ankles thoughtfully. “Mm. Yeah, I think so. Why, are you seeing some good doubles over there?” He perked up and craned his neck to peer across the court at Seigaku and Hikogashima.

Gin-senpai nodded at the score board. “Seigaku has two wins, and that first year your cousin was mentioning hasn’t played yet. Nor has Tezuka. I think they’re going to be our opponents for Semi-finals.”

“Five to three, and Seigaku’s Fuji is playing now? Yeah, they’ve got Doubles Two in the bag. Whoa!” Oshitari-senpai rocked back in his seat, and Hikaru couldn’t entirely blame him. The burly one on Seigaku’s side had just hit what looked a lot like the Hadoukyuu Fudoumine’s Ishida had used.

Gin-senpai’s constant faint smile was tilted a little ruefully as he rubbed a wrist. “If they put that man into Singles Three, I’m going to have trouble.”

Shiraishi-buchou straightened up. “Gin! You didn’t say you’d actually gotten injured!”

“I’m not,” Gin-senpai said calmly. “Yet.”

Shiraishi-buchou eyed him for a long moment before he smiled slow and sharp. “All right, then. You know your own game best. Judge for yourself what your opponent calls for.” Which was exactly the kind of comment that drove Zaizen nuts; what was research for, after all, if not to let them judge that beforehand?

Watanabe-sensei pegged a ball at Shiraishi-buchou. “Get out there and deal with your own opponent if you want a good match; don’t hanker after other people’s.”

Shiraishi-buchou’s smile turned wryly as he rubbed the back of his head. “I’m going, I’m going.”

Hikaru settled back on the bleachers as both captains went to meet at the net, hoping for a match that might distract him from brooding over the one he’d just played.


Shiraishi Kuranosuke met Tachibana at the net for a firm handshake. “That’s an impressive team you’ve put together, this year.”

Tachibana’s rather cool expression eased into a smile. “They’ve worked hard, to get here.”

“I understand you’ve been a good example to them, too,” Kuranosuke probed; he’d been wondering all season how the wild, laughing player he’d last seen a year and some ago had turned into this stern, contained team captain, and what kind of game Tachibana might give him now.

These opening pleasantries were abruptly interrupted, though, by Kintarou’s voice. “Shiraishi! Kick his butt! You can do it!”

Kuranosuke rolled his eyes. Speaking of wild players.

“Hey!” A young girl’s voice rang out from the other end of the bleachers in answer. “He will not! Kippei-nii! You’d better win this!”

Tachibana closed his eyes for one second and sighed.

“Yes he will! With his Super Duper Bible Tennis!”

“Kin-chan,” Kuranosuke started to call, desperately stifling a laugh. He’d never get Kin-chan down from there if he laughed now.

“Will not! Kippei-nii’s Wild Tennis beats everything! Except Onii-chan!”

Tachibana was rubbing the bridge of his nose. “Senri!” he called, without looking up.

“What?” Kuranosuke glanced up to find Shishigaku’s Chitose lounging at his ease near the top of the bleachers on Fudoumine’s side, smirking. “Miyuki-chan wanted to come cheer for you. She hasn’t gotten to see you play in a while, after all.”

Tachibana shot his ex-teammate a look that promised dire retribution, and Chitose laughed. By now the two cheering duelists had both climbed up to the top row and were standing side by side, hanging on to the upper rail, yelling, half at the court and half at each other.

“Super Delicious Extra Amazing Tennis wins!”

“Kippei-nii wins times a thousand!”

“Does not!”

“Does so!”

Half of Kuranosuke’s own team was crying with laughter, his coach was snickering, and Zaizen was clearly trying to pretend he’d never met any of them before in his life. Fudoumine’s team seemed a little stunned by their new supporter, staring up at her, but he could see a few lips starting to twitch. Including Tachibana’s, though he was obviously trying to keep a straight face.

Finally, Chitose tipped his head back to regard the mini cheering section. “Okay, Miyuki-chan, I figure Kippei’s pumped up enough. Let’s let them get started, okay?” After a moment of glaring at each other, Miyuki and Kin-chan both gave in and clambered back down the bleachers.

Tachibana shook his head with a soft snort of amusement. “Shall we play, before they get started again?”

Kuranosuke finally let himself laugh. “I think we’d better.” He fished out a ball as he walked back to serve, settling himself into the intent calm that his best game came out of. When he turned to set his feet, though, a crinkle ran down his spine; Tachibana had changed. In the space of a few breaths, that composed, responsible team captain had dissolved into the player Kuranosuke remembered from a year and a half ago. Tachibana was forward on his toes, leaning in, eyes bright and hungry over the bared teeth of his smile. It tugged at Kuranosuke, that hunger, and he breathed in deeply, feeling like the air between them was hot with their shared focus and not just the sun beating down on the court. He’d prepared for a stern player, someone a bit like Sanada most likely, based on reports from Kantou Regionals. It looked like he’d be facing something else today, though.

That was more than all right with him.

He threw up the ball and served tight into the corner. Tachibana got behind it and returned fast and hard, hard enough to make him grunt a little with the weight of the ball. Kuranosuke rode the edge of his sense of the ball and took one light step back to steal that weight, brushing the ball delicately over the net in a drop shot.

Excitement tingled down his nerves as Tachibana very nearly caught it.

He tested Tachibana all through his service game, aiming for the lines and corners, using the service advantage to see just how great Tachibana’s range of motion on the court was. The answer was ‘a little unreal’. It was like playing Oshitari when he was at the top of his game, only Oshitari’s balls never had this bruising weight.

Of course, Oshitari’s balls weren’t this wild either, he reflected, sliding to the side to open the necessary distance to catch another ferocious drive. Tachibana was hitting so hard he couldn’t control the ball entirely. Kuranosuke smiled just a little, the tiny smile that never showed all the hot, hungry eagerness at the core of him. If this was going to be a game of control against pure force, he’d ride the cutting edge of control and slice it straight through that weakness in Tachibana’s precision.

One game to him, and it was Tachibana’s serve. The first one jinked and scorched past his shoulder so close its passing tugged at his shirt sleeve. Tachibana’s toothy smile challenged him, across the net, and Kuranosuke smiled coolly back, widening his stance, lowering it until he could feel the perfect triangle of balance, ready to move anywhere. The next ball he caught, though it took his racquet out of his hands. He flexed them, feeling the muscles in his wrists and forearms with new immediacy, and rolled his shoulders as he re-set himself again. He felt it when he slid into the upper triangle that would brace his swing against anything, no margin of error left anywhere in his stance now. The clean, pure edges of his true game were rising out of the inner stillness and silence that was all lesser players could call out of him, and his breath came quick and light as he felt it happening, savoured it.

This was what he’d brought his team to Nationals for.

Two games all, and Tachibana’s raw power still wasn’t falling. Kuranosuke sank into his form and drove forward relentlessly from that unshakeable foundation, but Tachibana raged back and forth over his side of the net, snapping up half the balls that should have been out of reach and driving them wildly back. This match was moving as fast as Doubles Two had, even without two speed demons to drive it, and something deep inside Kuranosuke was laughing to hear the cheers of their teams and the spectators, the excitement surrounding them. This was where his own game truly lived, with an opponent who demanded everything from him, and the pace of the ball flashing between them burned away every memory of Tachibana’s steady reserve. Kuranosuke let it, let himself fall into the wildness and live in each moment, each ball as it came to him.


Zaizen Hikaru felt like he couldn’t breathe.

And, all right, part of that was his idiot senpai pounding on his back and shoulders as they shouted and laughed, but most of it was his captain’s game. He’d never seen Shiraishi-buchou play like this.

“What,” he finally choked out, “how… Shiraishi-buchou?”

Watanabe-sensei leaned back to give him an upside-down grin. “Ah, that’s right. This is your first time seeing him play a high-level game, isn’t it?”

Hikaru gestured wordlessly at the furious pace of the game on the court, the mad risks Shiraishi-buchou was so obviously running. “What is he doing?” he demanded. The captain he knew was meticulous. Precise. Calculating, for pity’s sake!

Watanabe-sensei smirked out at the court, arms spread casually along the back of the coach’s bench. “Ah, that’s just our Kura-kun playing his game.” One sharp eye speared back at Hikaru. “You really don’t recognize it at all?”

“He’s completely out of control!” Hikaru burst out, and then had to stop and glare at all of his senpai when every last one of them laughed so hard they nearly fell off the bleachers.

“Zaizen-kun, Shiraishi’s never out of control,” Oshitari-senpai finally managed, clapping him on the shoulder.

“But…!” Hikaru knew this wasn’t the kind of game Shiraishi-buchou had planned to play against Fudoumine’s Tachibana. He’d been there when the captain talked with the coach about it! Shiraishi-buchou had practiced for an endurance game.

Oshitari-senpai shook him gently, sobering a little. “Listen to me. Shiraishi never loses control. Look at those shots. Quit thinking you know how Shiraishi plays, or for that matter how Tachibana plays, and just look.”

Hikaru frowned, but slowly turned back to the game and tried to do as his sometime partner said. It was ridiculous to think he didn’t know how Shiraishi-buchou played, he’d been watching all this year, but he’d try and see…

Shiraishi’s foot came down at an angle that sent a physical shock through him, it was so perfect. The line of the swing from that stance made his breath catch. The ball that sang over the net came down against the sideline without so much as a centimeter to spare and spun outward just ahead of Tachibana’s racquet.

Meticulous. Precise. Calculated in the thinnest sliver of a second.

Hikaru rocked back against Oshitari-senpai’s hand, staring as the two players dove into another game without even a pause to breathe, hammering at each other mercilessly. And every time, Shiraishi-buchou’s step, his swing, his stance and angle… every time, it was exactly where it needed to be. “How can he do that?” he whispered. At this speed, how could anyone calculate so fast and so perfectly?

Oshitari-senpai smiled, the bright, sharp smile he got when he was (rarely) serious. “That’s why Shiraishi’s our captain,” he said, simply. “When people call him the Bible of Shitenhouji, this is what they mean.”

“Remember this, Zaizen,” Watanabe-sensei added without looking around, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees as the score was called six games all. “Just because you’ve seen someone play a lot, that never means you know everything they can do. Even I don’t know everything Shiraishi can do.” Their coach’s toothpick shifted to a jauntier angle. “What I do know is that he’s been spinning his wheels for a year, and this match should shake out the kinks and let him relax. About time, too.”

“He has been pretty bored this tournament, so far,” Hitouji-senpai paused in his cheering long enough to put in. “Getting too serious for his own good. He should lighten up a little, now.”

Hikaru watched the hot glitter in his captain’s eyes as he and Tachibana pushed still harder, working to seize two points in a row, and had to swallow. He wasn’t sure lightening up was the right phrase for it, but whatever it was put a shaky feeling in his stomach, like he’d missed a step and wasn’t sure where he’d come down. The cutting perfection and incredible control of Shiraishi-buchou’s game lit something in his blood. Something that wondered if, maybe, someday, he could play like that, too.


Their tiebreak game was running so tight, Kuranosuke was starting to wonder if this would be an endurance game after all, if a different sort than he’d first expected. His breath was still light in his chest, but he knew his own body well enough to know that was thanks to the adrenaline. The instant he lost his hold, he’d spin down in complete wreckage.

That was what made keeping a hold fun, though.

He couldn’t really hear the cheering any more; nothing really existed but the court and the ball and the brutal pressure of Tachibana’s game grappling with his. They drove each other relentlessly, neither backing down, and Kuranosuke placed one ball after another exactly where he meant to, as if he were reaching out and placing each ball down by hand. Nothing could break his focus, now.

Which did not mean nothing could break his game.

His serve again, a corner shot and then a drop shot, the combination that Tachibana still couldn’t catch just a little over half the time. The drop was perfect, timing, angle, force all exactly in place with a precision that only pushed him higher each time he hit it. He had to squint into an abrupt gust of wind just as the ball started to tip over, though. When he tossed his hair back out of his eyes, it took a couple seconds to understand what he was seeing.

The ball was still on his side of the net.

He and Tachibana both stared at it, blankly.

“Ah… twenty-five to twenty-three, Tachibana!” the referee finally called. “Game, set, and match to Fudoumine!”

He and Tachibana blinked at each other a few times, before Tachibana finally laughed, short and genuinely amused, and came to hold out his hand over the net. Kuranosuke shook himself, slowly surfacing from the tension of playing at such a high pitch, scrubbing his hand over his face and heaving a fresh breath. He came to shake Tachibana’s hand, smile rueful. “I suppose no one ever controls quite everything, in a game.”

“Something is always a surprise,” Tachibana agreed, eyes still bright, though the wildness was folding itself away again even as Kuranosuke watched, and that made him laugh too.

“Good game, Tachibana. I’ll look forward to seeing you again next year.”

Ferocity licked out again with the flash of Tachibana’s teeth. “So will I.”

Kuranosuke turned back to his team, waving off Watanabe-sensei’s lifted brow; he was fine, if still buzzing a little. He clapped Konjiki on the shoulder as he and Hitouji sprang down off the bleachers with their racquets. “Looks like it’s up to you guys to wrap up.”

“No worries.” Konjiki’s shoulder nudged his partner’s. “We’ll take care of it.” Hitouji seconded that with a quiet nod and Kuranosuke relaxed. No one was shaken at all; good. He let himself flop down to a seat as his Doubles One pair took the court, stretching hard.

“Ah! That was good.”

Oshitari grinned at him. “Zaizen-kun liked it too.”

Zaizen gave Oshitari a dirty look, and then turned his glare on Kuranosuke. "What was that, at the end?" he demanded.

Kuranosuke stifled the urge to roll his eyes and answered as paitently as he could, "It’s called ‘chance’, Zaizen-kun. It happens."

Zaizen’s glare only intensified. "Why were you playing with so little margin for error, then?" He gestured sharply as if to strike aside an objection Kuranosuke hadn’t even made. "Don’t tell me you don’t have the control to do it; not after that!"

"Stop thinking everything in tennis can be controlled." When Zaizen gave him a flat look of disbelief, Kuranosuke sighed. "Look. Yes, my control is second to none, and matched by only two or three in our age bracket. And I’m the one telling you this." He took Zaizen’s shoulder and shook him a little. "When you play, there’s always someone else involved; that means you can’t control everything, ever. It’s always a fight for control of that ball, and playing against someone of Tachibana’s strength, I didn’t have any margin left. That’s what this game is. You will never know everything; you will never control everything." He looked down at his most stubborn player, eyes dark and steady. "And if you can’t find excitement, and even joy, in that, then you have no business playing at this level."

Their kouhai huffed and looked the other way. That wasn’t a surprise. It was one when Zaizen said, low, “I… suppose not. And I guess I’d be bored, if no one changed.” He glanced at Kuranosuke out of the corner of his eye and then away again. "Your match wasn’t boring."

Kuranosuke smiled slowly, and exchanged a pleased nod with Oshitari over Zaizen’s head. Seemed that match had finally started to knock some of the rigidity out of Zaizen’s view of tennis. Kuranosuke believed just as fervently as the next captain in research and being prepared, but Zaizen had always taken it a little too much to heart. He’d be a far better player, and certainly a better leader, if he could learn a little more flexibility.

Of course, no sooner did he think that than a burst of laughter from the stands blew over them and Zaizen stiffened up in obvious disapproval of Konjiki’s clowning, out on the court. Kuranosuke sighed to himself. One step at a time, he supposed.

“Hey, looks like Seigaku’s done,” Oshitari pointed out, distracting his partner smoothly with the blue and white jerseys approaching from the other court.

Kuranosuke really couldn’t help the way his smile showed his teeth this time. “They chose the perfect game to watch.”

Even Gin smirked at that. Let Seigaku gather whatever conclusions they could, from the most brilliantly duplicitous players in Shitenhouji.


“What the hell?” Ryouma muttered, lapsing into English just because what he was seeing was so bizarre he didn’t think he knew any Japanese strong enough. The Shitenhouji Doubles One pair was… well it was… but seriously, wigs?

"I suppose that’s certainly one approach to unsettling an opponent." Fuji-senpai sounded a bit uncertain, though.

"Are we sure they aren’t holding the Manzai Nationals around here, and maybe these two took a wrong turn?" Momo asked, half laughing. Kaidou-senpai gave him a brief glower before returning the full force of it on the court in front of them. Disapproval nearly dripped off him.

Inui-senpai nudged his glasses up. "They are known for being… unconventional, though several sources also insist they have remarkable strategic sense." He trailed off, as uncertainly as Fuji-senpai, as the Shitenhouji pair actually tripped over each other. Or… pretend tripped, Ryouma supposed it must be, because they still returned the ball and Uchimura and Mori still missed it. Mori rounded on their opponents with a snarl before Uchimura pulled him back; he seemed as incensed by the clowning around as Kaidou-senpai.

"They have a really strong sense for each other, that’s for sure," Kikumaru-senpai put in, unexpectedly clinical, eyes never leaving the match, "if they can move around each other like that and not get injured."

"Or even slow themselves down," Ooishi-senpai agreed, arms crossed as he watched, just as closely as Kikumaru. "Look at the score."

Ryouma started a little, realizing that the score really did read 3-0 in Shitenhouji’s favor. He’d been so distracted by the sheer weirdness of the game that the changing score hadn’t quite registered. He tugged his cap down, eyes narrowing; Fuji-senpai was right, this really was a psychological tactic. From the intrigued sound Inui-senpai made, Ryouma thought he agreed.

"This will certainly be interesting to deal with." Ryouma wasn’t the only one who edged back from Inui-senpai just a little at the small smile he wore, which all too often accompanied new and improved recipes to inflict on his teammates in the name of health science. "If they’re in Doubles One again, Ooishi, do you think you’ll be able to handle them?"

"I think so. They both seem to focus on flexibility, in their actual play, so I don’t think they’ll be able to cover the court the way we can." Kikumaru-senpai nodded silent agreement with this, still tightly focused on the game, and Ryouma cocked his head curiously. Almost as if answering him, Kikumaru-senpai said, "We have to ignore everything they say, all their attempts at misdirection, and watch what they do. Really closely." He finally flashed a bright smile over his shoulder at Ooishi-senpai. "We can do it."

Inui-senpai made another thoughtful, distracted sound, and Tezuka-buchou lifted a brow at him. "And if they’re in Doubles Two, Inui?" he prompted.

"Hmmm. It’s possible," Inui-senpai murmured, "that I’ll need you to be a distraction of our own, Kaidou."

Kaidou-senpai gave him a look of open disbelief. "Senpai?"

Momo broke down laughing, leaning back on the bleachers to steady himself. "What do you think, Mamushi, ready to break into the world of stand-up comedy?"

"Not that kind of distraction," Inui-senpai put in, interrupting Kaidou’s furious snatch for the front of Momo’s jersey. "No, I think…" he paused as Mori started yelling at his opponents, out on the court, nearly spitting with anger, "mm, yes, I think that will do nicely. If I need a distraction, Kaidou, can you pretend to be out of control? Act alone, as if you don’t believe in our combination at all. They’re obviously used to riling up the opposing pair; let’s use that expectation, then." His smile was thin and sharp.

Kaidou-senpai’s was, too. "Yes, Inui-san."

They made an unexpectedly good pair, Ryouma reflected, grinning under the brim of his cap. He thought the rest of the team agreed; he could feel everyone settling a little bit, even the ones who wouldn’t be playing doubles. He could even, maybe, feel a little of that in himself—an easing, instead of tightening, at the thought that Inui-senpai was sneakier than he’d figured. It was still a new feeling, but… he kind of liked it.

And maybe that was why he stood, quieter than usual, and watched the last of the game play out, willing this time to wait inside the little warmth of that feeling while the match was called for Shitenhouji and both teams gathered at the net. Maybe that little warmth was why he was glad to see Fudoumine straight and unbowed as they shook hands with their opponents. He couldn’t quite put words around the reason, but he thought he could get a little of the shape of it, and that shape matched with the quiet pride in Tachibana’s smile as he gathered his team up, and the steadiness of their eyes on him in return.

He was thinking about that shape hard enough that he neglected to duck out from under Momo-senpai’s arm, as they all turned away to find lunch.

Quarter-finals: Rikkai vs. Higa

Kite Eishirou could feel the unsettled edge of his club around him, as they walked down Ariake’s shady, crowded paths to their assigned quarter-finals court, and didn’t really think it was helped any by the fact that their coach was still grumbling.

“Insolent punks… you’d all better win bigger next time, and teach them some respect…”

Hirakoba clasped his hands behind his head, and told the sky above him, “Somehow, I don’t think winning by a bigger margin would have helped with that Saeki guy.” Saotome turned on Hirakoba, fist clenched, and Eishirou sighed as he stepped neatly between them.

“I believe this is our court.”

This one was part of a set of two at the back of a low building, and actually had what looked like permanent bleachers, though extras had been set out for today’s matches. Rikkai was already there, waiting for them, perfectly calm in face of what Eishirou was very sure Saeki had told them about Higa’s violence yesterday. His mouth quirked faintly.

He appreciated a good psychological tactic, even when it was turned against him.

“All right,” he cut across the beginning of what was, no doubt, Saotome’s harangue of the team. “Saotome-sensei, why don’t you take your seat and relax? We’ll handle this.” He met their coach’s eyes steadily until Saotome looked away and stumped off to the coach’s bench as if it had been his plan all along. “All right,” Eishirou repeated more quietly, gathering his team in with a glance. “These are last year’s champions. Year before that, too, because Rikkai was never stupid enough to leave their Three Demons on the sidelines. Don’t take them lightly, but don’t panic either. We’ve won every round we’ve played this year. Higa is strong, and we’re going to make them remember Higa and Okinawa. Keep your heads, don’t hold back, and watch for my signals. Got it?”

“Yes, Buchou!” they answered together, all of them, even Hirakoba. Eishirou took a slow breath to steady his own nerves and nodded.

“Let’s go.”


Niou Masaharu balanced his racquet casually in his grip, watching as both clubs spread out to either side of the court. To his eye, Higa was a little uneasy under their excitement. He wondered whether that was just from playing Rikkai, or whether Saeki’s gesture had shaken them. “So?” he asked Yukimura lightly, not taking his gaze off his opponent, a tall blond with a nicely bloodthirsty smile. “No last minute instructions? Admonitions? Reminders?”

Yukimura’s lips curled just a little, and he waved his fingers, settling back onto the coach’s bench. “No, none. Go entertain yourself.”

Masaharu bared his teeth. That was an instruction right there, or at least permission. “You didn’t like what they did to Rokkaku, hm?”

“That either.” Yukimura glanced over at their opponents, at Higa’s coach, sweating on the other bench, and Kite, standing behind him with folded arms. “Kite seems to favor mind games. Go show him how it’s done.”

Masaharu tucked a wicked smirk away, though he knew some of it was showing from the way Hirakoba smirked back when they met at the net. It was true that the best mind games required a certain ability, to back them up; they could only cover for a lack of strength for a little while. If Yukimura wanted him to emphasize that to Higa, he was happy to do it, even if it was more an aesthetic than moral imperative, for him.

The first serve was Hirakoba’s, and Masaharu tested the strength of the ball against his racquet. It wasn’t bad. He returned lightly, letting the ball wobble on its way to the corner, and watched Hirakoba’s movement. His lip curled a little. The only reason anyone would ever be taken by surprise by this Shukuchihou was if they let the net get in the way of watching their opponent’s feet. Pathetic. He pushed harder, driving the ball back toward Hirakoba faster. One point to his opponent. Two to him, and he backed off a little to let Hirakoba take another point and decide what to do, before pushing again. Hirakoba had good form for someone recruited from another field. He wasn’t weak. But that was about all Masaharu could say for him, and he had to roll his eyes a little over the fact that these guys had made it all the way to the quarter-finals, apparently on nothing but slight-of-hand and some intimidation. He took the last two points, keeping his drives just a little stronger than Hirakoba’s, hoping to draw him out. Surely there was something more.

Sure enough, when the first game was called for Masaharu, Hirakoba stuck his hands on his hips and snorted. “Is that really all you’ve got?” he demanded. “You guys are supposed to be the champions! Can’t you make it any more interesting than this?”

Masaharu kept a slow smile to himself as he bounced a ball on his service line. Hirakoba liked high-pressure games, then. Yes, there had to be something else waiting to show itself. “Let’s see,” he called back, and served low and fast. This rally was a bit more lively, and Masaharu didn’t let it end until Hirakoba uncoiled and hit the ball back with real force, though he did let Hirakoba see him stretching to return the ball. One point to him. Another, and he was starting to get impatient.

Finally, Hirakoba slid the ball along his racquet and flicked it oddly at the end. The ball curved wildly on the bounce, spinning under Masaharu’s racquet, and Higa burst into cheers. This was Hirakoba’s hidden ace, then. Masaharu swung at the next one without particular effort, missed again, and let himself growl with some genuine annoyance. The spin of the ball was too odd; he couldn’t see it clearly while swinging for it. He served fairly hard on the next ball, and watched this Habu of Hirakoba’s come, as if frozen, tracking the ball tightly.

This time, he saw it: the two directions of spin given to the ball that sent it off in such unpredictable directions. This ball would take a good deal of control to return, a light touch on making contact, to cancel some of the spin, and then power from a cold start to return it. Either that or catching it at the net before it bounced, and turning that unpredictability back around on Hirakoba. Ideally, a mix of the two, to keep him off balance. Yes, Masaharu could neutralize this shot.

But it wouldn’t serve his purpose to show all that right now.

He caught the last ball of the game, to test his hypothesis, and nodded to himself when it careened wildly out of bounds without crossing the net. He let himself glare a bit at Hirakoba and stalked back into his court amid the cheers and jeers from Higa to receive for the next game. He was actually a little impressed when Hirakoba served with Habu; that took a good deal of strength and control right there. Masaharu was careful to catch some, but only some, of them, returning them lightly, as if he didn’t have sufficient control to actually cancel all the spin. Hirakoba was laughing, pleased with the challenge and confident in his ability to win. Masaharu let him take the third game and concentrated his service game on low balls, shots that sang by Hirakoba’s ankles, a hard angle to execute Habu from. Higa’s club was loudly pleased, assured that Hirakoba could keep his own service games and stay ahead, even as the score was called two games all.

Rikkai was quiet.

Masaharu ‘fought’ through the next four games, letting Hirakoba see him ‘struggling’ to return Habu. It was actually rather wearing, having to gauge his returns so finely; Hirakoba wasn’t completely unobservant, after all, and to make this work, he had to believe this was the extent of Masaharu’s strength. When the score reached four games all, though, he let himself stop and stretch, shaking the tension out of his muscles.

It was about time, he thought.

He glanced at his team, where Marui was smirking into his bubblegum and Jackal was shaking his head; Yanagi was amused in that perfectly deadpan way of his that only showed in his hands clasped behind his back, and Sanada was nearly rolling his eyes, equally deadpan; Kirihara was grinning outright, and Yukimura had his chin propped in one hand, fingers hiding his mouth but not the glint in his eyes. Masaharu finally looked at his partner and nodded just a little bit at Hirakoba. Yagyuu adjusted his glasses, not quite hiding the fast flicker of a smile, and Masaharu laughed. Yes, the real show was about to begin.

A rustle ran through the club members who had come with them, today, everyone leaning forward expectantly.

Masaharu bounced on his toes a little, watching Hirakoba stretch into his serve, and this time he dashed to meet it before it landed, smashing it back over the net. Hirakoba was so surprised he didn’t even try to catch the return. First point to Masaharu.

He dashed for the next ball, too, and this one Hirakoba tried to reach, lips curled in a growl, but the wild bounce eluded him. Delicious irony, Masaharu thought, and showed his teeth in a grin. “You like a challenge, don’t you?” he drawled, turning to stroll back into his court. “Hurry up and serve, then.”

The next serve wasn’t Habu, and Masaharu sniffed. As if that was going to unsettle him. He smashed it back over the net with the Laser Beam, and enjoyed Higa’s shocked hush. Hirakoba’s eyes were narrow and furious, and Masaharu chuckled. “Did you think you were the only ones who could play these games?” he asked. “Here’s your challenge, then. Try to stop me.”

Hirakoba didn’t serve with Habu this time, either, and Masaharu let him have a rally just to see what he was planning to do with it. Hirakoba stepped into the last return, spinning the ball violently along his racquet, and Masaharu’s brows rose as it swerved and cut through the air strangely even before the bounce. Hirakoba had saved this, and Masaharu could respect that bit of strategy.

Though that wouldn’t stop him from breaking it.

He dashed for the ball, balanced on his toes, focused tight on the path of the ball, and caught it lightly on his racquet. He listened to the feel of the ball on his gut as carefully as he’d ever watched an opponent to analyze what trick might best unsettle them, and stroked his racquet under the ball to quiet its spin. And then he closed both hands on his racquet and drove the ball right between Hirakoba’s feet for game point, savoring his opponent’s stunned stiffness and the shocked exclamations of Higa’s club.

The last game went quickly. Hirakoba didn’t collapse, Masaharu would credit him with that, but he also didn’t have anything else left to pull out at the last minute. Masaharu met him at the net, as the match was called six to four, racquet slung over his shoulder. “More diversity,” he advised coolly. “If you like challenges, you have to be up for them yourself.”

“Next time we play will go differently,” Hirakoba snapped, and there was still a glint of eagerness in his eyes, if a little less reckless than it had been. Masaharu’s mouth tugged up at one corner.

“Come find me, then.”

He strolled back to his team, collecting a satisfied nod from his captain, and a towel from his partner. “So, first mind games and next they get hammered with pure strength and technique?” he asked, glancing at Marui and Jackal as they stood and stretched. “You really don’t like these guys, Yukimura.”

“I have little opinion of them, personally, but their tactics are naive. They’ve challenged us arrogantly, and unprepared,” Yukimura answered evenly, not looking away from the court. “If they survive the consequences, they might be worth playing next time.”

“How severe,” Yagyuu murmured, perfectly pleased, and Masaharu lounged against the sun-heated bleachers beside his partner, smirking.

Higa really had no idea what they were messing with.


Eishirou held back a frown as Shiranui and Aragaki took the court to meet Rikkai’s Marui and Jackal. His tightest doubles pair was looking a little grim, and Hirakoba still hadn’t emerged from under his towel, sitting with his elbows on his knees on the lowest bleacher. The club was nervous, he could feel it around him. Part of him wanted to pound Niou Masaharu black and blue for doing this to them. Another part of him was frankly admiring the deft mental game Niou had played.

Most of him was grimly aware of the strength and control that had made that trick work, that had persuaded them all, even him, that Niou was struggling to stay even with Hirakoba… right up until Niou had unveiled his real strength and blown casually past everything Hirakoba could do. He’d known Rikkai would be their most difficult opponent. He hadn’t, even with all the stories about them, quite expected to be so easily overwhelmed.

Well, the reputation of Rikkai’s doubles was slightly less legendary than its singles. His team knew to be wary, now. It would have to be enough. He watched Marui serve sharp and fast, sprinting forward to poach the return also with a lightning drive over the net, and his mouth tightened.

This was going to be difficult.

He hadn’t chosen Shiranui and Aragaki for this match at random, though. They drew together for a moment before the next serve, whispering, and they weren’t fooled when Marui made as if to poach the next return, too, only to let it through to Jackal. Shiranui was in place to catch the ball, and the rally was on. It went hard and fast, and Kite himself barely caught Shiranui’s signal to Aragaki before Aragaki faked a smash and dropped the ball over the net instead. He breathed out as Higa cheered.

Beside him, Kai blew out a breath of his own, leaning forward against the short fence. “It’s a good start.”

“Solid,” Eishirou agreed. He didn’t like the amused look Marui gave Higa, though.

The next rally was short, and Marui caught Aragaki’s deceptively curving drive on the rise, lobbing it tight and high to come down in the backcourt before Shiranui could get to it. Eishirou could see his pair settling down, though, bracing themselves to force their way through Marui’s flashy shots and Jackal’s powerful drives.

Shiranui sent the next serve flashing toward Marui’s ankles, and while Marui caught it, Aragaki immediately called “It’ll be out!” Eishirou could see it, too, that ball wasn’t even going to cross the net.

“What do you know, even Rikkai misses,” Kai laughed, and the club members close enough to hear chuckled along.

It hit the net pole. And rebounded to drop just on Higa’s side.

Aragaki snarled, and Shiranui caught his partner’s shoulder. “It was a bad chance, calm down,” he ordered firmly, and their second year took a breath and nodded tightly to his partner. Eishirou smiled a little. Aragaki had a short temper, and he’d have to watch that next year, when his partner had graduated; for now, though, Shiranui watched it for him.

“Chance, hm?” Marui called, tapping his racquet on his shoulder. “Let’s see about that.”

Eishirou stiffened, and he saw Shiranui tensing too. Had that actually been on purpose? “It’s a bluff,” Kai murmured. “It’s got to be.”

Shiranui was forward when the next ball headed for the pole, and he dove to catch it as it bounced. Eishirou swore silently to himself, wondering whether Rikkai really was populated by monsters after all. But Aragaki was in place to catch the return, and even Marui’s kind of precision couldn’t overcome tight teamwork in a doubles match.

Marui was smirking.

“Try this one, then!” He hit the ball lightly, and Aragaki dashed forward as it hit the cord and popped just barely over. It would be all right, Eishirou thought, he’d catch it and Shiranui had regained his position to cover against returns. It would be all right.

The ball, impossibly, rolled along the cord, past the reach of Aragaki’s racquet and dropped into Higa’s court.

Calls of “Tightrope Walking!” and “Genius!” rose from the Rikkai club who were watching, and Marui twirled his racquet, laughing.

The whole Higa club stared at that impossible ball as the first game was called, and Shiranui lifted his head to exchange a glance with Eishirou. He flicked his eyes at Jackal, and Eishirou nodded agreement. They would do better to keep the ball away from Marui entirely, it seemed, and target his partner instead.

Two alarmingly talented players in a row. “It’s no wonder Rikkai has won the championship two years running,” Eishirou observed. It must, he thought dourly, be nice to be such a well-established school that you attracted all the best without having to scrounge and recruit and suffer useless coaches. Next year would be different, though, at least for Higa. The further he could take his team, the more different it would be. Kai glanced up at him from under his cap and bumped Eishirou’s shoulder lightly, despite the raised eyebrow such demonstrativeness in public earned him. Eishirou focused again, though, and settled back to watch the next game.

It started well. Aragaki served straight toward Jackal, and Shiranui caught the return and aimed the ball back that way again. Jackal’s shots had none of the alarming quirkiness of his partner’s, and Eishirou relaxed a little as Jackal and Shiranui rallied. Shiranui had some nice, flexible strength to call on, and his endurance was second to none. No matter how solid Jackal was, with Aragaki to back him up against surprises, Shiranui had the edge now.

Three minutes later, the first point hadn’t been called yet, Kai was cursing incredulously under his breath, and Eishirou was wondering, distantly, whether he should try thinking as pessimistically as possible, in hopes that perverse fate would prove that as comprehensively wrong as his cautious optimism had been so far. Jackal wasn’t stopping, wasn’t flagging, didn’t seem to be feeling the heat like a Kantou player should. When the point was finally called, it wasn’t in Higa’s favor.

Shiranui wasn’t giving up, and he dove into another rally with Jackal, fast and furious, keeping a pace that Eishirou had never seen anyone else match. Not until today. Another point fell to Rikkai. And another. And another. Jackal’s edge in strength got the ball past Shiranui every time, because their endurance seemed to be equal. Shiranui and Aragaki were both scowling as the serve returned to Rikkai, and, after a few words, they set themselves with Aragaki forward to deal with Marui and Shiranui back to support against Jackal’s returns.

Their coach, Eishirou noted, was starting to fidget, crossing and uncrossing his arms, glaring at both pairs impartially. After Marui put the second point past Aragaki, Saotome growled and waved at Higa’s players with a familiar signal.

Shiranui looked over his head at Eishirou, questioning.

Calculations spilled through Eishirou’s mind, forming and reforming. His club was shifting uneasily around him; they all knew what that signal meant, and he suspected they were remembering Saeki’s words from yesterday. Cowards. No respect. Eishirou hadn’t needed Saeki to tell him. He’d always known the cost of going along with Saotome, attacking other coaches. It was a cost he was willing to pay, to establish Higa, and if he took an unsavory reputation to high school with him, well he’d be taking it with him instead of leaving it, wouldn’t he? Most of the team was bitter enough not to mind much, either.

If it could give them a chance to get past Rikkai, it would be worth it.

He nodded to Shiranui, and felt the breath of anticipation and maybe alarm that ran through his club. That would be nothing to what was about to run through Rikkai, though.

Shiranui signaled his partner to fall back, sheltering Aragaki from this, as he had so persistently that Eishirou had to wonder whether Shiranui actually understood the whole plan. At any rate, it was Shiranui who faked a stumble and turned his racquet, driving the ball with all the force of his arm straight at Rikkai’s captain, on the coach’s bench.

A shout went up from Rikkai’s club, joined by a roar from Higa, and there was the flat smack of a tennis ball against flesh.

And Yukimura was sitting right there on the bench, still, legs crossed easily. He wasn’t even looking up. One arm was still folded, and the other was stretched out, hand upraised. The tennis ball rested in his palm.

In the sudden, breathless quiet, Yukimura’s husky voice carried clearly.

“If you can’t win without this, it only proves your weakness. If you can win without it, there’s no need to even consider it. If you might win without it, but don’t dare to try…” he turned his head to look at the Higa bench, and Eishirou watched Saotome sway back from the razor sharp edge of Yukimura’s gaze, “…then you’ve merely weakened yourself and have no right to be standing on a court at Nationals, yet.” Yukimura turned his hand over and let the ball roll off his fingers to bounce away, and glanced up at the referee. “I believe this ball is out.”

“Ah… Y… yes, thirty-love!” the man stammered.

Yukimura smiled graciously and sat back on his bench, folding his arms again.

“What the hell are they?” Kai hissed, as the game resumed, looking as shaken as the referee. “He caught it! Not even a flinch!”

“They’re Rikkai,” Eishirou answered, low and tight, tense with the effort of not showing his club how those words had smarted. “Apparently that means almost as much as rumor says it does.”

He had not betrayed his team! What did Yukimura know about it, leading a team and club that had everything? Eishirou would do what it took to establish his team so they finally had an even chance, and the opportunity to decide for themselves how they would play.

He would do anything it took.

Quarter-finals: Hyoutei vs. Nagoya Seitoku

Atobe Keigo reflected, a little distantly, that he was very glad Higa had encountered Rikkai before there was any possibility of Hyoutei playing them. It wasn’t that he had any doubts about his team’s ability to win, but he honestly wasn’t sure what he might have done, or let his club do, if Higa had tried to injure Sakaki-sensei the way they’d just tried with Yukimura. He doubted it would have been particularly restrained.

He could feel the matching tension in the players around him ease, as Yukimura finished whatever he was saying to Higa and let the tennis ball he held drop from his fingers at last.

“I could almost feel sorry for what Rikkai will do to them, now,” Shishido muttered. “But not very.”

“Really, not at all,” Ohtori added, eyes glinting a bit. Come to think of it, there were times when Ohtori’s quiet ferocity reminded Keigo a bit of the kind of players Rikkai favored.

And of course, if Higa really had targeted their coach, then the actual outcome would be that they would deeply regret having done so, very soon after, in a back alley somewhere. It wasn’t as though Sakaki-sensei didn’t have the resources to take care of matters, himself.

Finally, contemplating this fact, Keigo smiled, and leaned back against the bleachers. “That’s Rikkai’s business to take care of; don’t let it distract you.” His smile thinned, as Oshitari slammed match point past Nagoya Seitoku’s Doubles Two pair. The player at the net had had his eyes glued to the next court. “Case in point.”

A gust of chuckles ran through his club, and he felt calmer as he rose to greet Oshitari and Mukahi as they came off the court. “Good job.”

“They don’t really seem up to National-class matches,” Oshitari noted as he caught the towel his partner tossed him. “Certainly not against us. They barely took Singles Three against Hiyoshi, and Nanahara is supposed to be one of their strongest players. They really must be relying on their transfer students, this year.”

“My turn, then,” Keigo answered lightly, more lightly than he really felt as he watched the tall, muscled blond stride out onto the other side of the court, and listened to the referee call Singles Two, Atobe versus Liliadent. This was sooner than he’d thought to test his progress against international players. He’d been aiming for Sanada, in this tournament, for Tezuka, and they were strong players, but he couldn’t quite help flexing his hands with the memory of drives that were always too bruisingly hard, always so infuriatingly impossible to catch…

“Keigo,” Sakaki-sensei said, not looking around. “Go.”

Keigo huffed a faint laugh, bending his head to the implicit order to stop panicking. “Yes, Kantoku.” He shrugged the jacket off his shoulders, tossing it over the rail with a flick of his wrist, and stepped onto the court.

“Another shrimp?” Liliadent muttered, in English, as they shook hands. “Nationals is going to be one long disappointment, at this rate.”

Keigo suppressed a snarl, because there was no point in letting them know they’d gotten to you, and replied, in the pure English he still spoke with his mother, sometimes, “It’s good that you’re prepared for a disappointment.”

Liliadent blinked, and then smiled, broad and white. “You speak English! Ha! I’m going to have to watch my mouth during this game, I suppose.”

Keigo was, at this point, recalling the many things he disliked about English sportsmen, and they were all encapsulated in the word ‘jolly’. His smile showed teeth. “Don’t forget to watch your game, while you’re at it.”

Liliadent laughed, giving his hand one last pump, and turned away into his court without even bothering with a return shot. Keigo carefully unclenched his jaw and strode back into his own side, setting himself to receive. This could, he reminded himself firmly, be a good trial for several things. He’d only dipped lightly into the World of Ice, so far in the tournament; this was an opportunity to test how it would work against an opponent who brought raw strength to the game, and to prepare himself for the coming match against (he was still sure of it) Sanada.

So he set aside his thoughts of that coming match, of Sanada possibly watching from the next court this very moment, of the scouting reports on how easily Nagoya Seitoku’s three foreign students had overwhelmed opposition this summer.2 He set aside his own tension and anger, his calculations, everything that was not enclosed in the white lines around them and this moment in time.

Liliadent tossed the ball up to serve, leaping high to meet it, and the sweep of his racquet drew a line in Keigo’s mind. He slid two steps to the side, swinging hard to meet the rising ball.

Stroke by stroke, rally by rally, the shape of Liliadent’s game built in Keigo’s mind. It was annoyingly slow going, though; he kept having to hold back his own conclusions and recalculate. That drive couldn’t be Liliadent’s real strength. That slice wasn’t sharp enough to be his limit; Keigo caught it easily. And his observations kept getting tugged sideways, in his head, as they went, snagging on the bunching of muscles in Liliadent’s arm as he swung, on the length of his stride as he bounded forward trying to catch Keigo’s serve, on his irritatingly hearty laugh when he missed.

And under it all, hot as the sun beating down on the court, was a thread of rage, because Liliadent was still toying with him, not using his full strength, even when he was down a game. It couldn’t be his full strength; Keigo’s hands weren’t even… numb yet… 

His own conclusion locked into place so hard that Keigo actually stumbled, losing the return he’d been chasing, stopping flat-footed on the court to stare at his opponent.

Liliadent paused, himself, brows rising. “Heat getting to you?” he called.

A growing chain of memories spilled through Keigo’s mind, one linking inescapably to the next. The feel in his hands, when he was younger, of balls too heavy to return. The same feel, when he turned up the speed of ball machines higher and still higher, to train. The softness of even the Hyoutei third-years’ balls, when he’d first joined the club, and the glee he’d felt then. The same numbness again, the first time he faced Sanada’s Fire, and the cold, sinking fury in his chest when he’d pulled his game in tight again, returned to the ball machines again and turned them up to brutal speeds.

The softness in Liliadent’s balls, now.

Keigo laid a hand over his eyes, laughing, first softly and then full out. When he swiped his hand back over his hair, both clubs were staring at him. 

“The heat is really getting to you?” Liliadent hazarded, looking nonplused by Keigo’s amusement.

“Not at all. I just realized I’d… forgotten something.” Keigo smiled, fiercely, lifted his hand, and snapped his fingers, small and clear in the silence. He could hear the intake of breath, from his club, and his smile turned sharper still.

Victory to Hyoutei! The winner will be Atobe!

Hyoutei’s chant swept over the court in a wall of sound, and Keigo chuckled at the way Liliadent swayed back a step. There was an edge of excitement in Hyoutei’s voices, and he wanted that, right now; it matched the feeling rising in his chest as he finally settled properly into the World of Ice, believed his own perceptions, and felt Liliadent’s game come clear with a snap he could feel in his bones.

Foreigner or not, bulky muscles or not, this player was weaker than Keigo.

Wild glee unfolded in his chest, and this time he let it, rode the rush, didn’t hold it back. For the first time, since he’d lost to Sanada two years ago, he let go of the delicate calculations of leverage and psychology and technique, and played with force.

It felt like flying, like he’d kicked away the weight of gravity as well as memory. The shape of Liliadent’s game was simple, at the core; it relied on his strength. And Keigo had finally, finally hauled himself up far enough to match that strength. It was the final key-turn that opened a door he’d had slammed on him twice, and he felt the new openness in every leap to serve, every skid of his shoes against the court as he set himself for a drive.

The end of the match almost caught him by surprise.

Liliadent was out of breath, when they met at the net. “Good game,” he said, with absent, automatic manners, before busting out, “So what the devil was that about, at the begining?”

“Ah, that?” Keigo shook Liliadent’s outstretched hand briskly, taking another silent moment’s pleasure in still having his full grip, hands only warm, not even tingling. “The memory of an old injury, I suppose you could say.”

Liliadent eyed him, possibly suspicious of his light tone, but finally shrugged and said, dryly, “Well, you seem to be past it. Perhaps I’ll be back for another match, sometime, then.” 

“Any time,” Keigo purred, thinking of the coming years, of a world full of tennis players to defeat, once he’d settled things here. He was smiling, bright and full of teeth, as he strolled back to his team.

Sakaki-sensei gave him a quelling look. “That took longer than it should have.”

Keigo ducked his head. “Yes, Kantoku.” He would have to work on that weakness in the World of Ice, he knew, the way his own fears could cripple his use of it.

“Mm. Are you ready for your next match, then?”

The one that would be against Sanada, almost certainly; Rikkai hadn’t changed their line-up the entire tournament, except to let Kirihara play now and then. Keigo thought about the power of Sanada’s tennis, about the flash of perception, of knowing, he’d had just before their unofficial match had been interrupted, and let out his breath, slowly. When he spoke, his voice was low and certain. “Yes.”

Sakaki-sensei nodded once, firmly, and waved Keigo back onto the bleachers. “Doubles One! Go and finish this.”

Ohtori and Shishido stepped past Keigo, and Shishido muttered as he did, “You are completely crazy, you know that, right?”

Keigo snorted. “As if you can talk, Mr. Barehanded Tennis.”

“Yeah, so I know it when I see it.”

Keigo laughed out loud as Shishido strolled out onto the court. He couldn’t really argue with that. 

When he emerged from toweling off his hair, though, and glanced across to see how Rikkai’s match was going, he started. Yukimura was looking back at him. After a long moment, Keigo offered him a cool nod. Yukimura smiled and turned back to his own team, speaking, not to Sanada, but to Kirihara, who was about to take the court against Kite.

So Yukimura wasn’t going to warn Sanada. Keigo snorted softly, and reflected, not for the first time, that Yukimura might just be the most merciless team captain of their generation. And that was something he knew, when he saw it.

Quarter-finals: Rikkai vs. Higa Again

Akaya hadn’t been the only one who’d had to pretty much hold himself to the bleachers to keep from lunging toward Yukimura-buchou when that ball had scorched in. He was, however, the only one of Rikkai who flinched at his captain’s words. They were a lot more pointed than anything Yukimura-buchou had said to him, but he knew perfectly well they applied.

“Calm down, Akaya,” Yanagi-senpai told him quietly, resting a hand on his shoulder as they watched Marui-senpai take another point with a steep-curving drive. “You’ve already found your own game. Now you just need to play it, yes?”

Akaya ducked his head. “Yes, Yanagi-senpai.”

“We wouldn’t be letting you play if you couldn’t do it,” Sanada-fukubuchou said, more bluntly, not turning around from where he stood at Yukumura’s shoulder. He’d planted himself there as soon as Yukimura-buchou dropped Higa’s ball, and hadn’t budged since. Akaya thought that Yukimura-buchou was a little amused by it; at least, he hadn’t said anything about it yet.

Akaya snuck a look along the bleachers at the Higa club, and the team members clustered at the foot, behind their captain. A whole team who played like this, who attacked in ways even he had never considered doing. He wondered whether they were all that afraid of losing. Why?

Out on the court, the Higa endurance player, Shiranui, pushed a fist into the air, yelling with triumph. He’d finally gotten a ball past Jackal-senpai, and that was three points for Higa.

That didn’t look like someone who was afraid of fighting head on because he might lose!

Akaya glanced at Higa’s captain again, frowning a little. He looked… approving. Even though his pair was three games down. He didn’t seem like someone upset over losing, either. So why had he told Shiranui to aim for Yukimura-buchou? Something really didn’t make sense, here.

Aragaki snuck a drop shot past Marui-senpai, and it was three games to one. Marui-senpai glanced over at Yukimura-buchou, brows lifted. Yukimura-buchou nodded, and Akaya sat back as Marui-senpai and Jackal-senpai fell back onto their court to receive, both of them up on their toes, taut and focused.

The last three games burned by in a rush of perfectly controlled shots up at the net and unbending defense on the backcourt. Marui-senpai was laughing as they came off the court, exhilarated the way he got after a good game. The other pair looked wrung out like rags, because they hadn’t given up until the last point was called, and the one thing Akaya felt he could say for sure about them was that Higa wasn’t playing violently to cover the same fear of losing he’d felt. But… what had Yukimura-buchou meant, then?

“Singles Two,” the referee announced. “Rikkai’s Kirihara versus Higa’s Kite!”

Akaya chewed his lip as he fished out his racquet, and he was slow to duck when Niou-senpai ruffled his hair thoroughly.

“Get out there and finish it,” Niou-senpai told him with a lazy smile as Akaya finally escaped and glared at him.

Akaya sniffed and pushed his hair back out of his eyes. “Of course I will.” His team’s smiles followed him over the low fence.

“Akaya,” Yukimura-buchou said quietly, and Akaya stopped beside him, attentive. “Kite has a very strong mental game, and I expect him to try to shake you. Remember the player you are, now. That’s all you need.” He looked up, eyes bright and intent. “That’s all you’ve ever needed.”

Akaya took a deep breath and nodded. “Yes, Yukimura-buchou.” This was a vote of confidence, he reminded himself. His captain smiled at him.

“Get going, then.”

Akaya stepped firmly onto the court and went to meet Kite at the net.

“So this is where he put you.” Kite looked down at him, and Akaya swallowed at little at how cold his eyes were. “I expected you in Singles Three, not sent out to face Higa’s ‘Assassin’.” He glanced at Yukimura-buchou and snorted. “He’s a ruthless man, your captain.”

Akaya lifted his chin. “That’s why Rikkai is strong.”

“Is it?” Kite smiled, thin and cool. “So is Higa.” He turned and walked back into his court.

Was he saying Higa was strong because he was ruthless, too? Akaya frowned. Rikkai was more than that, though. It was just… Yukimura-buchou’s strictness brought their strength out. What was Kite bringing out of Higa?

Akaya shook his head briskly. He could wonder about that later. For now, there was a game to play. He set his feet and balanced himself, ready to move for the ball wherever it went.

“I apologize in advance, for this, Kirihara-kun,” Kite called, bouncing the ball on his baseline. “What you’re doing to reform your game is admirable. Unfortunately, that kind of attention to fair play and the full development of a player’s personal strength is also,” he threw the ball high, “the luxury of an established team!”

Akaya’s eyes widened as the ball tore through the air, straight for his head. He spun aside on pure reflex and heard it strike the court behind him. Turning his head slowly, breathing fast and light, he saw a mark on the blue surface behind him. Kite would have knocked him out, if that ball had connected.

Red hazed Akaya’s vision for a moment as he turned back to glare at his opponent.

“Akaya.”

Yukimura-buchou’s voice cut through the haze, cool and even. Akaya drew a long, shaky breath and nodded sharply, not taking his eyes off Kite. Yukimura-buchou had said Kite would push him. And that pissed him off enough to resist giving in, even if he didn’t already know he had stronger cards in his hand now.

Kite was bouncing another ball already. “Imagine if you weren’t in Rikkai, Kirihara-kun,” he said, as conversational as if he hadn’t just tried to give Akaya a concussion. “Imagine you didn’t have all that support from your illustrious senpai to draw on. How would you be playing now, without that?” He served with that bone-cracking force again, and Akaya bared his teeth, lunging to the side and back, swinging to catch the ball. He hissed when it jarred the racquet hard in his hands, ball going wild. It was like Sanada-fukubuchou’s Fire turned into a serve, and even harder to catch because it angled down so sharply.

And Kite’s words were jangling in the back of his head, ringing against his old despair, the fear he would never be able to catch the Three Demons. The fear he’d burned into rage and lashed out across the court with, to win however he could manage.

“A sympathy play from the Assassin?” Niou-senpai drawled from the bleachers, and Akaya looked over to see him leaning back on his elbows, lips curled in a sardonic smirk. “Come on, Akaya-chan, would you believe that if I was doing it?”

Akaya couldn’t help himself and burst out laughing at the very idea. Snickers wound through the Rikkai club, stifled because no one was entirely sure when Niou would take offense at such things.

“Yes, Kirihara-kun, that very support,” Kite said from across the net. “Only a team who already has a name and a place can afford it. And if I become a bogey-man,” he bowed a little to Niou, perfectly composed, “that’s fine, as long as Higa gets the notice they need to establish themselves. Imagine your tennis without that!”

Akaya nearly didn’t get himself set in time to return the next serve, and the ball was a high lob that Kite caught with disdainful ease and hammered back over the net. For an instant, there, Kite’s cool had slipped. Akaya feinted a leap to smash and batted the ball along the net instead. He almost didn’t hear his first point being called, though, staring at Kite while his mind whirled.

Kite wasn’t afraid of losing on his own behalf; there was no such fear in his shots. But there had been rage Kirihara recognized in his eyes, for that one moment. Rage over his team. Fear for his team? For what it would mean to them to remain an unknown? Kite kept mentioning support. Abruptly, Akaya realized that all of the equipment he’d seen Higa use was good quality… but worn. The ten or so club members with them had kept him from seeing it before, but Higa looked an awful lot like Fudoumine, that way, and who knew if Fudoumine would even exist next year? Higa’s coach hadn’t done a single useful thing all match, either; every time Akaya had seen meaningful directions being given, it was by Kite.

Directions that sacrificed his own pride, as a player and captain, with iron determination and no hesitation.

Now that, Akaya could respect a bit.

He straightened up and nodded to his opponent. “Yeah, it’s my senpai’s support that got me here. So let’s play, and I’ll show you what it’s done for me. And then your team will know the worth of what you’re doing for them.” He set himself in the middle of his court, feeling his focus narrow, his blood tingle. He had a serious game on his hands, here, and he would answer in kind.

Kite was very still for a long moment before he smiled thinly. “You’re going to be fairly good at the mental game yourself, Kirihara-kun.” That serve of his came screaming in again, just as dangerous as ever, and this time Akaya got the angle right, spun his body to absorb the force, and sent the ball singing back over the net.


Eishirou had known he was playing with fire, taunting Kirihara. He just hadn’t expected it to be Kirihara who saw through to the core of the words he was using as his weapon. Niou or Yanagi, he’d have expected it from, but Rikkai’s junior ace had a reputation as a hot-head, a player who let his temper drive him and not his intellect. Eishirou had expected to trigger that temper, not such an abrupt insight. Just what kind of training had Kirihara been doing, to spur him to that kind of perception?

During the third game, he got his answer.

He’d taken both his service game and Kirihara’s, though the second had been a close thing. Kirihara was fast, and seemed to think nothing of balls that would blow the racquet out of most players’ hands. Eishirou could tell that the Big Bang serve was taking a toll, though. Kirihara’s hands had to have gotten a little numb; Eishirou had taken the last point of the second game when Kirihara’s very tight cross-shot had wobbled just a little and let him catch in it time to lob it directly behind his opponent. So when the serve came to him again, he threw the ball up and sent it tearing over the net, prepared to batter Kirihara’s technique down with brute force, if that was what it took.

The first serve was returned, but the rally was brief, and Eishirou could tell he was on the right track. He breathed deeply, preparing his body for the wear of maintaining the Big Bang for multiple games, and served again.

And Kirihara changed.

It was almost tangible, and it shocked Eishirou still, as he landed. He knew this feeling, the electric shiver over his skin as Kirihara’s eyes widened, turned inward, and he moved. Half the Higa club was shouting; most of them were from the martial arts, and they recognized it too. That blank wall of intention that gave away nothing of Kirihara; the perfect, precise movement, a step to exactly where he needed to be, a weight shift and angle that absorbed the Big Bang’s force; the calm as the return ace sang past Eishirou’s foot and Kirihara just waited for the next serve, balanced on his toes. It was no-self. And Eishirou highly doubted Kirihara had ever seen or had demonstrated to him that counter to the Big Bang, so it had to be close to a complete state of no-self, in which Kirihara could still plan somewhat. Kirihara wasn’t just mirroring. He was perceiving and processing and responding from first principles. This was why Yukimura had given the pivotal match to his youngest player; this was how the hot-tempered Kirihara had started to see so clearly.

Two more Big Bang serves were returned cleanly, and Kirihara caught his drop shot perfectly, driving it past Eishirou’s shoulder to the far corner before even Eishirou’s Shukuchihou could reach it.

Two games to one.

Eishirou’s jaw clenched hard. He’d heard rumors, last year, that Chitose had learned how to apply no-self to his tennis, but Eishirou hadn’t seen it in this year’s Regional tournament. He’d never tried to do it himself; he had to think and calculate matches in ways that had nothing to do with that purity of response and everything to do with the grubby politics of getting noticed. Those were the tactics he’d polished, fanning his team’s bitter resentment into violence and preparing to call all the blame down on himself and Saotome.

Fine, then. They’d see which was stronger: Kirihara’s no-self or Eishirou’s will to do whatever it took.

As Kirihara’s serve came whipping in, Eishirou narrowed his eyes and aimed the return directly for Kirihara’s ankle.


This time, Akaya hadn’t had to reach for no-self. The knowledge had just been there, of what he needed to do to return that bruising serve, and he’d let himself take it. He’d slipped without even thinking into the clarity he’d been training to find, for a month, and everything fell together—Kite’s movement, the angle of his racquet, the path of the ball. One point was his, and then another. And another. It was easy.

Weirdly easy.

He could see the swing so clearly, could see the arc of the ball, targeted for his feet, his knees, his head, over and over. When they closed at the net and Kite dragged his racquet to fling grit into Akaya’s eyes, he might as well have drawn the line of his swing in the air, beforehand. Akaya faded aside and slammed the ball past Kite’s shoulder to take the fifth game. Another point. Another.

This, he thought distantly, as Kite deliberately angled another ball at Yukimura, driving Akaya to that side of the court but leaving his own backcourt completely open for Akaya’s return, this must be what he’d looked like to Yukimura and Sanada.

The thought slammed him out of no-self, and he stumbled even as the referee called four games to two in his favor, one knee hitting the surface of the court hard.

“What’s this, Kirihara-kun?” Kite demanded, standing tall and straight still, for all he was breathing hard. “Used up too much of your endurance so soon? What a shame.” There was a predatory light in his eyes, all the brighter for the desperation behind it. Akaya just stared at him, mind blank with shock.

That was what he’d looked like. All the time he’d been falling back on violence to win, he’d just been making it easier for them to defeat him. He had to swallow hard, and then again, almost sick with the realization.

“Akaya!” Sanada-fukubuchou’s bark jerked his head around to see Yukimura-buchou watching him with cool sympathy and no mercy. Sanada-fukubuchou was still standing at their captain’s shoulder, arms folded. “Stop daydreaming and play your game,” he directed firmly.

Akaya’s game. His new game, the one that could win. That didn’t give itself to defeat ahead of time. Akaya took a slow, shaky breath and locked his mental hands tight on that thought. He stood and flexed his fingers around his racquet, eyes closed. The cheers and shouts of the club didn’t matter. His senpai’s eyes on him didn’t matter. Kite’s desperation, so hideously familiar, didn’t, couldn’t matter. All that mattered was the game and the court, the net and the ball, and the two of them moving. Another slow breath and he found his balance again, the weightless poise that action flowed out of.

When he opened his eyes again, Kite was watching him with a grim set to his mouth, and he spun on his heel and stalked back to serve without a word. Akaya’s calm wavered again, but he held on to it, and he was ready for the ball that scorched in straight toward his head.

It was so obvious.

Ball after ball, he knew where Kite was going, what he would aim for next, saw the openings Kite left as that icy focus of Kite’s locked down tighter and tighter. Ignored more and more possibilities.

The last two games went fast.

When Akaya finally let himself slide out of the waiting stillness of no-self, though, he realized he was shaking. Kite lifted a brow at him when they shook hands over the net, and Akaya couldn’t find any words at all to answer. He barely made it back to the bleachers before his legs gave out and he had to bend down to rest his head on his knees.

He’d looked like that. He’d given his games away as obviously as that. He’d wrapped up his own defeat in a bow and handed it to the opponents he most wanted to beat. What right did he have to be standing on the National courts?

Yukimura-buchou sat down beside him, one hand resting gently on the back of Akaya’s neck. “You understand, now?”

Akaya nodded, a tiny movement, because he felt like anything more might make him fall into little pieces.

“Would you have understood, if you hadn’t seen it yourself?”

Akaya swallowed. “Maybe not.” After another breath, spent remembering his senpai trying to describe the holes in his old technique to him, and him not getting what they were talking about. “Probably not.”

Yukimura-buchou’s hand tightened a little. “I don’t want you to slide back there, Akaya. You’re stronger than that.”

“Pull yourself together, Akaya,” Sanada-fukubuchou added, briskly, dropping a towel over his head. “You’re not running away any longer.”

Akaya looked up from under the towel at that, glancing back and forth between them, stomach fluttering because it was what he wanted to believe. Yukimura-buchou smiled, not gently but the way he smiled at interesting opponents, sharp and delighted. It made the flutter sharper, but that was the way Akaya had always wanted his captain to look at him, and he straightened up with a deep breath to answer it. “It would be pretty pointless to play like that again, considering what I just saw.”

Sanada-fukubuchou hmph-ed, short and satisfied, and Yukimura-buchou laughed. “Yes. That isn’t a style that makes for very interesting opponents.” He glanced over at the Higa team, and his smile turned cool. “Kite is stronger than that, too. We’ll have to see if he understands, now, also.”

Akaya glanced over at them, also, nibbling his lip. He didn’t want to play another game like this with Kite, that was for sure. But maybe… maybe Kite would understand sooner than he had. Since Akaya was pretty sure he’d had completely different reasons for playing that way.


Kai was waiting at the fence as Eishirou came off the court, knuckles white from his grip on the top rail.

The grip turned out to be just as bruising as it looked, transferred to Eishirou’s shoulders.

“Was all that really true?” Kai demanded, low. “You had us do this just so we’d be noticed?”

“Higa won’t get a good coach, or even a less stupidly brutal one, unless we get more than local attention,” Eishirou pointed out reasonably, and brought up his forearms to break Kai’s hold; he really wanted a drink.

“Damn it, Kite, you’re the captain right now! If you didn’t think this was the way we should be playing—”

“It satisfied you,” Eishirou cut him off, leaning back against the fence and taking another swallow.

Kai ran his hands through his hair in utter exasperation, actually knocking his cap off. “That’s not the point! The only way to change things after this would be to disavow you along with Saotome!”

Eishirou lifted his brows at his vice-captain. “Of course.”

Kai’s hands fell and he stared at Eishirou, wordless.

“Kite-buchou,” Tanishi started, and stopped, looking just as much at a loss. Eishirou sighed.

“This is why I didn’t tell you sooner.” He pulled the towel out of his bag, straightening up with a twinge of strained muscles; Kirihara had been nearly as much of a demon to play as the third-year singles players were rumored to be. “No, I don’t think Saotome’s advice was good. Saeki was perfectly right that few teams will respect anyone who injures bystanders. But it’s been a shattering tactic a few times, it satisfied your resentment, and it certainly made us stand out. Once you have attention in the first place, it isn’t hard for people to recognize your genuine strengths.” He took another long swallow and swept his gaze over his stunned team. “I’ll have to hope that Best Eight is enough leverage to attract someone actually useful to advise the team next year, once I’m gone.”

“And what,” Kai asked after a long moment, dangerously soft, “do you intend to do next year, if you take this reputation with you?”

Kite adjusted his glasses and looked down his nose at his vice-captain. “Break the mental game of all my opponents by not doing what they expect.”

Kai tried to keep glaring, but his lips twitched helplessly, and finally he scrubbed a hand over his face, laughing. “You are such an asshole, Eishirou. I’m coming to Shuri with you, and if you keep something like this from me again, you’ll be the one eating gouya, got it?”

“Quite,” Eishirou murmured, and noted the easing of his team’s shoulders with some satisfaction. He’d always trusted Kai with the morale and care of the team.

The moment of relaxation was, of course, broken by their coach stomping by and snarling, “I’m going back to the hotel. You losers can hang around to watch the teams who actually stuck it out, if you want to.”

Eishirou had a ball in his hand before the thought actually reached the front of his mind, that the tournament and the season were over for him and he had no reason to put up with Saotome’s abuse of his team any more. “Kite!” Hirakoba exclaimed, but the ball was already in the air. It sizzled past Saotome’s head, perfectly aimed, just clipping his ear enough to leave it red as Saotome stumbled and fell flat on his ass on the court, suddenly pale. Shocked silence reigned as Eishirou stood over him.

“Saotome-sensei, I’m afraid I’ll have to ask you to speak more moderately,” he chided. “My team has come first in the Prefectural and Regional tournaments, and has demonstrated their worth and ability to stand among the eight strongest junior high teams in Japan. I think ‘losers’ is really a bit uncalled for, don’t you?” He waited until Saotome nodded, jerkily, and inclined his head in return. “Thank you so much, for all your hard work.” He turned on his heel and beckoned his team to follow him up to the net to exchange bows with Rikkai.

Niou was smirking, and Yagyuu wore a faint smile of the kind Eishirou recognized from the mirror. Men after his own heart, and he’d have to remember that danger next year. Yukimura smiled as they shook hands, polite and impenetrable.

“I’ll look forward to meeting you next year, when you aren’t weighed down by this year’s agenda.”

Eishirou paused and studied Yukimura more closely; did he mean to say that Eishirou had been distracted by his purpose, this tournament? That he had somehow been held back by it? “Hmm.”

The thought niggled at him a little as Higa decamped to the park area to eat lunch. The evidence—Yukimura’s response to the attempt to injure him, that counter mental game he’d played so well—said that Yukimura was a good strategist and analyst, himself. Had he seen something in Eishirou’s game that was off? Eishirou turned over the match with Kirihara, in his mind, as they picked over the bento Akimizu had brought for the club and he listened to Chinen and Aragaki bargain over how many croquettes one fried shrimp was worth. Eishirou had lost, yes, but surely that was simply proof that Kirihara had been stronger, in this match. What had Yukimura seen to make him think otherwise?

He had the rather annoying feeling that the question was going to stay with him for a while.

 

1. “Another Story” is also as dead to me; dead, dead, dead. I’m going with manga-only backgrounds, and not even that when it seems too ridiculous. Therefore, Oshitari is the only cousin in here, nothing particular will be made of it, and Ishida is definitely not related to Ishida because that was one of the deeply artificial attempts to add narrative tension, and is not required here. back

2. I liked the thought of pulling in a foreign player, against Atobe, given his background, but a whole team worth seemed like overkill. So, in this verse, Nagoya Seitoku just has one singles player and a doubles pair, which allows for a little more parity, strategy, and interest. back

The Fire Shall Never Make Thee Shrink – Day One

Round One

Ryouma liked his cousin Nanako, and one reason he did was that she understood how important tennis was. She’d been the one with the most sympathy for him, the times he’d overslept and was late for practice, or even a tournament. She’d even promised to personally make sure he got up on time for Nationals. So at eight-thirty, a wonderful hour later than he usually had to wake up on a Friday, he came blearily out of sleep to a gentle and extremely persistent hand shaking his shoulder.

“Ryouma-kun? Ryouma-kun, it’s time to wake up.”

“Mgh,” Ryouma answered, prying one eye open.

Nanako smiled down at him and mercilessly hauled him upright with a hand under his elbow. “There we go!”

“Ngh.” Ryouma scrubbed his palms over his eyes and finally managed to mumble, “Thanks.”

“Oba-san is making breakfast this morning,” she informed him, far too cheerfully for this early in the day. “Get dressed!”

Eventually, Ryouma got himself washed and brushed and his regular uniform on the right way around, and stumped down the stairs. “Morning,” he informed his family as he slid into his chair at the table.

“Good morning, Ryouma!” His mother ruffled his hair as she passed behind him to the stove. “So today is a big day, hm?”

“Only the first day,” his dad put in from behind the paper. “Not that big.”

Kaa-san smacked her husband lightly over the head. “Now, you stop that! I can’t believe a man your age is sulking just because it isn’t you.”

Oyaji emerged from behind the paper to glower at his wife. “As if I’d care about some junior high tournament full of bumbling kids!”

“I’ve said for years that if you want to play again, you should compete,” Kaa-san told him briskly, setting down a plate of toast on the table. She shook her head affectionately as Oyaji retreated behind his paper again, grumbling under his breath. “Here you go, Ryouma.” She took a pan off the stove and served up scrambled eggs and sausage.

Ryouma nudged the sausage aside; he didn’t think he could face that at this hour. Toast and eggs, though, he could probably manage. Halfway through a mouthful of eggs, however, it dawned on him that they tasted different than usual. Kind of… sweet. He prodded the eggs on his plate, cautiously, with his fork. “Kaa-san? What did you do to the eggs?”

She smiled sunnily at him. “Well, since I know you like Japanese food better for breakfast, I mixed them like tamagoyaki! Only scrambled.” She took an enthusiastic bite of her own. “Mmm! They turned out well, don’t you think?”

Okay, that wasn’t too alarming. It could have been a lot worse. Ryouma forked up another bite and chewed stoically.

He was glad that his mother liked to cook. He figured she probably needed a hobby that was artistic or domestic or something, to give her a break from legal papers. But she also liked to experiment, and some of them were more successful than others. On a scale of one to ten, though, where one was ‘pretty good’ and ten was ‘Inui Juice’, this was probably a solid two.

By the time he was done, and had slugged down his mandatory glass of milk, Momo was ringing the front bell and it was time to go. Ryouma exchanged grins with his senpai, starting to wake up for real with the prospect of the games ahead. His dad just waggled his fingers as Ryouma stepped out to the entry, to put on his shoes, but his mother walked him to the door and hugged him goodbye.

“Good luck, sweetheart,” she murmured in English. She was the only one who still spoke it with him, here. She pulled away and smiled down at him wryly. “I know you’ll only roll your eyes if I try to say anything more about the tennis itself, so I’ll just leave it at that.”

Ryouma grinned up at her; she was definitely his smartest parent. “Thanks, Kaa-san. I’m going!”

“Take care!” She waved them off, from the door as Momo pedaled his bike away with Ryouma perched on the rear axle.

“Ready for Nationals?” Momo called over the whir of the wheels.

“Of course!” Ryouma leaned forward and took a firmer hold of Momo’s shoulders. “Ready for the hill?”

They were coming to the top of a steep hill, the one Momo insisted on pedaling them both up at the end of the day, saying it was good training for his legs. At the start of the day, it was their treat before school, and today they were coming in late enough that there wouldn’t be lots of other students in the way. Momo’s grin showed his teeth. “I’m always ready.” He pushed them over the peak and they went whizzing down the slope at what was probably a crazy speed, but neither of them cared. They both leaned into the turn at the bottom, skidding around it and shooting down the road toward school, both of them laughing.

When they got to the school parking lot, there was a bus waiting, and Ryouma had to blink a little. Ryuuzaki-sensei had made a few remarks, recently, about people who were late to tournaments, with some hard looks at Ryouma, and a few more at Momo and Kaidou-senpai, and a downright glower at Ooishi-senpai. So when she’d announced that the team would have a bus to get to Nationals, Echizen had expected she’d rent something.

This, though, was clearly official school property, painted blue and white with Seigaku’s school crest on the sides.

Ryuuzaki-sensei was leaning against it and grinning like a fox, as the club started to assemble.

“Oh wow, our own bus!” Kachirou enthused, eyes bright.

“We get a bus again!” Kikumaru-senpai cheered, trotting around the thing to admire it from all angles. “Finally!”

“It’s somewhat thanks to you boys, actually,” Ryuuzaki-sensei told them, patting the blue and white side with proprietary pride. “When the old bus died last year, the principal insisted we didn’t need to get a new one because so few of our teams had to travel much to get to matches. With the boy’s tennis team going to Nationals, though, I finally argued him down, even if it is in Tokyo. Said it would embarrass the school if we didn’t at least have our own bus. It only took a few descriptions of the Hyoutei and Rikkai buses to convince him.” She smirked.

“Ryuuzaki-sensei is dangerous,” Fuji-senpai murmured, just loud enough to be heard. Ryuuzaki-sensei just sniffed.

“And don’t you forget it.” She straightened up, hands on her hips. “Well, what are you waiting for? Get on!”

Everyone filed on board, sniffing at the heavy scent of new upholstery. Momo and Ryouma raced each other, jostling down the narrow aisle, to lay claim to the last seat in back, and the bus rumbled off.

“So.” Ryouma settled down to quizzing his senpai about the important things. “Have you ever been to this Ariake place before? And why is it called a tennis forest?” He’d had to shake off a few ridiculous mental images of tennis racquets growing out of the ground in groves or balls growing on trees, when he’d first heard the name.1

“It’s landscaped with a lot of trees down the paths and around the courts,” Kawamura-senpai explained. “It’s really pretty, actually, and it makes the courts a little private, too, if there isn’t a huge crowd.”

“I went to see the Japan Open there, last fall,” Momo reminisced, slouching down in the seat. “There was a huge crowd, then, but it still wasn’t crowded, you know? It’s a nice place.”

“I remember the year before that one, too!” Kikumaru-senpai bounced up onto his knees, backwards on his seat. “Federer won men’s singles, that year, and Bartoli took first in women’s. The center court is amazing.”

“If we do well enough, we’ll get to play there ourselves,” Ooishi-senpai said, pulling his partner back down as the bus braked for a light. “Even the courts out in the park are nice to play on, though. There’s forty-eight of them; it’s the biggest tennis park in Japan. I remember, our first year, Yamato-buchou took the club on a trip out there to play on Ariake’s clay courts, so we’d see how it felt.”

Ryouma listened quietly to the descriptions, as they turned away from the park itself and toward what matches everyone had seen played there. When they arrived, he had to agree: it was a nice-looking place. The first two rounds were being held on nine of the blue hard-courts, all in a line. Opening ceremonies took place on the wide stretch of pavement in front of the Coliseum, and Ryouma took the opportunity to look around instead of listening to the officials droning, up front. Fenced sets of two or three courts stretched away, off to the left, surrounded by low bushes and walkways, and bordered by a whole lot of trees. There also seemed to be an open grassy field, past the Coliseum, or at least past its roof. The roof was kind of huge, and overwhelmed the Coliseum itself. It looked like it slid apart on runners, too, maybe far enough to cover where they were standing now. That was actually kind of cool, for something so massive.

That stadium, wrapped in three storeys of decorative arches and the vast roof over them all, was where the last two teams would play the final match.

Ryouma smirked up at the Coliseum, proprietary, and tuned back in just in time for someone in Rikkai’s uniform to hand a heavy, fringed flag over to the officials. The tournament flag, he guessed. Ryouma was more interested in the player, and watched closely as he walked back to the head of his team. This must be Yukimura. He wasn’t hugely tall or muscled or anything, but something about the way he moved tugged at Ryouma’s attention. It was smooth. Graceful even.

Prowling.

Ryouma felt a flutter of excitement, edged with uncertainty. He was sure Yukimura would be fun to play. What he wasn’t sure of any more was that he’d win. But Tezuka-buchou and Ryuuzaki-sensei both said that was okay, not being sure. That it shouldn’t make him scared. Ryouma took a breath and tried to concentrate on the excitement part.

When the opening was finally over, and all the photos had been snapped, and everyone was allowed to stretch and go find their places, Tezuka-buchou marched them promptly down the broad, shady walk that stretched along the short ends of the courts, and turned in between the first three courts and the next two. Short fences framed the space between the two sets, with benches set against them. The two teams who would play on C court were dropping bags by those benches and warming up, and Seigaku’s team settled under the long, open shelter between the courts and stretched out on the benches or leaned against the shelter posts to wait.

“Who are they?” Kachirou asked, slipping up next to Ooishi-senpai, who smiled down at him encouragingly.

“Maikozaka, who came in fourth at the Kansai Regionals, and Joushuuin, who were third in Chuubu. They won against Murigaoka in the play-off to determine third and fourth place, and I heard it really stirred Murigaoka up.”

For some reason, that made Kaidou-senpai twitch,2 but before Ryouma could brightly inquire why, black uniforms caught his eye, settling at the other end of the shelter.

“Tachibana!” Ooishi-senpai crossed over to offer his hand. “That’s right, Fudoumine is the seed for B court, aren’t you?”

“We are.” Tachibana shook Ooishi-senpai’s hand, firmly. He merely looked satisfied, but Ryouma thought most of the rest of Fudoumine looked smug. He wondered if he’d get a chance to change that, and grinned a bit himself.

“So you’ll be facing Shitenhouji before us, in the bracket.” Ooishi-senpai sobered. “Be careful; I hear they’re very strong this year.”

“That’s appropriate enough.” Tachibana’s smile bared his teeth. “So are we. And I was glad to see you back, at the drawing, Tezuka,” he added, nodding to Tezuka-buchou, who nodded back quietly. Ryouma thought he started to say something else, but the teams out on the courts were gathering at the net. Tezuka-buchou straightened, attention firmly locked on C court, and Tachibana’s own focus swung back to B court, on the other side of the walk. Ryouma settled down on his bench, elbows on his knees and chin in his palms, to watch their prospective opponents.

He didn’t really stay interested for long.

Maikozaka and Joushuuin both had solid players. Joushuuin’s Single Three, Atsumi, had the kind of staying power that always made for a long, hard game. In the end, Ryouma almost thought it was Kinugawa of Maikozaka’s sheer frustration with not being able to take points quicker that made him careless and lost him the match. As Doubles Two got started, Ryouma had to admit that Maikozaka’s Okunishi and Koishihara were a tight pair, and responded fast and well. They never seemed to get tangled up in who was going to cover what.

But it was so slow.

None of the players were so far beneath the others that they could be taken advantage of, and none of them were high-level enough to make the points flow fast by pitting technique against technique. Ryouma slouched and sighed deeply. A glance over his shoulder at the A and B courts showed that it wasn’t too different there, and he sulked a little in Shishigaku’s direction. That was where that guy Chitose was supposed to be, the one who used no-self like Sanada and Yukimura. No such thing was anywhere in evidence, though. Ryouma flexed his feet a little, wondering if he could use the excuse of warming up to go do something more interesting.

Tezuka-buchou’s voice broke his brooding. “Ooishi, it would be wise to see how the other side of the bracket is doing. Take the first years with you and check, will you? It will be good for them to hear what you see happening.”

Ryouma straightened up, hopeful, and he could almost hear Tezuka-buchou rolling his eyes behind that straight face. “Echizen, go along with them. You’ll be useless if you wear yourself out before we even play.”

Ryouma knew that was a reprimand, but he didn’t care, as long as he got to move around a little, and maybe see some more interesting tennis. “Yes, buchou.”

At least Ooishi-senpai was looking amused. “Come on, then, all of you.” He herded their little group back out onto the main walkway and down between the third and fourth set of courts. These were both two courts each, and they had to wind their way around the teams playing and the teams waiting.

Yamabuki was playing on E court and Hyoutei on F, over to the left, and Rokkaku across the way on G. Ryouma didn’t know either team on H, and didn’t think much of what he saw of them. He had to squeeze his way between the crush of extra Hyoutei club members to see anything, though, and spotted more of them among the trees on the hill above the far end of the courts. “Doesn’t the monkey king know how to pack light?” he grumbled. Kachirou and Katsuo clapped hands over their mouths to stifle nervous laughter. Horio just looked plain nervous as he dodged taller players.

“It’s the Jimmies, playing for Yamabuki,” Katsuo exclaimed, standing on his toes to see. Ooishi-senpai smiled.

“Different teams have different strategies, for the first round. Some try to conceal their best strengths. Others will put their strongest players in early, hoping to win three games quickly and let the seed team watching think that they deliberately slacked off on the last two games. I think Sengoku probably chose the second option. Yamabuki is up against Maki no Fuji, from Kansai, who won’t already know them from Regionals.”

“Is that why they’re playing so hard?” Kachirou asked, and Ryouma nodded silently along with Ooishi-senpai’s approving agreement. Minami and Higashikata were flicking signs back and forth, rapid-fire, and taking points fast. The Maki no Fuji pair were hanging on grimly, but this was more the kind of speed Ryouma was used to, in serious tournaments. Even as they watched, Minami slammed one last point past the other pair and Yamabuki’s club roared from where they stood against the fence on the far side of E court.

Ooishi made a satisfied sound as the referee called Doubles Two in favor of Yamabuki. “Look, they’re sending Muromachi in for Singles Two. It’s a bit of a gamble, since he isn’t as strong as Sengoku, but Sengoku is the one everyone’s heard of from the invitational camp last year. If Muromachi can take this match, Sengoku can play lazily for Singles One and be the threat that still isn’t entirely known.”

“Nationals takes a lot of strategy, doesn’t it?” Kachirou asked the question solemnly, but Ryouma grinned at the sparkle in his eyes. Kachirou obviously liked this kind of thing. Ooishi-senpai smiled down at his kindred spirit.

“It does. And this is where all the work we’ve done and things we’ve learned, all summer, come out. Look there.” He nodded at the match right in front of them, Hyoutei’s Oshitari and Mukahi. “They’re playing much more tightly than they were at Regionals, aren’t they?”

While the other first years peered and nodded, Ryouma snorted. “Mukahi isn’t wasting as much time showing off, anyway.”

“As I said.” Ooishi-senpai gave him a mildly admonishing look, and Ryouma tugged his hat down. He still really didn’t like Mukahi’s type of player.

Doubles Two was finishing up there, also, and Ryouma cocked his head, interested, as Atobe strode onto the court for Singles Two, and the cheering from Hyoutei suddenly got louder. “That’s new.”

“I guess Atobe-san is kind of nervous, after he lost to us.” Katsuo sounded a little proud and a little sympathetic. Horio crossed his arms and stuck his nose in the air.

“He should be nervous! Tezuka-buchou would totally kick his butt, if they played again.”

As if he’d heard, Atobe looked right at them, and Horio quailed and sidled behind Ooishi-senpai. Ryouma’s mouth quirked. Given the chanting all around, he was pretty sure Atobe had just seen the Seigaku jerseys, and was looking for Tezuka-buchou. He dismissed them fast enough, when he saw it was just Ooishi-senpai and Ryouma.

“This could be a pretty subtle strategy in itself,” Ooishi-senpai murmured, watching. “People are used to Atobe being very self-assured. If they think he’s shaken up, they’ll expect an advantage.”

“You don’t think they’ll have it?” Ryouma asked, cocking his head. Ooishi-senpai had a little glint in his eyes as he glanced down.

“No. Not over Atobe.”

Ryouma was quiet while he thought about that. It sounded like Ooishi-senpai actually respected Atobe, despite all the monkey-posturing. He hadn’t really expected that. In Ryouma’s experience, people who swanned around that arrogantly were usually over-inflating their ability. After all, why boast like that, if all you really had to do was just show people how good you were? Though he had to admit, watching Atobe demolish his opponent, Atobe did seem to be able to show it.

“That’s Tsubakikawa’s Noto he’s playing,” Ooishi-senpai said quietly, resting a hand on Ryouma’s shoulder. “Tsubakikawa are the champions from Hokkaido two years running, now, and Noto played last year, too. He’s known as a strong, aggressive player.”

Ryouma looked up at him and back down at the match. “Atobe is playing aggressively, too. He didn’t do that before.”

“Tezuka says he used to play like this more often, before he had his run-in with Sanada last year.”

“So you’re saying he’s growing.”

Ooishi-senpai smiled down at him. “Yes. And what effect do you think defeating Noto in his own area of strength will have on Tsubakikawa?”

Ryouma tugged his cap down more firmly. Okay, fine, so the monkey-king could back up his bragging. And maybe use decent strategy, too. And Ryouma should probably keep that in mind if he didn’t want to lose through stupidity, the way so many of his own opponents did. He sighed. “Okay, Ooishi-senpai. He knows what he’s doing.” Maybe Atobe was like his dad, then. Ugh, bad thought.

“It’s usually best to assume that Nationals level opponents do,” Ooishi-senpai said mildly, glancing around at the other first years to draw them back in. “If you’re wrong, you’ve lost nothing, and if you’re right, it’s a good thing you were careful.”

“Yes, Ooishi-senpai,” the other three chorused.

“So what do you see happening in Rokkaku’s match?” he asked, turning them around to face G court.

Ryouma spared a last look at Atobe blazing through his opponent’s game with one fast, singing ball after another, and had to agree that there wasn’t anything all that new to be seen there. Rokkaku was just starting Singles Two themselves, now, and Ryouma rolled his eyes as he watched Aoi nearly bouncing on the bench as he admonished one of the guys who hadn’t played against Seigaku.

“We didn’t see him, during Regionals,” Horio objected.

“Aoi-kun has already played, though,” Kachirou said, nodding at the towel around Aoi’s neck. “He likes Singles Three, doesn’t he?”

“Midoriyama is playing a little stronger than they did during Regionals. I think,” Katsuo put in hesitantly.

Ryouma glanced at the score-board. “Doubles Two lost. Must be hard to do strategy with Aoi in charge.”

Ooishi-senpai looked a little rueful. “Rokkaku’s strategy this year has been very… straightforward, it’s true.” He pulled himself back together, into teaching mode, and pointed out players. “It looks like Doubles Two was probably Minamoto and Habu from Midoriyama, and Kisarazu and Itsuki from Rokkaku. You remember them?”

Kachirou nodded, enthusiastically “Kisarazu-san had really amazing feints!”

“Itsuki-san was, um, really flexible, wasn’t he?” Katsuo put in.

Ooishi-senpai smiled at them. “Yes. If they have any kind of teamwork, they’d be a pretty powerful pair, able to cover the whole court and strong on technique. So what does that suggest?”

Ryouma sighed when the other first years just frowned, puzzled. “They under-played and sacrificed Doubles Two.” Then he frowned himself. “But I don’t see a seed team watching on this side.”

“Mm.” Ooishi-senpai’s mouth tightened a little, disapproving. “Sometimes, a seeded team won’t watch the first round, in an effort to intimidate their opponents with their confidence. It’s a tactic that backfires easily, though. At any rate, Higa may have chosen not to watch the first round, but Rikkai is the seed in H block, and will almost certainly be who the G block winner meets for Quarter-finals.” Ooishi-senpai nodded soberly across the two courts to where Rikkai’s jerseys were lined up against the fence, quiet and still. And, Ryouma couldn’t help noticing, really well placed to see what was going on in more than one match at a time. They certainly weren’t paying much attention to the H block match going on, not that he could blame them.

“So Rokkaku is looking ahead?” Kachirou hesitated. “Um. Aoi-kun is?”

“Most likely Saeki, actually,” Ooishi-senpai admitted. Everyone nodded firm agreement with this.

“Wow.” Kachirou was nearly sparkling. “Nationals is amazing!”

Ryouma made a mental note that Kachirou was going to be captain or vice-captain in two years, no question. He’d actually like making up match rosters and researching other teams.

They stayed long enough to see Rokkaku’s Shudou win Singles Two, and Bane and Davide start mowing down the opposing pair for Doubles One. Hyoutei’s Shishido and Ohtori were playing like they didn’t know they were supposed to ease up or keep something concealed, now that Hyoutei had three matches won. Kita and Nitobe, from Yamabuki, on the other hand, were practically lounging around the court, to the obvious annoyance of the Maki no Fuji Doubles One pair. Ooishi-senpai took one last look around the courts, and smiled a little.

“This will be a good tournament, I think. Come on, everyone. Back to our own court, and let’s see who we’re playing after lunch!”

Ryouma trailed along after the rest, watching the seeded teams, and the way they were starting to talk quietly among themselves. Planning, now that the first round winners were starting to come clear, he thought. He also thought Tezuka-buchou hadn’t just sent him over here to wear the jitters off. There’d been a real point. Ryouma didn’t usually think about team strategies; he thought about his own game. At the local, or even national, tournaments for different age brackets, that was all you needed to think about. Now, though… now he was part of a team, in a team tournament, one of these bigger and more complex things. A team Tezuka-buchou wanted him to support, and somehow take support from.

He didn’t know whether he really could. But for the first time, walking after his teammates under the rustling arch of leaves, he realized that he wasn’t the only person trying to make his part in this work. His whole team was thinking about these things, and including him in the planning. Relying on his strength, yes, of course. But also thinking about who he could best be matched with and where his game would best fit, to help him win.

That… that felt kind of nice.

“Ryouma-kun!” Kachirou stuck his head around the corner of the fence, waving to him. “Hurry up! It’s going to be Joushuuin! Ryuuzaki-sensei wants to talk to you!”

Ryouma smiled just a little bit, and walked faster.


Ryuuzaki-sensei cheated. Yes, she wanted to talk to Ryouma about his likely opponent—probably not Atsumi, but Manaka, the light-footed second year who’d played Singles One in the first round—but she’d also wanted to draft him, along with the rest of the first years, to help fetch bentos from the cooler in the bus.

“Why aren’t the girls around to do this?” Horio grumbled as they got back under the shade of the trees and everyone sighed with relief.

“Because they don’t let regular students out of class just to cheer for us, Horio-kun,” Kachirou told him dryly.

“And Sakuno-san said her captain was really strict about watching the all women’s matches,” Katsuo added, hefting his bag of lunches as they turned down the walk that ran along the grassy park area, passing knots of team jerseys here and there.

Ryuuzaki-sensei was eyeing them with amusement. “And a good thing, too. Onohara is a good captain, and looks after her team’s development. Sakuno finally said she wanted to try for a Regular spot next year, and Onohara told her to start watching the people she’d actually be playing, instead of the boys.”

“She’ll need more than a year, unless the level of the women’s matches is really low,” Ryouma said critically, thinking about the slow swings he’d seen her practicing.

All three of the other boys gave him long looks. “Ryouma-kun, you’ll never have a girlfriend,” Kachirou finally said, and the other two nodded sad agreement.

“Ah, here’s the rest of the club.” Ryuuzaki-sensei was obviously trying not to laugh. Ryouma just shrugged; he had no idea what they were talking about. What did tennis have to do with girlfriends?

The rest of the team had settled in the shade of the trees scattered through one corner of the park area, as had Fudoumine and two other teams Ryouma didn’t know. They all pounced on the lunch boxes like they’d been the ones playing in the first round, and Ryouma had to elbow his way out of the frenzy, guarding his own box, before he could slide down to sit on a root beside Momo with a huff. Momo laughed at him.

Ryouma looked around the park area as he ate. The group of teams who had taken over the grove of trees in the middle caught his eye, and he studied them.

“Those are most of the teams that lost in the first round,” Momo said quietly, apparently concentrating on his little skewer of fried pork.

“They’ll stay to watch?”

“Most of them.” Momo glanced over the open grass, at the clusters of quiet players. “I think it would be hard to do at Nationals, though. At least at the other tournaments, you have a week to come to terms with having lost, before the next set of matches.”

“Not like we’re going to lose,” Ryouma told him, and cracked open the Ponta he’d detoured to the vending machines to get. He nearly spilled it when Momo laughed and scrubbed knuckles over his hair.

“Yeah, that’s the spirit.” He dunked his croquette in the sauce cup with all his regular enthusiasm for lunch, and Ryouma rolled his eyes and smiled faintly behind his drink.

“So, Joushuuin for us,” Kawamura-senpai said, pushing aside the shrimp in his box with the delicate disdain of a sushi-chef’s son. Ryouma snuck one for himself with a quick grab of chopsticks, before Kikumaru-senpai got the other two. “And Kushimakitou for Shitenhouji.” His brows drew in with worry. “Good luck to them.”

“And Shishigaku for Fudoumine,” Fuji-senpai added, softly, glancing over at the knot of black jerseys a few trees away. “That will be a tense match, I think.”

“I thought Chitose was a really laid back guy?” Kikumaru-senpai said around the shrimp.

Fuji-senpai cocked his head a bit. “Well, so are you Eiji. But if Ooishi left Seigaku and started a team somewhere else, and you had to play him at Nationals…”

Kikumaru-senpai paused, chopsticks halfway to his mouth, eyes suddenly dark. “Okay. Yeah, I see what you mean.” He finished his bite of rice and, clearly wanting to talk about something else, asked, “Hikogashima won too, right? They’ll play Echigo Hira Daini? The champions from the smaller regions are really coming out on top of the lower ranking teams from the bigger tournaments. What about the other side?” He cocked a brow at Ooishi-senpai.

“Yamabuki and Hyoutei both won,” he answered, pausing obligingly half way through his diced vegetable salad. “I haven’t heard much about Nagoya Seitoku, for all they were the Chuubu champions, but Okakura is supposed to be a strong team. The papers say they gave Shitenhouji a good fight at the Kansai finals.”

“Hm.” Inui-senpai unscrewed the cap of a bottle full of something alarmingly dark green and took a long swallow that made half the team shudder. “Who won in G block?”

“Rokkaku.” Fuji-senpai smiled. “I went to congratulate Saeki before we broke up for lunch.”

“They’ll be against Higa, then.” Inui-senpai nudged his glasses up, and Ryouma thought he looked more serious than usual, behind them. “They should be careful. I’ve heard some alarming things about that team.”

Fuji-senpai’s eyes glinted. “Like what?”

“That they’re like a whole new team, this year. That they can reach the net in a single step, and play with moves no one has ever seen before. And that they’re a violent team.”

“I’ll warn Saeki,” Fuji-senpai said quietly, and set his box down on the stack of empties with a sharp click.

“And Murigaoka is playing Rikkai.” Ooishi-senpai’s tone was rueful and amused, and Ryouma thought he was trying to defuse the tension. “I’m almost sorry for them.”

Kaidou-senpai sniffed. “They deserve it,” he muttered under his breath, and turned promptly away when the entire team looked at him.

“Didn’t think you liked Rikkai that much, Mamushi,” Momo needled him, and Ryouma leaned back against his tree as the two of them devolved into a scuffle that Kawamura-senpai had to break up.

His teammates knew things he didn’t. Knew things about the teams here and who they were and what they’d done years before. It was like… like a road that they’d been walking down and he’d… he’d been in a train tunnel. He knew everyone on the train, all the best international players, their moves and their statistics. But he didn’t know this road, and it felt strange. He had to rely on other people’s knowledge, here.

If this was also what Tezuka-buchou meant about his team supporting him, he wasn’t sure he liked it. But his dad’s train-tunnel way obviously wasn’t good enough to win with, so he supposed he’d have to try this one anyway.

Momo finished brushing himself off and sat down again, nudging Ryouma with an elbow. “Hey. Everything okay?”

Ryouma finished his Ponta in a long swallow and leaned back, looking up at the leaves, gold and green, here, just like they’d been back home. “Sure.”

He could hear Momo’s smile. “Good.” His friend’s shoulder settled against his as Momo leaned back too. “We’re going to kick all their asses, right?”

Ryouma grinned. Okay, parts of this team-stuff he did kind of like.

“Right.”

Round Two: Fudoumine vs. Shishigaku

Akira glanced around at his team and couldn’t help the smirk that tugged at his mouth. Fudoumine had a definite swagger in their step, as they strolled back toward B court from the park where they’d eaten lunch. He figured they were entitled. Not only had they made it to Nationals, but they were one of the seeded teams. For a team in their very first year, he figured they had something to smirk about.

The only one of them that wasn’t grinning was Tachibana-san, and Akira spoke up out of a desire to at least change his captain’s distant thoughtfulness to here-and-now presence. “Don’t worry, Tachibana-san. We know how to handle Shishigaku.”

Tachibana-san, as he’d more than half expected, gave him an admonishing look. “You know what they showed against Saint Icarus. Don’t let yourself be trapped by expectations. Every unseeded team is going to do what they can to conceal their true strength; they know very well their second round opponents are watching.”

Akira lowered his eyes, satisfied. “Yes, Tachibana-san.” At his shoulder, Shinji snorted softly, obviously knowing perfectly well what Akira was doing. He wouldn’t say anything, though; Shinji was just as pissed off as he was about the attitude that Chitose guy had taken with their captain. The knowing attitude. The proprietary attitude.

Well, Tachibana Kippei belonged to Fudoumine this year, and Chitose and his whole team could just suck on it.

With that thought in mind, he was the one who stepped forward to open the gate to the court where Shishigaku was waiting for them, for the second round match. They were mostly third years, he thought, as the waiting team turned to give Fudoumine measuring and curious looks. Except for Chitose, whose eyes were locked on Tachibana-san like no one else existed. Akira glanced over his shoulder at his captain, a little worried about how this would go, to be perfectly honest.

Tachibana-san met his eyes, smiling faintly, and Akira ducked his head, caught. Tachibana-san’s hand fell on his shoulder and shook him, very gently. “Let’s go win this one,” their captain told them, as sure and confident as ever, and Akira straightened up, relieved.

An edge of worry crept back, though, when they lined up across the net from Shishigaku, because Tachibana-san and Chitose were still looking at each other like there was a conversation going on that no one else could hear. Akira eyed Shishigaku’s vice-captain across the net, noting the rueful and completely unsurprised way he was watching Chitose and Tachibana-san, and exchanged a dark look with Shinji. Tachibana-san was their captain, and no one who hadn’t been around for the past year had any right to look so knowing, to think they could understand.

“Just don’t let it distract you,” Shinji murmured softly as the referee announced Singles Three and he brushed past Akira on the way to the long benches set out at the low fence behind each coach’s bench.

“I won’t,” Akira murmured back. When it was that vice-captain that stayed out on the court across from him, though, he decided he would let his anger drive him. Loyalty and anger, those were what had brought Fudoumine this far, this year.

Akira would show Shishigaku what that meant.

The first serve fell to his opponent, and Akira flexed lightly on his toes, watching Tanaka’s stance. There was still nothing special there that he could see, as he dashed forward to meet the ball. It was solid against his racquet. Solid, but nothing more than that, and Akira snorted to himself as he whipped it back into the opposite corner. His lips curled up as the first point was called, and Tanaka’s eyes narrowed.

The second serve was sharper.

Akira slipped into the rhythm of the match, and started pushing. Faster and faster the balls sang over the net, pace increasing bit by bit, until Tanaka was breathing hard as he ran to catch them. He kept his service game, but he was frowning as he pushed back sweat-dark hair. Akira rolled his shoulders as he fell back to serve. His breath was easy, and his muscles were just warm; he could take this one.

None of his serves got past Tanaka, but Akira hadn’t really expected them to. He wasn’t Shinji. His strength went the other way, and the whole court was his playground. It didn’t matter how cleverly Tanaka spun his returns, because Akira caught every single one, dash after dash, falling into the hot glow of speed, feet light against the court as he spun to set himself behind a deep drive and hit a straight smash back over the net that the solid, earthbound Tanaka had no chance of catching.

This was where Akira lived, in the weightless freedom of his whole body working to lift him up and throw him forward.

He took two games before Tanaka seemed to figure out how much trouble he was in, and Akira bared his teeth when the next shot spun off the face of his racquet at an angle he’d never intended. So did the next one, and the fourth game was Tanaka’s.

Tachibana-san beckoned him over to the bench, eyes sharp. “You can’t cancel that spin if you hit the ball back as fast as you usually do. Tanaka’s using your own speed against you. Be as fast as you need, to catch the balls, but keep them on your racquet as long as you can, so the spin dies.”

Akira frowned, swiping the back of his arm over his forehead; the heat was getting heavier as the day wore on and the sun climbed over the surrounding trees. “Those balls are too sharp to keep for long.”

His captain smiled. “Not if you’re moving forward when you catch them.” Akira forgot the heat for a moment and straightened up, as understanding dawned. Tachibana-san gave him a nod, eyes glinting. “Go on, Kamio. Show them.”

Akira knew he was smirking as he took the court again, but he didn’t really care to stop. This was Fudoumine’s edge. Match after match, all this summer, Tachibana-san had showed them how to win. How to find their strengths, and how to play them, and how to find the holes in an opponent’s game. Having Tachibana-san there on the coach’s bench, watching, was like having a downhill under his feet, when he ran. It carried him forward.

It carried him forward again, now, as Kamio pushed himself faster, not just to catch each return, but to set himself behind it and dash forward against it, holding those balls against his gut each time until the wicked spin fell and he could cut them back over the net to one side and the other, wearing Tanaka down. Sweat was running down Akira’s spine under his shirt, now, but his breath was still light in his lungs, quick and easy as his feet against the court.

Tanaka kept one more service game, but the last three flashed by into Akira’s hands, perfectly balanced on the edge of his speed. When the set was called, Akira tossed back his sweat-soaked hair and laughed. This was theirs, this triumph, this unstoppable momentum. He turned toward the sidelines, and his team waiting there, and lifted a fist. They threw back a cheer, and Tachibana-san smiled at them.

Fudoumine would win this one.


Tanaka came back to where Shishigaku had gathered on the bench at their side of the court, and thumped down beside Senri, panting for breath. “Okay,” he said, catching up his water bottle for a long swallow. “Now I see why you wanted me to take Singles Three against them.” He pulled out his towel and rubbed vigorously at his damp hair.

Senri snorted as he watched his Doubles Two pair sort themselves out on the court, ready to start. “Yeah. And they still managed to out-flank us. They’ve improved since Regionals.” The tall Fudoumine player threw the ball up and served, fast and deep to the corner, his slender partner watching Senri’s own pair like a hawk. Both the Fudoumine players were smiling a little, anticipatory, confident. Shigaki and Kushiyama, on the other hand, were both wary, shaken by their vice-captain losing 3-6 in the very first match. Senri sighed. “Damn Kippei, and the way he messes with people’s heads.”

Tanaka emerged from under his towel, dark hair sticking up, and gave him a long look. “You can’t tell me that his players are this good just because Tachibana is good at morale-building.” He took a look at how the game was shaping up and winced as the short Fudoumine player slid out of his big partner’s shadow and slammed the ball right down the center line with perfect timing. Senri’s mouth twisted in silent agreement. One game gone in barely five minutes.

“It isn’t just morale,” he answered quietly as Goumoto-sensei made vigorous ‘shape up’ gestures at Shigaki and Kushiyama. “And Kippei doesn’t just front-load his matches to play it safe. I’m betting that red-head is one of the strongest of Fudoumine, maybe only second to Kippei himself. Kippei wanted to rock our nerve and encourage his own team, and it worked.”

Tanaka’s hands tightened around his towel as the Fudoumine pair hammered another ball past their opponents. “So it’ll be down to you, in Singles Two, won’t it? To turn this around.” He shot Senri a sidelong look and added, very quietly, “If you can.”

Senri gave his vice-captain a wry smile. “We’ll see, won’t we? But it might not be quite that bad.” He nodded toward the court, where their pair were finally shaking off their shock and pulling together. Kushiyama flicked a signal at Shigaki, who closed on the net with a fierce expression to engage the littler player in a duel of short drives—right up until the moment that he melted aside to let Kushiyama dart forward, and smash the ball past both Fudoumine players like a bullet.

…or at least that was how the move usually went.

On the sidelines, Kippei raised his hand and Fudoumine’s taller player met the smash, which none of their opponents except Higa’s Kai had been able to return, with bared teeth, and drove it back one handed. It blasted straight through Shigaki’s attempt to defend.

“Chitose,” Tanaka said, very levelly, “did I just see that?”

Senri ran a hand through his hair and sighed. “If you just saw that guy return Kushiyama’s strongest shot and blow the racquet right out of Shigaki’s hand, then yes.” Which brought them to three games to one, in Fudoumine’s favor, and left Chitose’s Doubles Two pair shaken up all over again. Senri really was going to strangle Kippei for taking all his alarming charisma and strategic sense off to lead another team.

“Who the hell are these guys?” Tanaka demanded, sounding torn right down the middle between being indignant and being appalled. “I’d never even heard of Fudoumine before this year! Where did they come from?”

Senri hooked his toes under the edge of the fence in front of them and leaned back on his hands, staring up at the brutally clear blue of the sky. “If what I hear about them getting into fights last year is right,” he mused, “I’d bet there was some kind of mismanagement going on in the club, that these kids were victim of, and Kippei wouldn’t stand for. So these guys probably think he hung the sun in the sky, and they worked their asses off for him. You add to that the obvious fact that Kippei’s the one making strategy for every game, and that they trust him to follow it, and you’ve got a really tight, dedicated team.” One that wasn’t Shishigaku. He glanced back down, and a sharp twinge of betrayal tore lose from his control as Shigaki faltered and Kushiyama was a little too slow to come forward and catch the ball he missed.

Tanaka was quiet for a moment, looking steadily at him. Eventually, he took a long swallow from his water bottle and rested his elbows on his knees. “That really casual tone isn’t fooling anyone, you know,” he said quietly. “Are you going to keep your temper enough to play Tachibana with a clear head?”

Senri closed his eyes as dismayed exclamations went up all around them, from his club. Four games to one, now. “As long as Kippei isn’t too much of an idiot,” he said lightly.

“Great,” Tanaka grumbled. “In other words, no.” He kicked Senri’s foot lightly. “Sit up straight and watch your damn team, Chitose. Appearances to the contrary, this round is about more than your grudge-match.”

Senri obediently pushed himself back upright. “I don’t know why Goumoto-sensei didn’t just make you captain, this year.”

“Because you’d never take directions from anyone but Tachibana.”

Senri’s head whipped around and he stared at Tanaka. Tanaka looked back, unblinking. “I sure as hell wouldn’t want to try to get you to do what I said,” he added, “so there was nothing to do but make you captain yourself.”

Senri sat very still under the weight of sudden memory, of old plans to be Kippei’s vice-captain, in their third year, and rag on him thoroughly, and lighten up Kippei’s seriousness—for the good of the team of course. Finally he shrugged out from under the weight and managed, “And you got nailed down to be the responsible one, huh?”

“Yeah.” Tanaka stowed away his towel and water, eyes on the match again. “So you’re not the only one who’s kind of pissed off at Tachibana for jumping ship on us.”

“Well,” Senri said after a long moment. “I’ll try not to make too much more work for you.”

He watched with a calm expression as Kushiyama and Shigaki wrested one more game from Fudoumine’s Doubles Two pair, and fought to the last, grim point for the final game. He came forward to meet them as they left the court, sympathetic and encouraging. He nodded reassurance to Goumoto-sensei’s faintly worried frown, and fished out his racquet, and sauntered onto the court with every appearance of ease. And he suppressed a shiver of anticipation as Kippei finally stood up from the coach’s bench. He’d tried to take care of the team, this year, and he was glad for all of them that they’d made it to Nationals again, but this match had been his real goal from the start.

Kippei was the only one he thought could help him find his real game again.


Kippei knew Senri was still angry at him (of course he was!), because Senri was smiling but not smiling at anyone. Nevertheless, when they met at the net, their hands wrapped around each other’s forearms, easy and familiar, and Kippei had to swallow a little hard. “Senri,” he said quietly. “It’s good to see you on the court again.”

Senri’s lazy grin sent a tingle of anticipation through him. “Likewise. And I’ll tell you something right now, Kippei.” Those dark eyes turned hard, and his hand tightened on Kippei’s arm. “The one thing I won’t forgive is you holding back. Understand?”

Kippei sucked in a quick breath, stifling his immediate protest. That was something more than one opponent had said to him, and some part of him knew he should have expected it from Senri, too. He couldn’t help remembering that moment of sinking cold, though, when he’d heard Senri had been permanently injured, had dropped the tennis club because of it. It took a few seconds of fighting that memory before he could bring himself to say, low, “All right.” Senri nodded back firmly.

“Good. Then let’s play this game.”

Kippei set himself on his side of the court, to receive. Senri tossed the ball up and his body arched into a long, easy curve, and suddenly it was like they’d never been apart. Kippei knew where the serve was coming in, was moving without thought to meet the tricky curve of its bounce and slam it back over the net. Like breathing out after breathing in, Senri was across the court to catch the ball, teeth flashing as his grin turned fierce. Kippei stretched into the return and a helpless laugh caught in his throat.

He’d missed this so much.

“Getting old and creaky, there, Kippei?” Senri taunted when he sliced the ball past Kippei for the first point. Kippei snorted, shifting his grip lightly on his racquet.

“See if you can do it twice!”

The next point was his, with a return ace that tore past before Senri could spin to catch it.

“Who’s slow and creaky, again?”

“Either that or fast and clumsy,” Senri shot back, and served again, fast and sure. “You need to get some style, Kippei!”

The banter was comfortable and familiar, but the second time Kippei took a point he’d expected Senri to catch, the oddness caught Kippei’s attention. Both times, Senri should have been able to return with a backhand; the second time, Kippei had actually been hoping for a cross shot to the corner of his court, so he could get a good angle for his return.

Both shots had been to Senri’s right side.

The first game went to Fudoumine, and Kippei eyed his old partner as he fished out a ball to serve. If he was right about this…

He served with all his strength, hard and fast toward Senri’s right side. And Senri hesitated just a moment too long, wobbling almost imperceptibly as he turned much further than he should have needed to. If he’d been able to see clearly on his right side, that is.

Kippei’s throat closed for a moment, and his hand clenched around the next ball. He couldn’t do anything to fix this. And he wouldn’t insult his friend by playing at less than full strength. But he could confine his shots to Senri’s left side, and put them back on even footing. It wouldn’t change what he’d done, nothing could fix that, but he could at least play evenly!

It was hard. His tennis wasn’t built on restraint or calculation. It was built on strength and strategy, hand in hand, and strategy said to aim for the right. The knowledge of his own guilt was sufficient to turn him back, but it made some of his shots awkward, and when he nearly tripped, spinning to catch a ball with his backhand instead of his fore, Senri called, “Did you forget how to tie your shoelaces, too, without me to remind you?”

Down one game already and two points behind Senri in the current one, Kippei had to admit Senri had cause to rag on him, and his mouth quirked. “Maybe.”

Senri’s eyes narrowed abruptly, and Kippei scolded himself for showing his own disturbance.

And all of a sudden, balls were coming relentlessly at his forehand side. The side that made it easiest to return to Senri’s right. Kippei scowled across the net at his friend, and stubbornly drove himself to get far enough behind each ball to return left instead. It cost him the last point of the third game, when Senri spun the ball hard and Kippei’s return went into the net. Senri straightened up, face dark.

“Goddamn it, Kippei!”

“Shut up, Senri!” Kippei snapped back pointing a warning finger at his friend. “I’m not aiming at the side you’re half blind on!”

Senri sliced his hand through the air. “And how the fuck am I supposed to figure out how to compensate for that if you won’t, you asshole?” he demanded furiously.

Kippei stopped short, staring. “You…” Senri wanted… Kippei’s help?

Senri was glaring. “I told you at the start, damn it! The one thing I won’t forgive is you holding back, so get your head out of your ass and play like you mean it!” He let out a harsh breath and finished, lower, “Or don’t you mean it, any more?”

“No, that’s not…!” Kippei ran a hand through his hair, thoughts jumbled into a confused pile-up. He hadn’t expected this. “You… do you think you can?” he finally asked, a little hesitant. He was sure, by now, that Senri’s peripheral vision on the right was significantly reduced.3

His friend lifted his chin, mouth hard and proud. “Who do you think you’re talking to, Kippei? Just play full out, so I can, too.”

It hit Kippei abruptly that, just as he’d been holding himself back, so had Senri. Senri wasn’t playing with the weight or speed of no-self. “Senri…”

“Just play, Kippei,” Senri said, and his voice was flat, but his eyes on Kippei were intent, waiting, demanding.

Kippei took a deep breath. If this was what Senri wanted, then he’d do it. “All right.”

Senri nodded shortly and stalked back in his side of the court to receive. When he turned around, poised and still, Kippei felt his spine straightening and his shoulders settling. He knew that stance, knew the weight of Senri’s focus when he reached down into himself for the blazing reflexes of no-self, and played like nothing could stop him. Not his opponent, not his injury, not gravity itself. Kippei threw the ball up and answered that focus with all the wild force and eagerness Senri’s game had always called out of him. The ball tore the air toward Senri’s right side.

And Senri… was there. Even though he hadn’t turned, probably couldn’t see the ball, his racquet was there, right where it needed to be, and the ball was singing back over the net on a perfect line.

This rally was twice as fierce as their first, and Kippei threw himself into it without restraint. It felt like he was being pulled forward, unable to resist the speed and brilliance. It was brutal. It was incredible. He never wanted to stop. He could hear the cheering from the side of the court, knew both teams were on their feet and shouting for their captains, but it was distant. Right now there was only Senri, and the fight between them as they clawed for control of the ball. The sixth game reached deuce seven times before Kippei slammed two consecutive points past Senri’s razor-sharp defense.

And though Senri faltered now and then to start with, as the match went on he answered the shots on his right side steadier, faster, until his returns were as sure as they’d ever been, settling solidly into place once more. Now Kippei understood. Senri had needed him, needed someone whose game he knew as well as his own, who could still push him to the edge. He’d needed the familiarity and force of Kippei’s tennis to help him find the edge again. Kippei had been wrong; he was exactly the one, the only one, who could help fix what he’d done. It was the absolution he’d never thought was possible, and it washed away every hesitation until he was driving shot after wild, glorious shot toward Senri, without fear. This was his partner, his rival, the one he would never give up to.

It wasn’t until the referee called the set, 7-5 in Senri’s favor, that Kippei remembered he’d started the real match one game down. Damn it. He met Senri at the net, panting for breath, and seized his hand. “Your set this time. Don’t get cocky; I’ll take it back next time we play.”

Senri laughed, just as breathless. “A win is a win, and don’t you forget it. And next time I’d better not have to kick your ass to get you to play for real.” He hauled Kippei in and they pounded each other on the back, grinning like madmen.

“You won’t,” Kippei promised, holding Senri off at arm’s length. “I’m sorry I left like that,” he added, quieter. “And I’m sorry I held back. You had every right to kick my ass for that. I didn’t understand.”

“Ah, that’s okay. You’ve always been a little slow.” Senri waved a magnanimous hand, and laughed when Kippei slugged him in the shoulder.

It was hard to pull away, to turn back toward their separate teams, and Kippei flushed a little when he saw the lingering shock on his players’ faces as they stood up against the short, wire fence at the edge of the court. That had been a lot less dignified than they were used to expecting of him, he supposed.

He still couldn’t quite stop grinning.


Kamio Akira watched the Doubles One match getting started and shared a rueful look with Shinji. Mori and Uchimura were off balance, and the Shishigaku pair were pressing their advantage ruthlessly. From the coach’s bench, in front of them, Tachibana-san sighed softly.

“If I’d had any idea I might be playing that kind of match again, I’d have tried to explain my old style in a little more detail,” he murmured.

“It wasn’t the style, Tachibana-san,” Shinji said flatly.

Their captain turned his head a little, brow arched at them.

“It wasn’t, really,” Ishida put in, rubbing a hand over the back of his neck. “I mean, it was an intense game. It was amazing! But… it’s you. We weren’t too surprised by that part.”

“What was the surprise then?” Tachibana-san sounded amused, even as they all watched Shishigaku take the first game and sweep into the second, pressing Mori and Uchimura hard.

“Well, I mean… we’ve um…”

“It was kind of a shock to hear you calling another player names like that,” Sakurai came to his partner’s rescue as Ishida started turning red.

Tachibana-san cleared his throat. “Ah. That.”

Akira swore Tachibana-san was turning a little red, too, which was a little alarming, coming from their normally collected captain.

“Senri and I only ever really did that with each other. I… didn’t honestly think we’d ever play like that again, though.” Tachibana-san glanced over at the corner of the fence, under the trees, where the Shishigaku club was spread out, Chitose sprawled on the walk beside the rest of his team, and Akira sighed.

“So, does this mean it’s okay for me to call Kaidou ‘viper’ from now on?” he asked, joking, and relaxed when Tachibana-san laughed out loud, distracted again from his painful history with the player who was so obviously still his best friend and best rival.

“Only if both of you can keep your tempers while doing it!”

“So, no,” Shinji translated. He leaned his shoulder briefly against Akira’s though, silent approval for helping their captain settle after that incredible game they’d just watched.

Mori and Uchimura were settling down, too, finding their feet again and pushing back against the Shishigaku pair. Akira nodded with satisfaction as Uchimura broke off his vicious short-range volley with his Shishigaku opponent and fell aside to let Mori slam the point home, catching the other pair off guard. Shinji, though, frowned at the scoreboard and caught Akira’s eye, shaking his head faintly. Akira hesitated, but when the Shishigaku pair dashed into a solid two-up formation and took another point, he growled grudging agreement.

Tachibana-san glanced back at them again. “Do you see it?”

“Both pairs are really closely matched,” Akira said for both of them. “And Mori and Uchimura are down two games.”

“Exactly.” Those straight shoulders didn’t slump, but Tachibana-san’s voice got quieter as he said, “Because of my miscalculation, Mori and Uchimura had a handicap at the beginning, and they’ve lost ground it will be very hard to regain.”

“The last match will be ours,” Shinji said levelly, eyes fixed on the court. It was encouragement, an offer of confidence, and the smile Tachibana-san shot them over his shoulder gave it back doubled.

“Of course it will.”

Akira felt the team steady around him, upheld by that confidence. Not for the first time this summer, he wondered what the hell they were going to do next year, when Tachibana-san would have graduated.

Again, Shinji’s shoulder brushed his, and Akira glanced over to see the faint smile on Shinji’s lips, though he hadn’t looked away from the court. Akira grinned back for a moment. Yeah, maybe together they’d manage. It wouldn’t be the same, but… maybe they could still do it. Especially since Akira was pretty sure a few of the onlookers clustered on the little hill south of the court were from Fudoumine. They were gawking instead of cheering, but Akira figured it was a start.

Fudoumine would keep going.


“That was not a brand new pair,” Nakamura declared flatly, throwing Oonita’s water to him as his partner collapsed on the bench panting. “Why haven’t we heard about them before?”

“I heard,” Oonita said between swallows, “they played Seigaku’s Ooishi and Kikumaru early on this season. Took four games off them.”

“Kippei found some good talent, and he’s had them training hard, I bet,” Chitose murmured, with a lazy smile at the opponent’s coach’s bench.

Tanaka Keiichi rolled his eyes. No one had ever been entirely sure, watching Chitose and Tachibana play, whether to call for a fire-truck or tell them to get a room, and that clearly hadn’t changed just because of a year apart.

He was glad to see it.

“Ihara,” he called to their second year singles player, “looks like it’s up to you.”

“Sure thing, senpai,” Ihara said coolly, testing the gut of his racquet.

Keiichi pursed his lips, wanting to remind Ihara to be careful, but if Ihara hadn’t taken enough note of one after another of his teammates coming back off the court wrung out and half-shocked, whether they’d won or not, then he’d just have to learn the hard way. He knew Ihara didn’t think too highly of the casual tone they’d all fallen into this year, what with Chitose as captain. He was probably going to be an absolute demon as captain, next year. But he really needed stop taking other players quite so much at face value.

“Is he going to be okay?” Nakamura muttered, as Ihara strode out onto the court and shook hands briskly with his dark-haired opponent “I know we thought Tachibana would completely front-load their line-up, so Doubles One and Singles One would be weaker, but I’m telling you Tanaka, if that pair hadn’t been off their stride, at first, I don’t know if we would have won.”

Nakamura and Oonita hadn’t lost a match yet, this season. Not even to those bastards from Higa. Only one other pair had even pushed them to a 7-5 score, like the one that had finished this match. “I guess we’ll see,” Keiichi said quietly, watching the first serve.

The whole match was a quiet one. Neither opponent had a word to say to the other, and Fudoumine was sitting back with apparently perfect confidence, while Keiichi’s own team were all just about holding their breaths. It looked like Ihara was holding his own, though; at least Ibu didn’t seem to be driving the pace. Fudoumine’s confidence made Keiichi watch closely, though, and he cursed softly when he realized that Ibu wasn’t drawing the rallies out because he couldn’t finish them.

“What?” Nakamura demanded, glancing at him.

Chitose chuckled, leaning back with his hands clasped around his knee as he watched. “That kid’s a vicious one. It’ll be right about… now.”

Ihara completely missed what should have been an easy return.

It happened again, as they watched. And again. “Repetitive motion,” Nakamura finally said, frowning. “He’s forcing exactly the same motion to return his shots, over and over.”

“Alternating over and under, too, until the muscles just freeze up,” Chitose agreed, eyes sharp on the Fudoumine player, for all his lazy pose. “Goumoto-sensei sees it.”

Indeed, their coach had called Ihara over for a few words, after which Ihara stalked back out onto the court, glaring fit to fry his opponent to a cinder. Ibu, Keiichi couldn’t help noticing, was smiling faintly. “Tachibana isn’t the only one over there who knows a little about psychological games,” he said dryly.

“Mmm.” Chitose eyed Tachibana thoughtfully, across the court. “Kippei found a team full of fighters, that’s for sure.”

Found them and sharpened their edge, Keiichi thought, and did it at full tilt for a year, with no Chitose around to take up his energy. Suddenly, this year’s Fudoumine made much more sense to him.

With that thought in mind, he was less surprised than the rest of the team when Ibu started pushing the pace ruthlessly, taking three points in a row with a sharp twist serve, catching Ihara’s subtle low slice without a blink, brushing a delicate drop shot over the net just when Ihara was wound up from returning a series of fast, hard drives. It was like watching a musician playing his instrument.

By the time Ibu won, six games to four, no one was really surprised.

They all lined up properly to end the round, and Keiichi tried to decide whether he was more irritated that they’d been beaten by the team their own ace had run off and formed, or more satisfied that at least it was their ace’s team they’d lost to. The vivid triumph on the faces of the team across the net actually helped; clearly they thought defeating Shishigaku meant something. His amusement at the way Chitose and Tachibana eyed each other, hands still clasped over the net, looking like they’d be perfectly happy to go another round, also helped. When Tachibana’s vice-captain eyed those clasped hands and stirred restlessly, like he wanted to pull his captain away from Chitose, Keiichi’s sense of the ridiculous revived all the way, and he chuckled.

It was a good thing he’d recovered his equanimity, because as they were packing up, he had to go collect his nominal captain from among Fudoumine.

“You realize, if you lose after this, I’m going to kick your ass,” Chitose was saying as Keiichi reached them.

Tachibana laughed. “You can try.”

“Asshole.”

“Jerk.”

“Chicken.”

“Nag.”

“When are you coming home, Kippei?” Chitose asked, suddenly serious. Keiichi winced a little at the flash of pain and conflict over Tachibana’s face. It wasn’t only on the court that those two were a little brutal with each other.

As Tachibana was drawing breath for whatever reply he might have made, though, it was his red-haired vice-captain who stepped forward. “Next year,” he said firmly.

Tachibana turned his head, brows lifting, but the red-head stood firm, looking up at him steadily. “We’d lose you next year anyway, once you graduated,” he said, and glanced at Chitose. “And this is… it’s something you need, Tachibana-san. We could all see that.” Then he lifted his chin and glowered at Chitose. “But until then, Tachibana-san is captain of Fudoumine!”

After a long moment, Chitose smiled. “Yeah. Okay. I can wait that long.”

“Do I get any say in this?” Tachibana asked mildly, but he smiled and rumpled his vice-captain’s hair when the kid turned red. “I’m Fudoumine’s coach, as well as captain. I’ll stay until I graduate.” He looked up at Chitose, eyes suddenly burning the way they did on the court. “And Fudoumine will carry Shishigaku’s honor along with our own, in this tournament.”

Chitose nodded, though his smile was tilted, and Tachibana gathered up his team with a single gesture. They fell in behind him as he strode down the tree-lined walkway, heads high despite having to face Shitenhouji next. Keiichi sighed a bit wistfully; he’d have really liked to have had a captain like that, this year.

“He’s so damn old-fashioned, sometimes,” Chitose muttered, shaking his head, and clapped Keiichi on the shoulder. “Well, come on, then. Kaa-san said she’d drop Miyuki off at the hotel tonight, so she can watch the second day matches; I should be there when she comes, so she doesn’t destroy the place or anything. Ihara!” he called. “Quit sulking and come eat dinner!”

Keiichi sighed a little and went to direct packing up the team’s bus, turning in their paperwork, and all the other little details Chitose was so bad at. He was really looking forward to next year.

Watching Fudoumine made him remember what it was like to play on a team with both Chitose and Tachibana, and he wanted to feel that again.

Round Two: Rokkaku vs. Higa

Kite Eishirou watched with quiet satisfaction as his club cut through the chattering crowd of Nationals like divers through the water, quick and confident. The first round had gone just as he’d predicted, even without watching, and his accuracy had calmed his team’s nerves. They walked straight and proud, now, among the clutter of Kantou teams.

“Rokkaku first, then,” Kai remarked, strolling at Eishirou’s shoulder with his hands jammed into his pockets. “You sure about putting Tanishi in for Singles Three? I mean, we’ve got you and Rin for Two and One; I haven’t heard Rokkaku was that strong in singles.” He cocked an eye up at Eishirou under the brim of his cap, obviously wanting to know if his captain was holding out on him.

Eishirou smiled faintly. “Tanishi-kun will simply hedge our bets.” He would be cautious, even though he hadn’t heard anything singular about Rokkaku’s young Aoi. There must have been some reason to make a first-year their captain, after all.

Their court for this round was at the far end of the line of courts, and the sun was falling full across it as the afternoon drew on. The hard surface sent up little shimmers of heat. Eishirou nodded with silent satisfaction, as they filed in through the gate and lined up across from Rokkaku, Saotome trailing in their wake to thump down on the coach’s bench. None of these teams who lived and trained on central Honshu would cope with the day’s heat as well as a team from Okinawa. Despite that, he measured the members of Rokkaku carefully, as they bowed to each other. He noted the powerful leg muscles of one, the long arms and sharp eyes of another, the eagerness of Aoi, youngest of them all but bizarrely well-grown for a first-year. Most of all, he noted that Saeki, the vice-captain and the one who’d calmed Aoi all during the place drawing for Nationals, was watching his opponents just as intently as Eishirou.

That would be the player to watch for, all right, and no guarantee where Saeki might show up.

The referee called the names for Singles Three and Eishirou snorted to himself as the club retired to their side of the court, outside the low fence that topped the retaining wall on that end. He had counted on Saeki not being Singles Three, but that was only because of the downright monotonous persistence with which Aoi seemed to take that slot. “Set the pace for us, Tanishi-kun,” he murmured, as he passed, and Tanishi nodded, eyes glittering as they fixed on his bouncing opponent.

Aoi set himself and served, quick and respectably precise, but nothing Tanishi couldn’t catch. Eishirou nodded with satisfaction as a brief rally ended in Tanishi’s ball blasting past Aoi’s foot, hard enough to scuff the court. The next point went almost as quickly.

“That’s their captain?” Kai drawled, draped over the fence beside him. “Seriously?”

“He’s not unskilled,” Eishirou pointed out. “And he doesn’t seem concerned, yet.” More importantly, neither Rokkaku’s ancient coach nor Saeki seemed especially worried as the first game went to Tanishi.

“Is that all you’ve got?” Tanishi demanded, lip curled as he pulled out one of his own balls to serve.

Aoi was grinning cheerfully. “Oh, I always lose the first few games! I play best when I’m under pressure.”

“Cocky little bastard,” Chinen muttered through his teeth, hands closing tight around the top of the fence. “His team, too.”

“Mm.” Eishirou tilted a brow up as he watched Rokkaku. Most of them were rolling their eyes and laughing, obviously expecting this little quirk. But Saeki’s laugh seemed a bit forced, as he watched Tanishi’s face darken. Eishirou smiled. They’d just have to prove his concerns right and rattle the rest of these too-casual types. That would be a good pace-setter indeed.

“You want pressure?” Tanishi growled. “I’ll show you some pressure, runt!” He leaped for the serve, meeting the ball and holding it on his gut as he whipped the racquet down, whole body contracting, and Eishirou made a soft sound of approval. A few Big Bang serves should give Tanishi a comfortable lead.

Tanishi took the game in four service aces that left Aoi shaking out his stinging hand, racquet knocked nearly off the court.

“That’s a pretty good serve, all right,” he agreed, so matter-of-fact that half of Higa glowered at him suspiciously, suspecting mockery. “Okay, then!” Aoi took a deep breath, and declared. “If I don’t win the next game, I’m not allowed to ask any girls out for a month!” He trotted back to his service line and bounced his ball a few times, suddenly much more focused.

Kai was choking on a swallow of water. “That’s their captain?” he wheezed, pounding his chest. “You’re fucking kidding me!”

Hirakoba, lounging in a sprawl of long limbs and pale hair under one of the trees behind them, was sniggering. “I guess that one really did get an early start on his growth spurt.”

Kai’s eyes were turning hard under the edge of his cap, though, and his smile had a cutting edge as he leaned over the fence and yelled, “Show him what kind of game this is, Tanishi!”

Tanishi was already snarling, driving the ball back at Aoi. Aoi just smiled, cocky and happy, and his next ball hit the top of the net, leaped up and just barely tipped over. “Don’t underestimate me,” he warned.

And then he started.

“Back at you,” Tanishi said, already at the net, and batted the ball back over to take the point.

Eishirou folded his arms, listening with satisfaction to the sudden buzz from the other side of the court, as Rokkaku asked each other what had just happened. He didn’t expect them to figure it out any time soon. Tanishi’s Shukuchihou was smooth and fast, for all his bulk, hard for even his teammates to follow when he was moving forward on the court.

Higa was cheering as Tanishi took another point, and another before Aoi finally gave up on his cord ball and settled down to fight it out with deeper drives. At least the kid finally looked focused, and Kai and Chinen were both relaxing from their edge of fury at not being taken seriously. Aoi wrestled two points away from Tanishi, but the third game went to Higa, and Tanishi was still playing hot and angry. The fourth game went fast, in a bruising string of Big Bang serves. Eishirou made a thoughtful sound, and Kai cocked an eye up at him.

“What? It’s almost in the bag, isn’t it?”

“Perhaps it’s just as well if Tanishi finishes this quickly, yes,” Eishirou allowed, watching closely as Aoi fell back to serve. “Aoi-kun is starting to get used to his strength and range.”

“Already?” Kai straightened up, startled, and Eishirou shook his head just a little at his vice-captain’s lack of observation whenever he wasn’t the one actually playing.

“Rokkaku is always a strong contender in their own region, and often at Nationals. Don’t underestimate them just because one of them acts like he’s thinking with the wrong head.”

“Well, seriously, what am I supposed to think when he’s prancing around the court all grinning and running on about his dates?” Kai grumbled, hanging over the sun-heated fence again with an eloquent slouch.

“Maybe the kid actually enjoys playing tennis,” Hirakoba needled from under his tree, and Kai gave him a hard look over his shoulder.

“Don’t enjoy yourself so much you forget what we’re here for,” he ordered, and Hirakoba waved a lazy hand, leaning back in the shade.

Eishirou listened with half an ear, most of his attention on the court. Aoi clearly still didn’t know how to read Tanishi’s forward movement, but, perhaps on instinct, he was starting to aim for the corners, trying to get the ball past Tanishi’s range. It was working. The fifth game was close, but Aoi took the last two points with deep drives and pumped a fist in the air triumphantly as his first win was called.

Tanishi’s teeth were bared, and he didn’t even glance at their coach, or at Eishirou. He took his service game with a string of Big Bangs that blew Aoi’s racquet out of his hand with every shot. Eishirou sighed to himself, as Tanishi and Aoi dove straight into the seventh game without pausing. He would never wish to reduce the drive and motivation of his team members, but he did wish, every now and then, that more of them would remember to pace themselves.

Okinawa had decades of resentment built up, though, and he didn’t pretend he hadn’t known exactly what he was doing when he’d laid his hand on that bitter anger to drive his team to Nationals.

“Still can’t figure out why this kid is captain,” Kai muttered, folding his arms on the fence and resting his chin on them. “He’s nothing special. No strategy at all.”

Eishirou pushed his glasses up his nose and looked sidelong at his vice-captain. “And you have what familiarity with strategy, to judge this?”

“Hey!” Kai was grinning, though. “But, I mean, look at him. He’s figured out to hit to the corners, you’d think he’d know to alternate the corners with that cord ball of his, to make Tanishi run around and wear him out.”

“He does seem very… straightforward,” Eishirou allowed, a bit dryly. And a good thing, too. Tanishi had spent enough of his endurance, serving with such demanding shots every time, that if Aoi had had the sense to wear him down until those serves lost their full force, the game might have been in doubt. Fortunately that didn’t seem to occur to Aoi.

Eishirou had to admit, he couldn’t see what might have possessed anyone to make this boy captain, either, or what would make a reasonably strong team follow him. Perhaps the jokes he’d heard here and there, about Rokkaku’s coach getting senile, were actually true.

Aoi did take the seventh game, but the eighth was another of Tanishi’s service games, and he wasn’t fatally worn down yet. Eishirou smiled as the match was called in Higa’s favor and his club erupted into cheers around him. Chinen slapped hands with Tanishi as he came off the court, passing him a water bottle. “Good work,” Eishirou told him, and Tanishi bobbed his head, breathless but nearly glowing with the victory. Eishirou smiled just a little. This was how it should be. “Aragaki, Shiranui,” he called. “You’re up. Wear them down.”

His Doubles Two pair grinned like sharks, twirling their racquets. There hadn’t been a single pair who could outlast them in any tournament this year. “Sure thing, Buchou,” Aragaki said.

“Shudou-Kisarazu pair versus the Shiranui-Aragaki pair,” the referee called, and the Rokkaku pair came to the net to shake hands. It was the lean player with long hair and the compact, muscled one who looked like he should have been a model, all sun-gilded hair and easy smile.

“Easy meat,” Chinen drawled.

“We’ll see,” Eishirou murmured, watching as the match started.

The Rokkaku pair were good. The long-haired player—Ryou his partner called him, must be Kisarazu—he played up front, light on his feet. He took the first point with a subtle, curving shot over the net. His partner held the back with a solid defense that even Aragaki’s drives were having trouble getting through.

“Bets on how long the Rokkaku pair is going to last?” Kai asked lightly, and Tanishi laughed. Eishirou made a noncommittal sound, which his team only expected of him. This time, though, it was genuine. This match was a risk. Of course, the game itself was always a risk, but as another of Kisarazu’s long-floating slices drifted over Shiranui’s racquet, Eishirou knew this one would be closer than he liked. His pair was more flexible, changing formation quicker and smoother, but they just didn’t have the edge of technique that Kisarazu brought his own pair.

On the other hand, he smiled to himself as Shiranui reached the net in time to return a tricky drop shot, Higa still had advantages. Shiranui’s Shukuchihou might not be as polished as Tanishi’s or Chinen’s, and Aragaki might not have mastered it at all, but in doubles it was still enough and his team knew how to use even small advantages ruthlessly.

“What is that movement?” Kisarazu demanded of thin air, shoving back his hair with clear exasperation. A wave of chuckles swept Higa’s club, smug and pleased, and Eishirou allowed himself a small smile.

“Shukuchihou.”

Eishirou stiffened, and heads whipped around as the creaky voice of Rokkaku’s coach drifted over the court, and the old man took a sip of his tea, completely unconcerned. “It’s a way of moving, found in Okinawan martial arts,” he added, “to approach an opponent swiftly or unnoticed. Far more efficient than the natural movement of running, it wastes no motion in kicking against the ground. One falls forward with the force of gravity, as it were.”

Kai hissed, beside him. “That dried up, old…”

“They can’t counter it, in doubles,” Eishirou cut over him, clear enough to be heard by his team. As they settled, though, he stayed tense; for this to be revealed during a doubles match only meant the singles players would have longer to think about the implications. Saeki, at least, knew it, too; he was up against the fence, watching sharply as the pairs rallied for another point. And there wasn’t a damn thing they could do about it right now. Eishirou cast a cold eye over the Rokkaku team, searching for the weak point, considering how best to exploit whatever he found.

And then he saw Saotome’s gesture to Shiranui, fingers flicking at Rokkaku’s coach, instructing Shiranui to aim for the old man, and his hands closed on the fence, white-knuckled.

“What?” Kai asked softly, drawing close against his shoulder, eyes sharp. “We knew we’d probably need it against Rokkaku.”

“It’s too early,” Eishirou said between his teeth, hanging on to his impassive expression by his fingernails. “It will unsettle this pair, yes, but there’s the other pair and Saeki still to play, and they’re too likely to be focused by their anger instead of distracted. It’s too high a risk just for some idiot notion of revenge; we should save this for the critical match, damn it Shiranui look at me.” If he could catch Shiranui’s eye, he could countermand the order.

But Shiranui, like the rest of the team, was used to this tactic, knew they’d planned for it, and followed their coach’s directions as Doubles Two started into the second game.

The old man was thrown straight off his bench by the ball that caught him in the face.

At almost any other point in the game, Eishirou would have felt some satisfaction in the sudden disorder of Rokkaku’s club as they rushed onto the court, match forgotten, gathering around their coach. When he saw the way Saeki’s head came up to focus like a sighting laser on Higa, though, Eishirou just sighed under his breath. “Well, that’s torn it,” he muttered to Kai. “At least two matches that are going to be far harder than they should have been just because our fool of a coach can’t keep it in his pants.”

Kai choked, eyes wide under the warm brown frizz of his hair. “Damn. You are pissed off.”

Eishirou looked down on the court coolly. “Yes. And some day very soon, Saotome will know it.”


“Ojii!”

Saeki Koujirou didn’t remember how he got down onto the court, but he was on his knees beside Ojii, hands hovering over their coach’s shoulders, afraid even to touch him.

“Sae!” Someone had his shoulder, shaking him. “Saeki snap out of it! The first aid crew is coming.” Kurobane, that was it. And now Koujirou could hear the referee on his radio to the first aid station, telling them to call an ambulance and bring a stretcher and braces.

“He’s breathing. He’s okay,” Itsuki whispered, across from him. “He’s going to be okay, right?”

Koujirou sucked in a hard breath and made himself lay a hand on Ojii’s arm. “Of course he will,” he managed, only a little husky. “He’ll be fine. They’ll take him to the hospital and he’ll be fine.” He looked around at his team, at Aoi, nearly in tears, at Ryou and Shudou, both shocked and white, racquets abandoned on the court, at Davide, stiff and dangerously still beside his partner, at Kurobane’s furiously clenched jaw.

And then he looked up at the Higa team. The one who’d hit Ojii had his racquet propped casually on his shoulder, and his partner was smirking a little. Koujirou remembered the signal Higa’s coach had made, and glanced over to find him leaning back on his bench with folded arms and a vicious smile.

It had been on purpose.

Rage closed over Koujirou like deep water, like a tsunami wave rushing in, ready to break, dark and vicious. He might have lunged for Higa’s Doubles Two right then and there, if the first aid team hadn’t arrived, gently pushing Rokkaku away from their coach, murmuring quick, incomprehensible reports to each other as they inflated a brace under Ojii’s neck and carefully slid a stretcher under him.

“We’ll get him right to the hospital,” the shorter of them said to the team, kindly. “I’m sure he’ll be fine. There should be room in the ambulance for one or two of you, if you want to come and see for yourself.”

“My match is over, let me go!” Aoi held out his hands, entreating. “I’ll call and let you know as soon as they say anything!”

A very cold part of Koujirou wondered if part of Higa’s plan had been to draw away some of the regulars who hadn’t played yet. Well, they’d find out otherwise. “Yeah, go,” he said. “And let us know where, when you get there; we’ll join you after this round is done. Take Takeuchi with you, and don’t forget your phone,” he called after Aoi as their young captain darted after the stretcher, and scrubbed his hands over his face. “Fuck.”

“Do you want to continue the match,” the referee asked them, hesitant and sympathetic, “or do you want to…”

“We’re not forfeiting.” Koujirou’s voice came out cold and hard, and even his own team rocked back a step from him as he looked up.

“Right.” The referee eyed him like a firework with the fuse sizzling. “Well, if that’s the case, Doubles Two needs to resume play.”

Koujirou snorted as the man retreated rather hastily to his chair, and looked over at Ryou and Shudou. “Can you keep going?”

“We have to,” Ryou said, low, hands wringing around each other. “I mean… Ojii wouldn’t want us to just stop. Would he?”

“Course he wouldn’t.” Kurobane clapped Ryou and Shudou briskly on the shoulders. “Show those Higa bastards that they can’t win this easy.”

Shudou pulled in a long, shaky breath and nodded, stepping back onto the court to pick up his racquet. “Okay.”

“I don’t know if they’re going to get this match back,” Kurobane murmured to Koujirou as the club filed off the court and the remaining team moved back against the fence, lined up behind the empty coach’s bench.

Koujirou watched as Shudou turned the wrong way and missed a drive he would normally have returned easily, and his lips thinned. “You’re right.” He glanced over at Amane, standing on Bane’s far side, absolutely silent, with his arms folded tight. “Are you guys going to be all right?” he asked quietly.

Bane slung his arm around Amane without looking, hand tight on his partner’s shoulder. After a long, still moment, Amane took his first visible breath since Ojii had been hit, and leaned back against the fence and Bane’s arm. Kurobane nodded to Koujirou, perfectly steady though his eyes were still hot.

Kurobane’s support settled Koujirou a little, but when he looked at Itsuki, on his other side, standing with his fingers wound into the links of the fence, tense and miserable, rage flared again. Higa had done this to break his team. And it was possible they’d succeeded, at least in the short term.

He watched the Doubles Two match, jaw tight with silent fury, and when it ended in Rokkaku’s loss, he could only clasp Ryou and Shudou’s shoulders silently as he stalked past them onto the court.

It was Higa’s captain he met at the net, and Kite gave him a cool nod. “I see we were thinking the same thing.”

About the importance of Singles Two, he meant, of course, but Koujirou couldn’t stop his lip curling, and didn’t try. “No, I really don’t believe we think alike at all.” He jerked his head at the Higa coach, sprawled genially on his bench with his arms crossed over his beer gut, at the Doubles Two pair laughing with their teammates now. “Is that really the way your team plays?”

Kite looked back at him levelly. “Higa plays to win.”

“Then Higa just made a big mistake,” Koujirou snarled, and stalked back to his service line. He served lightly, just across the net, and then drove the return deep into the far corner. Kite didn’t turn a hair at either shot, and he was behind each one with that slick movement so many of Higa seemed to use. Koujirou did it again, a drop shot and then a corner drive in the other direction, pushing himself to place each ball precisely, watching, measuring the play and shift of his opponent’s muscles, gauging what that movement demanded.

There were jibes from Higa, now, and Tanishi’s voice called, “You won’t catch our captain that way! He can use Shukuchihou to move in any direction!”

Which meant not all of them could, and Koujirou tucked that thought away before he let himself toss back his head and laugh. The Higa club fell silent, and Koujirou bared his teeth at Kite. “Not a natural movement, hm?” he asked softly, voice carrying in the hush.

Kite’s eyes narrowed.

Koujirou threw himself into the game, working the court from every angle possible to drive Kite side to side, front to back, forcing him to use the technique Koujirou could see was straining his muscles. His wrists ached from turning his racquet to such wildly differing angles, and the first game reached deuce five times before Koujirou took the last point. He knew he was playing recklessly, spending his strength into the game without reservation, to drive Kite to the edge along with him, to use up his endurance on that so very effective but so very demanding movement of Shukuchihou. There was no banter or taunts as the serve changed, just Kite’s cold-eyed acknowledgment as he threw the ball up and leaped for it with a form Koujirou recognized. Big Bang. It hit his racquet like a wall falling, and Koujirou winced at the spike of pain in his wrists as his racquet tore out of his hands.

When he looked across the net this time, Kite was smiling faintly. Koujirou’s lip curled and he set himself to meet the next serve, trying to turn a little with it, take some of the force from the ball. It was still too much, pushed him too far around, but at least he kept his racquet this time. Higa’s club was snickering, obviously not believing anyone could return this serve, but Koujirou had watched the Kantou finals. He couldn’t replicate precisely what Echizen did, but he remembered a little first-year catching Sanada’s Fire. More was possible than anyone had thought, before watching that match, and his focus on the ball narrowed further.

On the third serve, he turned the other way, putting his right shoulder to the ball, bracing his racquet there. The impact was bruising, and he could feel right away he didn’t have enough flex in his gut to return the ball, and it bounced short of the net. A gust of laughter ran through Higa’s club.

Kite wasn’t smiling any more, though.

Koujirou bared his teeth and set his feet again, ready for the last ball. He thought he might just have it, now.

Kite stared over the net at him for a long moment before he cast the ball up to serve. It was the Big Bang again, and Koujirou laughed as it came. He turned to brace his racquet against his shoulder again, but when the ball struck this time, he stepped forward on the left, turning and lunging, holding the ball on his racquet for a long moment before uncoiling to hurl it back. He could feel the flex of the gut through the grip and knew this one would have the force it needed.

The ball hit the net, hard enough to jar the weighted bottom.

The referee called the score, one game all, in dead silence. Fury and satisfaction curled hot through Koujirou, along with the growing strain of such intense play. He would teach Higa just what kind of mistake they’d made, rousing Rokkaku. He whirled and stalked back to his baseline, fishing out a ball, and he felt Kite’s eyes on his back all the way.

The games were brutal, for a match of technique against technique, of Koujirou’s carefully controlled near and far shots against Kite’s Shukuchihou, of that braced and coiling return against the Big Bang. They hammered at each other mercilessly, across the net, pushing and pushing to find the breaking point of bone and muscle. Koujirou thought, distantly, that he might have fallen already if the cold weight of his rage weren’t holding him together. He could feel the burn in his arms and wrists as he twisted his racquet, the trembling in his calves that told him he’d have cramps the moment he stood still, the numbness of his right shoulder that paid for every serve he returned. He could hear the shocked silence of both clubs, watching.

Neither of them had dropped a service game, yet.

By the time the referee called six games all, Koujirou could hear the rough, hoarse edge to his own breathing, and every breath felt like it scraped the insides of his lungs. But his fixed glare didn’t waver from Kite, and the eyes that met his were grim.

Tiebreak.

The Rokkaku club was calling out to him again, and shouts of “Seven points!” rose from both sides. Koujirou couldn’t look away from Kite, so he just nodded and cast his ball up to serve.

His serve was weaker, now, but still as precise as ever, calling Kite up to the net to catch it. Kite never stepped wrong, but his return was shaky, hands less sure than his feet now. Koujirou’s focus narrowed and narrowed again, down to nothing but the ball, nothing but the need to reach it, return it, drive Kite back and take the point. And the point after that. Kite took the third one, and Koujirou’s teeth clenched, as if he could hold on to his last shreds of endurance that way. As if he could feel Kite’s throat between them.

He couldn’t let go now.

Five points to four, in his favor, and he could hardly feel the court’s surface under his feet any more. There was only the pressure of the sun, holding him down to the ground, and the movement of the ball over the net, and the hesitation he could see in Kite’s strokes.

Six to four, in his favor, with a flat, two-handed smash that made his bruised shoulder howl. He couldn’t see anything outside the court, and it didn’t matter.

Six to five, when Kite made a drop shot that Koujirou just couldn’t get to, not any more. He knew, somewhere in the darkness outside his rigid focus, that he didn’t have the strength to play for much longer. He had to take the next point. He would not let Higa get away with another win after what they’d done.

The thought made the icy rage in his chest flare again, and he drove himself against the court, against the ball coming back toward him. He drove the ball with all the vicious strength of that ice, into the far corner, back and back, to strike just inside the lines. Kite spun with the lightness that never seemed to leave his steps, dashing back to catch the ball before it came down.

And finally, finally, stumbled.

The second thop as the ball landed again and gave the seventh point and Singles Two to Koujirou was swept under a storm of cheering from Rokkaku. Koujirou wanted to join in, wanted to scream his triumph, but he didn’t have the breath. It came out as a thin, raw sound between his teeth as he swayed on his feet.

And then there was a shoulder under his arm, and Bane was half carrying him off the court, easing him down onto the coach’s bench.

“You’re a crazy man,” Bane informed him, catching the water bottle Davide threw him. “Here, drink this.”

Koujirou sipped at the straw in between heaving breaths, and made a disgusted face at the taste of electrolyte solution. Bane thwapped him lightly over the head.

“Don’t give me that. You’ll thank me when you don’t pass out, ten minutes from now.”

Koujirou took another sip and made an even worse face. “Had to,” he rasped hoarsely. “Had to break their momentum.”

Bane snorted. “That and you were pissed off, and you’re a scary bastard when you finally get mad, Sae” he said matter-of-fact, and stood. “So sit there and drink your damn minerals and just watch. Keep an eye on him,” he added to Itsuki, and jerked his head at Davide.

Davide finished scraping his hair back and took the hairband out of his teeth to wrap it tight. “Let’s go,” he said quietly. The two of them caught up their racquets and strode onto the court.

“Are you sure you’re going to be all right, Saeki?” Itsuki asked, standing behind his shoulder. Koujirou tipped his head back to smile up at him wearily, and maybe Bane had a point; the world was kind of weirdly bright at the moment. Itt-chan looked a little glowy.

“I’m fine,” he said, and almost winced at the roughness of his own voice and breathing. “Well, I will be, anyway,” he amended, and took another sip of the disgusting mineral crap, to keep everyone from worrying.

After all, he thought as he watched Bane and Davide meet the other pair at the net, with his own match over, worrying was his job, now.


Saotome snarled at Eishirou as he came off the court. “What the hell was that? You’re supposed to be the best on this team, and you threw that game away! Don’t tell me you couldn’t have pushed harder against one of these pansy-ass beach bums.”

Eishirou looked down his nose at the coach. “Pushed harder and been weakened against Rikkai, tomorrow, yes I suppose I could have.” When Saotome flushed and drew breath, Eishirou made a tight, violent slash with one hand and narrowed his eyes in satisfaction when Saotome started back against the bench. “You were the one who pushed Rokkaku to this, for no strategic gain, just to salve your own pride. Don’t speak to me about the risks I have to run because of that.” He spun on his heel and stalked off the court, meeting Kai and Chinen at the gate. They both looked shaken, to have seen him lose, and he silently cursed their coach yet again, the way he’d been doing ever since he met Saeki Koujirou at the net, and saw the cold, focused fury in his eyes. “Be careful, but don’t worry too much,” he ordered briskly. “We only need one more match. And watch this pair, before you try to provoke them. If it makes them stop thinking, that’s well and good, but if it just makes them focus harder on beating you, then leave them be.”

Both of them nodded, and Kai at least seemed to pull himself together. “Got it, boss.” He sauntered onto the court with his racquet caught between his back and his elbows, apparently as casual as ever. Eishirou walked through his subdued club with a nod here and a faint smile there until he reached the rest of his team, up against the fence.

“Buchou.” Tanishi’s voice was low, and his face troubled, and Eishirou laid a hand on his shoulder for a moment in reassurance.

“That looked like a damn hard match.” Hirakoba sounded wistful about the fact, and Eishirou’s mouth quirked, humor a bit restored.

“You’ll have someone nice to play with when we face Rikkai,” he soothed, and marked the way the club settled around them, hearing that confidence. He laid his hands on the fence calmly, and watched the Doubles One pairs meet at the net. Both the Rokkaku players were tall, though neither as tall as Chinen, and the one with the rather dramatic auburn hair had a strangely made racquet. It was long, right at the legal limit if Eishirou wasn’t mistaken, but the length was all in the grip, not the face. Eishirou considered the kind of leverage that racquet would give a player, if he could really handle it, and concealed a frown. This might be another tight match.

“Wow, that’s a long racquet.” Kai bent closer to peer at it, and up at the player with a cocky grin. “You compensating for something?”

Chokes and snickers and outraged sputters rose all around the court. The dark player caught his partner’s arm to keep him back, face hard. Eishirou pinched the bridge of his nose, lifting his glasses a little as he rubbed at an incipient headache. He valued Kai, he truly did. Kai was a fine vice-captain, a strong player, and he took his responsibilities to the team seriously. Someday he might even learn the value of moderation. Someday was clearly not today, though.


Bane caught Davide’s shoulder, pulling him back from the net firmly, and hissed in his ear, “Cool down! They’re trying to provoke us, that’s obviously how they play. Kick their asses with your tennis, not your foot!” As Davide relaxed, so did he. His partner might be the quiet type, but that didn’t mean he didn’t have a temper, and Davi-kun couldn’t play hot like that.

The loudmouth was watching them, eyes sharp under his frizz of brown hair. “One hot, one cold, huh?” he murmured. “Okay, then.” He spun, reaching up to clap his hugely tall partner on the shoulder. “Let’s go!”

Testing us,” Davide gritted through his teeth. Bane nodded agreement.

“That’ll be their game-maker, then. Watch him for cues.” He frowned at the long strides of the other one, Chinen, walking away from the net. “Chinen will have a lot of your advantages, just from his natural reach. Think you can hold him?”

Davide straightened up at that bit of challenge, snorting. “Of course I can.” Bane grinned.

“Good.”

It was Chinen who served first, hard and fast and straight at Davide. Trying to get inside the reach of his racquet, maybe. Bane snorted and stayed where he was. Davide’s lip curled as he slid to the side and whipped the ball back over the net with all the fluid leverage of his racquet. The ball blew right past the Higa pair, and Bane nodded a little to himself. He didn’t quite have Sae’s eye for an opponent or strategy, but he thought they were stronger than these jokers.

Davide powered the next return past Higa, too, but the third ball was out and Kai let it go. “Easy, Davi-kun!” Bane called. “No need to waste anything on them.”

The whole Higa crowd growled at that, and Bane wondered, not for the first time this round, what was up with that club. Who could use such disgusting tactics, and then expected to be taken for anything but trash?

The next serve turned into a rally; Bane’d been right about the speed advantage Chinen’s height gave him. It was Kai who directed the ball at Bane, though, and he knew he was being measured. Well, fine; maybe he could measure back. They drove the ball back and forth, slowly harder and faster as they went, until Bane was pretty sure the next shot would be the last. Kai just wasn’t as strong as he was.

Kai turned his racquet out and bounced the ball lightly away.

Bane bared his teeth. “Davide!” His partner was already there, though, sinking the ball into the far corner. Kai’s eyes narrowed, and Bane snorted. Didn’t take much observing to tell he and Davide were a tight pair, after all.

They lost the next point to a fast poach at the net, though Bane was gratified to see that Kai nearly lost control of the ball as he did it. The last point was Bane’s, though, straight down the center line, and the first game went to Rokkaku. He and Davide nodded at each other, satisfied, and Bane fell back to serve.

Despite their opponents, he could feel the glow of the game spreading through him—the satisfaction of stretching his body to catch and control the ball, the reassurance of Davi-kun’s strength beside him. This was Bane’s game. Not even bastards like Higa were going to take that away from him! He drove the ball over the net, fast and tight, and every serve put a little shiver down his spine. Not just because he got two of them past the Higa pair for service aces, but because the ball went true and that felt fantastic in its own right. Chinen dashed too far forward to meet Davide’s drive, and Bane sent the ball singing past his elbow on the return, and the second game was theirs.

“That Kai is watching us,” Davide said softly, as they grabbed a drink of water before the next game. Bane glanced over and had to stomp on a shudder. Kai was watching all right, cold and calculating under that jaunty cap. What the hell were these people doing playing tennis, anyway? They belonged in some back alley, with knives in their fists!

Rokkaku had the momentum, though, heading into the third game, and Bane didn’t feel too pressured. They took one point with a two-forward dash that startled Chinen into a lob. Another when Bane slid aside at the end of a rally to let Davide smash the ball instead. It looked like Kai was going to return the favor on the next ball, and Bane eyed the set of Chinen’s racquet and called “Davide, it’s coming to you!” His partner didn’t bother replying, just slid smoothly into place.

And then Kai’s racquet flipped around, in his hold, and he drove the ball right into the open side of the court with a bizarre curling swing that left both Bane and Davide staring. Kai had practically hit the ball with his elbow.

“The hell… ?” Davide sputtered.

Cheers went up from Higa, and Kai laughed. “That’s the Viking’s Horn,” he told them, grinning. “Didn’t you listen to the old geezer? We all come from martial arts, not tennis.”

That made a whole lot of sense, actually, Bane thought distantly.

“He can delay a long time, with that shot,” Davide said quietly. “And it’ll be hard to tell where it’s going.”

Bane took a long breath. “It matters less with doubles than it would with singles. We’ll just have to be careful to cover the court.” Another thought nudged at him, and he smiled slowly. “And he’s not the only one who can make a shot unpredictable.”

Davi-kun’s eyes flashed up to meet his, and brightened.

They found their places on the court again, feeling how near or far they were to each other, whether their ranges overlapped. Even with Davide’s reach, they couldn’t cover the whole doubles court perfectly, and Kai had infuriatingly good timing. Now Bane was feeling pressure, but at least it was the kind of pressure that belonged on a tennis court. His opponents had some moves it would be hard to meet. He flexed his hand around the grip of his racquet, and grinned tightly. Bring it on!

They were heading into the fourth game, two games to one, and Bane let Davide go forward. He fell back, watching where Higa’s pair was, on the court, waiting for the ball to come to him. When it did, it was like fate, a perfect flat smash, and he leaped and spun, hitting the ball backhand and holding it on his racquet for a long moment as his head snapped around and he saw the other side of the net like a snapshot. There. On the right. He uncoiled with a snap and the ball slammed down feet away from Kai’s racquet before Bane’s foot touched the ground again. The club yelled gleefully, and he saw Sae give him a thumb’s up from where he still sat on the coach’s bench.

Davide was smiling.

The match was hot and fast, now, rallies burning across the net, broken by Kai’s and Bane’s unpredictable shots. They took their fourth game when Chinen caught one of Bane’s backhands only to lose his racquet to the force of it. Higa took the next game with a relentless series of Viking’s Horns that left Kai panting for breath and dripping with sweat. Both pairs were signaling broadly for poaches, whenever they had the serve, and only following through on half of them.

At five games to four, Bane caught the back of Davide’s neck and leaned their foreheads together. “We’ve got to take the next game. I think they’ve got more endurance than we do, in the end, but we’ve got more strength. We’ve got to blow through them. Can we do it?”

Davi-kun huffed a soft laugh, eyes bright and wild though his face was as still as ever. “Yeah. Let’s do it.” The light in his eyes turned into a glint, and he added, “Maybe we can pull a Momo on them.” Bane threw back his head and laughed, breathless.

It was a crazy kind of risk to take. If they didn’t take this match, they’d have burned through the last of their endurance, and then they’d lose. But it felt right, to try.

Grunts of effort turned into shouts, as they met each ball, and Bane could feel the burn in his muscles as he pushed toward his limit, the electric burn that told a detached corner of his mind that he was going to hurt like blazes tomorrow. But they were breaking through. One ball. Another. Kai lost his racquet again to one, but hung on grimly and sent the ball after that back with the Viking’s Horn. Bane thought he saw a red mark along Kai’s arm, though, where the racquet rested. Kai was calling directions to Chinen, teeth bared and set, shouting to avoid Davide. Chinen returned the next ball to Bane’s court, turning the drive into a rally. Just one more point, but Chinen drove the ball right past Bane’s ankle and Higa had two points. The next ball sang straight toward Bane and he set his feet to leap, watched the Higa pair drop back to the middle of the court, ready to catch the ball wherever he sent it. Bane grinned, crazy and fierce, and yelled, “Davide!”

Davide stretched, reaching with his racquet to intercept the ball, body coiling up, shouting with the effort. The Higa pair fell back further, braced for the wild power of one of Davide’s drives.

And Davi-kun batted the ball over the net in a drop shot.

“Match to Kurobane and Amane!” the referee declared into the silence. “Six games to four!”


Koujirou was laughing as he met Bane and Davide coming off the court, in the bedlam that followed their last point. “And you say I’m a crazy man!” He clasped hands with Bane, and tossed Davide a water bottle.

“It worked,” Bane defended himself, and buried his face in a towel. “Any word about Ojii yet?” he added, a little muffled.

“Nothing yet,” Ryou said, low, hand closing a little tighter around his phone, which he hadn’t let go of since he’d come off the court.

“Do you…” Itsuki wouldn’t look at any of them. “Do you think there’s something wrong?”

“No news is good news,” Koujirou said firmly, reaching out to catch Itsuki’s shoulder. “The hospital is surely running tests; if they’d found anything wrong, someone would have said at once, and Aoi would have let us know.”

Itsuki took a deep breath and blew it out. “Yeah. Okay, Sae.”

“We’re two and two,” Koujirou said softly. “It’s up to you, now. You can do it, Itt-chan.”

Itsuki settled his shoulders, fingers finding their places on the grip of his racquet, and nodded with determination. Koujirou relaxed a little and clapped his shoulder. “Off you go, then!” He watched Itsuki take the court and folded his arms to keep his hands from clenching on each other.

Itsuki had been as shaken by what happened to Ojii as Aoi had been, and then had two matches with nothing to do but worry. As soon as everything stopped having over-bright edges, and Koujirou had admitted to himself that Bane had been right to make him drink the mineral crap, he’d realized Itt-chan was the one most likely to have trouble. But Itt-chan was also a powerful player, strong and flexible. He was the one whose natural movement came closest to Higa’s Shukuchihou. His opponent, Higa’s tall, laughing blond, was fierce and eager, and didn’t seem to have as much of that vicious edge as the rest of them did. At first, watching Itsuki’s regular, huffing breaths as he returned each sharp drive, Koujirou thought it would be all right.

And then Higa’s Hirakoba hit a strange, lingering shot that looked like a normal ball until it landed. The bounce spun off in a jinking curve, and Itsuki grunted as his racquet swished through the air above it.

“What was that?” Ryou muttered behind him, uneasy. Koujirou frowned, and watched Hirakoba closer. Another two balls, and he hit that shot again, and Koujirou cursed softly as Itsuki missed the odd curve of the bounce again.

“He spins it in one direction on his racquet and then flicks it along another axis as the ball leaves the face,” he said, standing from the bench to wave to Itsuki. “That’s why it bounces so unpredictably.”

And now the score was two to one in Higa’s favor, and the only good thing about that was the players changing courts, so he had a chance to talk to Itt-chan.

“Do you know what that shot is?” Itsuki asked, swiping back his hair and frowning with clear frustration.

“It’s a trick with spin,” Koujirou explained, quick and low. “So hit as many sinkers back to him as you can. The less spin you put on the ball, the less violent that bounce will be.”

Itsuki glanced over at the other player, lounging against the retaining wall and ignoring his coach and his vice-captain alike when they tried to talk to him. “I don’t like that ball. It’s too unpredictable.” He stomped a little, on his way to the other court, and Sae winced.

“Itt-chan getting frustrated?” Bane asked, leaning over the back of the bench.

“I’m afraid so.” Koujirou watched Itsuki smashing the ball back at Hirakoba, watched the set to his jaw. “That won’t necessarily be a bad thing…”

Itsuki took the game, and Koujirou was just starting to relax again when Hirakoba served with that wild-bouncing shot.

“Damn,” he said softly.


Eishirou didn’t really breathe freely until he saw the Rokkaku player guess wrong twice in a row about which way Hirakoba’s Habu would bounce. The game still wasn’t a sure thing; an opponent who could hit a ball without spin would make Hirakoba work for his win. But that was just making Hirakoba brighten up, as he bounded across the court.

Beside him, Kai braced his elbows on the fence, less fluidly careless than usual. “That could have been a bad chance, this player matched with Rin,” he murmured.

“Mm.” Eishirou settled his shoulders and crossed his arms, standing straight and calm for the benefit of his club. “This is the match I would have saved the emotional blow for, given my way.”

“I’ll pass the word to watch you, and not the coach, for that.” Kai snorted as he straightened and stretched. “Not that Rin is real good at listening to either of you.” He slipped away to bend over Shiranui and Aragaki where they were sitting under the tree line, speaking softly.

Itsuki missed Habu again, and Eishirou could see the tightness in his body from here, muffling that springy strength of motion all of Rokkaku seemed to share, to one degree or another. He wondered a little what their training regimen was like, to produce that. And then he saw a jersey pattern he recognized, had memorized, on the far side of the court. Not Rokkaku’s red and hexagons. The soft gold and black stripe of Rikkai. Eishirou watched them watching the last match and smiled, small and sharp. He could see Higa’s course, past Rokkaku to this, their real challenge. And if they could pass Rikkai, the champions… well, then he’d have the only psychological weapon he’d need against any other team in this tournament.

“Rin’s hands are going to get numb if he keeps using Habu so much,” Kai noted, sliding back into place beside him. “Think he’ll be okay to go against Rikkai?”

“Overnight should be long enough to recover.” Eishirou glanced down at Kai. “What about your arm?”

Kai’s mouth twisted. “You noticed, huh?” His right hand slid down his left forearm. “It’s going to hurt if I have to play another power-monster like those two, but I’ll be fine.” He hesitated and looked down. “I’m sorry, Kite.”

Eishirou snorted before he could stop himself. “Don’t be an idiot, Kai. If I made you eat gouya for that loss, I’d have to split it with you.”

Kai watched Itsuki return a ferocious low shot with another non-spinning ball and a scowl. “You held back a little so you could meet Rikkai at full strength, because you trusted me to win the next match.”

Eishirou was quiet for a moment, because he couldn’t dispute that. Finally, though, he rested a hand on Kai’s shoulder, briefly, and murmured, “We win or lose as a team. And Higa will win this round. That’s what all my strategy is for.”

Kai smiled again, at that, and looked up at him, sidelong, under the brim of his cap. “Yeah. That’s our captain.”

Eishirou nodded, accepting the responsibility, and stood under the eyes of his club with all the quiet confidence he could muster as the score was called five to three in Higa’s favor.

Whatever it took for his team, his club, his home to win, he’d do it.


Koujirou chewed on his lip to keep from swearing as the last game drew to a close. Itsuki was putting up a good fight, but he was just too rattled to catch that Habu shot by anything but chance. And chance wasn’t going to be enough. “Itt-chan…”

“Sae!”

He whipped around on the bench to see Bane, Davide, and Shudou all hovering over Ryou’s phone. Bane looked up, nearly laughing. “Sae, it’s from Aoi, Ojii’s okay!”

“Game and match, won by Higa, six games to three!” the referee called. “The winners of this round are Higa!”

Koujirou barely heard, and he couldn’t manage to care. “All right!” He sprang off the bench and grabbed Itsuki’s arm as he trudged off the court. “Itt-chan, Ojii’s all right! It’s okay!”

After a blank moment, relief brightened in Itsuki’s face. “He’s okay? They’re sure?”

Ryou waved his phone like a flag of triumph. “Aoi says they did scans for broken bones and everything, and he’s fine!”

By now the club members on the other side of the fence had heard and were passing the word, pounding shoulders and laughing with relief. “Come on,” Koujirou ordered, grabbing his bag up from the foot of the fence and slinging it over his shoulder. “We’ll go meet them at the hospital and take Ojii home.”

“Hey! Rokkaku!” the referee called after them as they jostled toward the gate. “It’s time to line up!”

Koujirou stopped dead, reminded all over again, in a tingling rush of rage, exactly why they had all been so tense and afraid. He looked over his shoulder, past his teammates, and said coldly. “No. We’re not shaking hands with the likes of them.”

The referee opened and closed his mouth a few times, clearly not knowing what to do with this. Catcalls picked up among the Higa club, calls of “Sore losers!” and “Kantou jerks!” Koujirou’s vision darkened for a flash, and he threw down his bag, stalked past his team, and yelled so loudly it tore at his throat and echoed off the retaining wall.

Rokkaku doesn’t shake hands with cowards!

The Higa team stiffened, standing at the net, and the big one, Tanishi, stepped forward with a snarl. Koujirou slashed his hand through the air as if to knock him aside. “What the hell are you thinking?” he raged, unable to stop, now he’d started. “Deliberately injuring the other coach? Striking an old man? I don’t give a damn what you’ve won, anyone who does that is nothing but a coward! If you thought anyone would respect you after you won because of that, you’d better figure out differently, now!” He glared at them, at Higa’s impassive captain, panting for breath for a long, silent moment, before he spun on his heel and caught up his bag again. “Let’s go,” he ordered flatly, and his team followed him out the gate without another word. The rest of the club closed in around them, and Koujirou saw a few sharp nods, heard a few mutters of support.

He was just glad the kids hadn’t come to the first day of Nationals, and seen all this.

The sight of Rikkai jerseys by the walkway pulled him up short, though. “Bane,” he said, low, “take everyone on. I’ll catch up in just a few.”

Bane glanced over and nodded. “Sure thing. Okay, people,” he raised his voice, “Ojii’s probably dying for some tea by now, so let’s go rescue him, right?” A gust of laughter ran through the club, and he chivvied everyone down the broad walk beside the courts.

Koujirou stopped by Yukimura, Sanada, and Yanagi, where they’d been watching the last match.

“They attacked your coach?” Sanada asked, even his iron calm sounding a little shaken.

“Hit a ball straight at him, got him right in the face, and knocked him unconscious,” Koujirou confirmed, clipped. “It was obviously a psychological tactic to rattle us. And it worked.” He ground out the last words, and had to take a moment to get a grip on himself before he could speak calmly again. “Yukimura. The whole tournament knows, by now, what you mean to your team. And you’re usually bench coach. Be careful.”

Yukimura looked at him for a long, quiet moment before he smiled, and held out his hand. “You’re a good man, Saeki. Don’t worry about us; we’ll be fine.” His grip was as strong as it had ever been, and Koujirou found himself glad to feel it. Yukimura had always been both completely honorable and completely ruthless. If he was fully recovered…

Koujirou was smiling, not very nicely, as he trotted to catch up with his club. Higa would be taken care of.

 

1. For photos and details of where the teams play, see the Appendix. back

2. This is the only reference I will ever make to the utter weirditude of Niou being the copy-everyone player. That is part of canon that I jettisoned. I left this as an easter egg for those who enjoyed the crack, though. back

3. Since there is no visible injury to Chitose’s eye, I went for a detached retina as something that would significantly and lastingly impair his vision without being visible. back

Fire and Fleet and Candle Light

So here’s the thing. About three quarters of Tenipuri Nationals was a dreadful letdown for me, what with the floating Synchro glow-fairies, and the Hadoukyuu that launched a thousand Kawamuras, and Discoball no Kiwami, and Do-over Devil-mode, and Svengali Tennis. But that wasn’t where the trouble started. It started in the last match of Regionals, which was where the underdog heroes won, not just a place at Nationals but first place in the tournament against the incumbent National champions, thus defusing all the dramatic tension in one fell swoop. Not coincidentally, I think, that was also the match where Echizen stopped winning because of his superior experience or evolution of technique, but because… well, because Konomi magically hand-waved it. We get no detail about Echizen’s comeback against Sanada and why Sanada suddenly can’t match his game any more, no explanation of how he recovers from burning himself out with muga no kyouchi so early, not even some kind of excuse like one of his senpai cautioning him that Sanada fatally underestimated him and won’t do it again so Echizen has to keep working. No, he just, somehow, wins decisively, 7-5 against a player who’s established as a peer of Tezuka and Yukimura.

But there’s still Nationals to go. A Nationals that is largely lacking in interest, because what is there to overcome now that the champions have already been defeated? And thus we were launched straight over the shark into who-cares-land with more and more absurdly overpowered new opponents in a bid to add some artificial tension, to say nothing of the abrupt descent into the "my moral is pastede on, yay" notion that Fun Is Everything.

There are still a few saving graces. Some of the matches are still decent. Those are, of course, the ones that still have some real stake and develop the players in some way. There’s Sanada’s rivalry with Tezuka and his struggle between prudent strategy and his own need to face Tezuka head-on. There’s Fuji’s experience of a significant loss, which finally solidifies a genuine motivation for him. There’s Tachibana’s need to lay his demons to rest by facing Chitose again, which was a pretty good match despite the Discoball Door. I liked those matches; I wanted more like them.

The goal of this project, then, is to restore that significance and tension to all of the players, including Echizen. Accordingly, we pick up toward the end of his Regionals match with Sanada.

Note: In case it isn’t obvious, canon after Regionals is as dead to me, and only the most useful bits after that have been retained. Let’s see what else can be done that’s more interesting. Also, this is largely manga-based up through Regionals. After nine years, the bunnies finally came back and let me finish this, so let’s do this thing.

 

Kantou Regional Finals

When the match with Sanada reached five games all, Ryouma knew he was in trouble. It was a new feeling. When he played his dad, he was always in trouble, so the knowledge was meaningless and he’d learned to ignore it. When he’d played Tezuka he’d barely had time to understand that he really was in trouble, and notice what it felt like, before the game was over. After all, it wasn’t like a lower score meant he was losing! He’d come from behind plenty of times and won anyway.

But he could feel his pace falling, now.

Ryouma flexed his hand around the grip of his racquet and pulled in a deep breath. He would do this. He would find a way. He threw the ball up to serve, watching its shadow come back down out of the scorching sun, and sent it singing over the net with a vicious spin.

Just because Sanada could return the Twist Spin serve was no reason to back down now.

The ball came back to him, and back again, and back again, and Ryouma sprinted across the court, light on his toes no matter how his calves were burning. That didn’t matter; it never mattered. He’d always kept going, always gotten up again (and watching Tezuka-buchou get up again during his match with Atobe had been the moment he’d known he belonged here after all, really belonged). One point to him, with a Snake that Sanada just barely missed. One point to Sanada when he he returned a Drive A deep to the corner, without even shifting his stance, and curled his lip. Ryouma narrowed his eyes and put everything he had into a Drive B, sending it curving high and tight over Sanada’s racquet. He aimed the next serve beside Sanada’s left foot and made an annoyed noise, too out of breath to swear, when Sanada scooped it up easily and dropped it just over the net. He could feel Sanada’s eyes on him like he could feel the sun beating down on his neck, feel Sanada watching his feet, gauging his speed as he dashed forward to catch the drop shot, and he knew Sanada would see he was just a little slower than he had been. The calculating part of his head knew that was a bad thing. But he couldn’t think about that; it couldn’t matter. He’d just keep going and make it not matter!

He made it just in time and batted the ball back over the net. He lunged for the return Sanada sliced deep into the back of his court, and missed it by almost a foot. Thirty all. He could feel his legs shaking.

This had never happened before. He could match Sanada’s game, he knew he could; he was still matching it! But he wasn’t pushing the pace any more, and he knew in his bones that was a mistake.

Two more points. Two more points, and then he’d have the game, and the advantage. He could hear someone in the stands yelling the same thing, but only distantly. Right now, nothing mattered but what was here on the court, and that meant him and Sanada and this win. Ryouma worked his fingers around the ball, testing his grip; his hand tingled a little, but he was used to that. Most of the people he played hit heavier balls than he did. He still had the grip and control to do this.

Fuji-senpai’s Disappearing Serve cut over the net, and Ryouma rocked up on his toes; even if Sanada could return, the spin on it would send it into Ryouma’s left court and a forehand drive should…

“How naive are you?” Sanada demanded, stance sliding smoothly back to cut the ball again in the opposite direction. Ryouma missed the return by more than a foot, this time. “Don’t think inferior techniques will work with me! If you’re reduced to that, you have no business on this court!”

Ryouma tugged down his cap, eyes narrow, and stalked back to serve again. Inferior techniques, huh? Fine, then. He’d damn well beat Sanada at his own game, and make him eat those words. He got enough of that crap from his dad, he wasn’t taking it from anyone he could beat. He feinted toward the net, inviting another of those bruising deep drives and whipped it back across with Wind, aimed as low as he could and still give it full speed. He grinned when the point was called; he could almost hear Sanada sniff. Deuce.

He half expected it when Sanada gave him back a Snake for the next return, ball curving tight and vicious out around the reach of his racquet, exactly the move Ryouma had taken the first point with. Even though it meant the advantage to Sanada, Ryouma still smirked at his opponent, pleased with having goaded Sanada into answering him like that. Sanada seemed to realize it, too, and drew himself up with a dark look. Ryouma spared one ragged breath to laugh.

The next rally was a long one, both of them fighting for the point, and Ryouma could feel how fragile his edge was now. He didn’t dare stop, didn’t dare pause, because the instant he did, all the fatigue he’d built up would crash down. He had to stay hot and in the moment, one drive after another, turning three Fires in a row back across the net when Sanada tried to drive him back with sheer force. Was he going for a drop shot? Ryouma set his feet and gritted his teeth, getting ready to smash his way forward.

Another of those high lobs flashed far over his head and came down hard on the baseline.

Ryouma wavered on his feet for a breath, and then he muttered a low curse in English as the referee called the game. Five to six, and Sanada had the advantage now.

Ryouma was really getting to hate those lobs.

All right, then, he’d just have to take this game and force a tiebreak. Ryouma set himself back in his court to receive, watching Sanada with narrow eyes.

Sanada was watching him back. “I’ll credit you with amazing potential,” he finally said, “but you’ve picked up this sword too early. I know of only three players in the junior high school circuit who have achieved a completed state of no-self. Rikkai’s captain, Yukimura, is one. Kyuushuu’s Chitose is another. Both of them have the endurance and strength of body to support it.” He turned on his heel and strode back to his baseline, and Ryouma’s eyes widened at the sudden, breathless pressure reaching over the net. “The third, of course, is me,” Sanada finished, perfectly even, turning to face the net, and Ryouma nearly rocked back on his heels from the force of Sanada’s gaze falling on him.

He didn’t, though. He breathed deep and settled down into himself, reaching for the edge of that clarity again. It wouldn’t come, not completely; he couldn’t feel that perfect transparency reaching from his his fingertips to his spine and back, not this time. But it was enough to see Sanada’s serve coming and meet it with both hands on his racquet, to see the set of Sanada’s racquet that meant another high lob and be back at his baseline to catch it.

He could feel the heat of the moment starting to burn higher, fiercer, letting him move faster. He caught one ball, another, lost the third into the net, spinning wildly. He was back to receive the next serve before the net ball had stopped bouncing after being swatted out, and the new ball came scorching in, aimed low. Sanada missed the return when Ryouma spun it into a Drive B, but the next serve hit his racquet as hard as Fire and he was too far back on the court to return it cleanly. Next serve.

He could feel his strength burning away, feel the end of it coming like the edge of a cliff, and he didn’t know how far the fall would be. He’d never crossed that edge before. But he wasn’t going to stop.

He wasn’t sure he knew how to stop.

He didn’t think he would, even if he did know.

He was a member of Seigaku, and their captain was the one who’d stood up and played for almost another hour after his shoulder gave out. Ryouma had found a team where he belonged.

Deuce. A Fire he was just a little too slow to catch in his center of gravity, and advantage to Sanada. A feint toward Drive A ending with a drop shot, and deuce again. Another lob, and Ryouma stumbled as he dashed to catch it and missed. Advantage to Sanada again.

Ryouma felt like every next step might take him over the edge of the cliff. He kept moving anyway. He had to take this game and send them to tie-break so he could find the end of this match. He needed two points somehow. Somehow. He ran forward and jumped to smash Sanada’s return deep into the corner, watched Sanada’s grip shift as he spun and dashed to catch it, every movement sharp as a knife, sure as the tide coming in. Ryouma felt the muscles of his legs shaking and knew he wouldn’t be able to make it back to the baseline to catch the next lob that was coming.

There was still a way to return it, though.

Before the thought even completed itself, he was running, leaping, scaling the referee’s chair to give him the boost up he needed and reaching for the sky, for the ball flying above him, tightening his half numbed grip so he could send the ball back down in a Cool Drive. He could make the shot work this time and Sanada wouldn’t be able to return it, he could feel the sureness in the pit of his stomach as every muscle tensed, ready. This was the shot he needed, to take this point and the next. He reached up…

The ball sailed past just above his racquet.

Ryouma landed hard, pitching onto his knees as his legs gave way. He stared at the ball, the last ball, bouncing away from the baseline.

“Game and set!” he heard, over his head. “Game won by Sanada. Game count seven to five.” The stands exploded in cheers and groans. Ryouma didn’t move.

He’d lost. Again.

He didn’t move until a shadow fell across him and he looked up to see Sanada looking down at him. For a long moment, they were both silent.

Finally, Sanada hmphed under his breath and bent to grip Ryouma’s elbow and haul him back to his feet. And kept hold of him when he almost fell again. “If you use no-self before you have the strength to sustain it,” Sanada said, quiet and flat, “this will always be the ending you face. Remember it.” He held out his free hand and after a moment Ryouma gritted his teeth and shook it to end the match, glaring up from under the brim of his cap.

“Next time, I’ll win,” he said fiercely. Whatever it took, he’d find a way.

Sanada examined him, head to foot. “We’ll see.” Momo was beside them, then, hand under Ryouma’s arm to take his weight away from Sanada, and Sanada turned back toward his own team. Over his shoulder he added, “Tell Tezuka I said he made a good choice.”

Ryouma frowned after him, leaning on Momo. A good choice about what? About Ryouma? Well, yeah, he guessed it looked good from Rikkai’s point of view, but… but Sanada hadn’t been smirking enough to mean it that way. So what was good about it?

“Hey, are you all right?” Momo asked, low, turning him back toward Seigaku’s bench as the rest of his senpai spilled onto the court and hurried toward them.

“I’ll live,” Ryouma muttered, hanging on to Momo as his steps wobbled left and right unpredictably. His legs felt like boiled noodles and he could feel, now, how raw his lungs were from panting for breath. And there was no victory to counter-balance the exhaustion. He’d never felt like this, before, and he was a little glad Momo was hanging on to him so he knew something was still solid.

“Echizen, are you all right?” Ooishi nearly pounced on them. “Is anything strained? Can you tell yet?”

“That was amazing,” Kikumaru broke in, wide-eyed. “Hey, Ochibi, what was that you did at the beginning and end, there?”

“Here, drink this,” Inui added before Ryouma could answer either of them, not that he’d really intended to, and wrapped Ryouma’s fingers around a suspiciously opaque water bottle. “Keep moving a little, if you can.” He nodded to Momo, whose arm tightened around Ryouma.

Ryouma rolled his eyes, comforted by how normal all the fuss was in this deeply abnormal situation. He managed to drop the probable Inui Juice over the wall as Momo helped him hobble up and down a little, and grinned faintly when Kachirou oh-so-casually dropped a towel over it and looked around innocently. Everything as usual, even if Ryouma was feeling like someone had turned his world with the “this end up” arrow pointing sideways.

“All right, all of you pipe down,” Ryuuzaki-sensei finally called over the chatter. “We lost the match. Well, we’re still second place at Regionals and that means we’re going to Nationals. So everybody is going to train even harder from now on, understand?” Everyone straightened up a little at that, even Ryouma. Rikkai had won Nationals last year, he remembered, so they’d almost certainly be playing Rikkai again in the end. He would have another chance.

Training, yes, he needed to train harder obviously. To train for strength, the way he’d never really had to before. Ryouma’s eyes narrowed and he nodded sharply to himself. He’d do it.

He looked up as Momo-senpai chuckled. “What?”

Momo was smiling down at him. “Nothing. Glad to see you’re back, that’s all.”

Ryouma huffed. “I’m fine Momo-senpai.”

Or, at least, he would be. He’d make sure of it, the way he always did. Ryouma set his jaw and wobbled off the court with determination, dragging Momo along.


Genichirou got through the closing ceremonies only by reminding himself firmly that none of them would be allowed up to see Yukimura until he was out of recovery and awake. There was no point in rushing now.

The thought made him flick a look over at the second place row, where Echizen was standing upright by dint of pure stubbornness, at least if the way his friend Momoshiro hovered discreetly behind him was anything to judge by. Genichirou admitted to being a little impressed that the boy hadn’t passed out again at the end of their match. Tezuka had most definitely left something interesting behind, for him to meet, and more of a challenge than Genichirou had been able to believe at first.

Not that that would help Seigaku when Yukimura returned, and Rikkai was at full strength again.

He stepped forward when first place was called to accept the plaque, latest in a long line of first place awards Rikkai had taken from the Regional tournament over the years. The weight of polished wood and metal in his hands settled some of the fear that kept trying to climb out of the back of his mind and make his shoulders tighten. They had won. He would not claim that they had kept their part of the promise perfectly; today’s two losses in singles nipped at him like flies under the hot sun. But they had won the tournament and Rikkai remained undefeated as a team. Surely that would be enough to satisfy fate, to coax the world back onto its right path. Surely.

He shook his head impatiently, banishing his wandering thoughts, and stood straight to acknowledge the cheers from the stands, for the eight teams1 going on to Nationals. He waited with an iron grip on his patience while everyone else filed out of the courts. And finally it was time to go.

They weren’t running, but all seven of them moved fast, down the broad walks of the Arena courts, passing by one group after another. A few of the other clubs gave them startled looks, probably wondering what all the urgency was, now the matches were over. People in Rikkai’s uniform quietly cleared their way, though, knowing where they must be going.

“We should arrive just about the time he comes out of Recovery, if there are no complications,” Renji said quietly at his shoulder, and Genichirou thrust down the abrupt spike of tension at the very word ‘complications’.

Akaya, of course, wasn’t so reserved. “There won’t be, right?” he asked, looking back and forth between them anxiously. “You said it was a common treatment, right?”

Genichirou’s mouth tightened, and it was Renji who laid a hand on Akaya’s shoulder. “The treatment is common and proven, yes. But this particular surgical approach is relatively new, and… well, it requires more expertise.”

Akaya was chewing on his lip, as they spilled out the entry arch and down the steps toward the bus stop. Marui was walking close enough to Jackal that their shoulders bumped. Genichirou could feel their tension in his own back and shoulders. “It will be fine,” he told them, glaring straight ahead of him as if he could command the universe, the way he had the tennis club this year.

Ten minutes until the bus came. Thirty to Shimbashi station. Only fifteen to Yokohama station, but another bus to the hospital after that, and Genichirou had to force himself not to fidget with the strap of his bag as he watched blindly out the window with only half an ear on the sound of Akaya wheedling some of Marui’s stash of sweets out of him. Akaya didn’t particularly like sweets, so it was probably a bid to divert his senpai. Sometimes it occurred to Genichirou that Akaya would probably make quite a good captain, next year, and he turned the thought over a bit to distract himself.

Finally they were at Kanai Hospital and Genichirou went to the desk to ask about Yukimura.2

“Yukimura-kun, yes.” The receptionist smiled at him, cheerful. “He should be back in his room in about half an hour. You have very good timing!”

“Thank you,” Genichirou muttered, and stalked across the waiting room to his team. “Thirty minutes,” he said, curt, and sat himself down in one of the flimsy plastic chairs. They settled around him, shifting now and then on the uncomfortable seats, staring at faded schedules and posters on the walls, fiddling with cel phones, and breathing shallowly in the harsh, chill air.

After the past year, Genichirou was convinced that hospital waiting rooms were actually a refined instrument of torture, designed as the master-work of a career sadist. The single time he’d said so, however, Renji had laughed out loud, and he’d kept his grumbling to himself after that.

Glancing over at his friend, he thought both of them could use some distraction from today’s torture and asked quietly, “Echizen. What did you think of him?”

Renji leaned back in his chair, the stiffness of his spine relaxing a little. “Interesting. He obviously has a great deal of experience; probably more than either of us had, at that age.”

Which suggested something rather unusual, considering how long they’d both been playing. Genichirou frowned. “You think he’s the son of a pro, maybe?”

“Not a current one, or I’d have known already.” Renji tapped his fingers thoughtfully on his knee. “I’ll check. At any rate, he’s stubborn and reckless, as I’m sure we could all recognize,” the whole team glanced at Akaya, who sat up and looked indignant, “but I judge it’s very likely that, up until today, he’s always had the ability to back that up.”

“That last move,” Niou murmured, arms crossed as he slouched down in his chair until it creaked. “He knew exactly what he was doing. If he’d been strong enough to pull it off he’d have gotten his two points, and you’d have been six games all.”

Genichirou eyed him. “A deep drive, even if he’d made it, wouldn’t have escaped me, and certainly not twice in a row.”

Niou smiled, sharp and fey. “That wasn’t what he was going for. The way he was coiling up to launch the shot… he was trying to deform the ball enough to affect its path on the bounce.”

“Could he really have hit it that hard?” Jackal asked, dubiously. “He’s good, yes, I could see that too, but he’s still a first year. A small first year, at that.”

“Hmm.” Renji’s eyes gleamed, focused on a problem rather than their mutual fears. “He would have, effectively, had his whole weight behind the drive. It would be a considerable gamble, but possible if he caught the right angle.”

Genichirou sat back with a thoughtful sound; perhaps the match had been closer than he’d thought. “If he hadn’t run out of strength… if he’d made that leap a little higher…” A smile tugged at his lips. “Very interesting.” He doubted Echizen would be able to quite match the first tier players until he grew into a little more raw strength, but the boy was astonishingly close already. He glanced over at Akaya. “Watch out for this one next year.”

Akaya’s eyes were bright and hard as he lifted his chin. “I’ll look forward to a rematch.”

Genichirou nodded, satisfied.

“Sanada-kun?” the receptionist called. “You can go up now.”

Finally! Genichirou discarded the analysis of the game instantly and strode for the stairs with his team crowding behind him. Four floors up and down the hall, and they were once again facing the scuffed wood door with Yukimura’s name in the slot beside it. Genichirou took one last breath for courage, and opened it to see the results of what he himself had urged Yukimura to do.

Yukimura was sitting up with the bed raised behind his shoulders and he smiled a little to see all of them. “Come in,” he said quietly, voice huskier than usual.

They crowded into the small, sparse, pale room and surrounded the bed, a little hesitant. Genichirou caught Marui also eyeing the small bulk of bandages he could see under Yukimura’s loose shirt. The hesitance evaporated when Yukimura lifted his brows at them, though. “Well? Tell me how it went.”

“We won,” Genichirou told him, getting the important parts out of the way first, “though not without two losses in singles.” He wanted to ask Yukimura if the surgery had been successful, but… maybe Seiichi didn’t know yet. Maybe something had gone wrong and he didn’t want to say so to the whole team. Genichirou’s fingers tightened on the rough, cotton spread under them. “Rikkai won, though.”

“Ah, good.” Yukimura leaned back against the pillows behind him and murmured, “So did I.”

Ease ran through them like the slackening of a rope suddenly unknotted, audible breaths and half exclamations and brightening, relieved smiles. Yukimura half laughed, catching it short and said, “Don’t make me laugh right now, that still hurts.” The murmurs of agreement didn’t do a thing to dampen the grins surrounding the bed. Genichirou carefully uncurled his fist from around Yukimura’s blankets and let his bag slip to the floor as his shoulders settled. “Do you want the whole account now?” he asked.

“Mm.” Yukimura’s mouth twisted a little. “I’m still on some fairly strong pain-killers right now. Though the dreams waking up again were very interesting, I must say; I’ll have to remember some of those images for when I have my sketch pad again. The red sakura was especially striking. Just give me the overview, for now.”

Genichirou blinked a bit; the drugs must be strong for Yukimura to ramble like that. He nodded to Renji and gave the wide-eyed Akaya a quelling look before he could speak. Yagyuu rested a quieting hand on Akaya’s shoulder, and their youngest member settled under it obediently, only nibbling his lip as he watched Yukimura.

“Seigaku is strong this year,” Renji reported dispassionately. “Tezuka has gathered players who seem just as driven as he is himself. They’re weak in doubles, and not quite as strong as we are in singles, but the gap isn’t as wide as would be comfortable.”

“Especially for a very driven team,” Yukimura mused. “They won’t be idle for the next month, not after losing. You’ll need me for Nationals, then.”

“Will you be able to play by then?” Jackal asked, dark eyes level on Yukimura. “Something as intensive as our training… Yukimura, that usually isn’t started for six weeks after even minor surgery.”

Genichirou straightened sharply. He hadn’t heard that before now! Glancing around, he saw Yagyuu and Niou also frowning, Akaya and Marui looking shocked. Renji and Yukimura didn’t seem startled at all, and Genichirou thought of a few things he was going to say to them about that, later.

“In two weeks I should be off all the post-operative drugs.” Yukimura didn’t look away from Jackal, but Genichirou thought he was speaking to all of them. “That gives me two weeks to recondition. I will be there.” The haziness was chased from his eyes as he spoke, and his voice was the voice of Rikkai’s captain. A breath of Yukimura’s old presence, the crushing domination he cast over a tennis court, curled through the room.

“All of Rikkai will be there,” Genichirou agreed firmly, satisfied by the way their team straightened up and nodded.

He tried to ignore the bit of tension that re-wove itself up his neck and whispered in his ear.

Four weeks.

Three Weeks Before Nationals

Momo tried not to wince at the heavy thud of Echizen’s wrist and ankle weights hitting the changing room bench. He couldn’t help asking, though, “Are you sure it’s a good idea to increase your weights this fast?”

Echizen narrowed his eyes at thin air, yanking his uniform shirt off. “I haven’t strained anything.”

The unspoken yet hung in the air, and Momo sighed. Echizen had been adding another weight every other day, and after a week of build-up, his training schedule was as heavy as Kaidou’s. Even Inui-senpai was starting to hesitate before he gave Echizen each new training menu.

He hadn’t said no yet, though.

“Make sure you don’t, okay?” Momo finished buttoning his shirt and slung his bag over his shoulder. “We don’t have time for two of you to be gone.”

That made Echizen pause as he shoved his feet back into his shoes, and Momo nodded to himself. It was probably playing dirty to use Tezuka-buchou’s injury as a lever to get Echizen to be careful, but it also worked. “Want to come get something to eat?” he offered in compensation. “Burgers. You need protein to build muscle.”

“Excellent rationalization, Momoshiro,” Inui said dryly from across the room, and Momo grinned.

“Not yet,” Echizen said, low, rolling both his school uniform and his tennis uniform into his bag but leaving those weights out. “I still have running to do.” He looked up at Momo, and Momo’s mouth twitched up at the corner. There wasn’t the slightest hint of apology in Echizen’s expression. Just a fierce demand that Momo could understand perfectly well.

“Later, then,” he agreed, and watched Echizen bounce on his toes a few times before taking off running straight from the club house door.

“Is Ochibi really going to be okay?” Kikumaru-senpai asked, worried, looking after Echizen too.

“He’ll be okay,” Momo said quietly and smiled a little at Ooishi-senpai’s frown and Fuji-senpai’s dubiously arched brow. “Inui-senpai understands too, right?”

“Mmm.” Inui-senpai straightened up, tugging his uniform cuffs into place, not looking at anyone.

Ooishi-senpai just frowned deeper as he crossed a foot over his knee to tie his shoe. “Of course a loss motivates him to work harder. But do you really think Echizen knows how to stop before he hurts himself?”

Fuji-senpai made an amused sound at that. “This is Seigaku, Ooishi. Do any of us know how to stop?”

Ooishi-senpai opened his mouth, only to close it again with a rueful look when Fuji’s fingers flicked the wrist he’d injured. “I suppose we’ll just have to watch out for him, then.”

Momo slipped out the door while Ooishi-senpai was grilling Inui about what kind of training Echizen was up to, thinking about his own month of ferocious training after Inui-senpai had edged him out of the Regulars. He recognized Echizen’s drive, and the outrage and self-directed anger that fueled it. He knew nothing was going to help that except to train harder and get stronger, and eventually defeat Sanada. He believed Echizen could do it, and therefore he believed that Echizen would be just fine in the end.

He just hoped this wouldn’t put Echizen back where he’d been when they’d first met.

Momo unlocked his bike and swung it out the school gates. He didn’t turn for home quite yet, though. He rode slowly up hill, deeper into the residential parts of the neighborhood, thinking.

His very first thought, on meeting Echizen, had been that someone had obviously treated the kid pretty badly. A first year shouldn’t look at everyone he met like he was expecting them to be a bully, and was already planning how to make sure they didn’t mess with him. Watching the glee in those sharp eyes a few hours later, as Echizen demolished Arai and his cronies, hadn’t done a thing to change Momo’s mind. He’d wondered how Echizen would do, in the club; obviously he’d enjoyed his tennis, but always with that edge on his smile, always with that feeling like it was the winning, the proving they couldn’t mess with him, that he enjoyed the very most.

Momo was pretty sure it had been Tezuka-buchou who’d changed that. He guessed there’d been a match or two outside of club hours that none of the rest of them had seen. He’d figured that was the best possible thing for Echizen, to play someone who was even stronger than he was but who you just couldn’t imagine acting like a bully, or even a plain old jerk. He’d seen Echizen start to relax a little, have fun with the game itself a little, and he’d been proud of his club and his captain for giving Echizen that. Not every school would have been able to.

Now…

Momo stood up and leaned into his bike pedals as he started up another hill, enjoying the stretch and burn in his legs. He thought Echizen had been enjoying stretching out his game, the same way. But Echizen had just lost to Sanada Genichirou, and Sanada was pretty harsh when he stood on a tennis court. Momo understood Echizen’s need to meet Sanada again and overcome his loss. He just hoped Echizen wouldn’t recoil back into that hair-triggered wariness of all opponents.

Momo crested the hill and paused for breath, leaning on his handlebars. Maybe he’d pry Echizen away from his training tomorrow to play a little actual tennis. Remind him it was fun.

The sound of a ball against hardtop caught his ear and he looked around blinking. When he realized where he’d ended up, he laughed. Speaking of fun, it was the street court where he’d met Atobe.

Well, maybe he’d go see if there was anyone interesting hanging around this month.

There was a game on when Momo got to the top of the steps, but no one who looked very strong was playing and he sighed a little. He could kind of go for a game right about now to shake his worries out, but playing a teaching match wouldn’t do much good for that. Oh well.

“Momoshiro?”

Momo looked around, startled. He knew that voice and it wasn’t one he’d expected to hear here. “Tachibana-san?” Sure enough, that was Tachibana, sitting on one of the benches back by the trees that surrounded the courts, watching the games with his elbows braced on his knees.

Tachibana smiled a little. “Did you come looking for Kamio? I’m afraid he probably won’t be back to the street courts until after Nationals.”

Momo nodded soberly. After what had happened when Fudoumine played Rikkai, he was ready to bet the whole team was training just as fanatically as Echizen. “No, I was just passing. Thought I’d come see if anyone interesting was around, on the off chance.”

Tachibana’s quiet smile turned a little rueful. “I’d offer you a game, but I don’t think it would be my best right now.”

Momo stiffened. “Were you injured in that match, Tachibana-san?” It hadn’t looked like it, or not badly, but you couldn’t always tell on video. Fortunately for his peace of mind, Tachibana waved a dismissive hand.

“A little bruised is all.” He snorted softly. “Karmic justice, I suppose.”

Momo couldn’t help the protesting sound he made, at that. Tachibana had been the very model of an honorable opponent to them, this year! Tachibana’s mouth tilted wryly as he leaned back and looked up at Momo. “It’s true enough. I used to play a lot like that, myself.”

Momo sagged against the low retaining wall, bag slipping to his feet as his grip loosened in shock. “You… you did?”

“Mm. Right up until it caused problems.” Tachibana propped his elbows over the back of the bench, looking up at the leaves with distant eyes. “I suppose Chitose was right when he said my game has gotten weaker. But I couldn’t use that again.”

“If you were playing like that, really aiming to injure, then of course you couldn’t,” Momo said slowly. “But I can’t believe you were actually doing that. Not you, Tachibana-san.”

Tachibana hesitated. “Perhaps… not quite that maliciously, no. But just as brutally and just as dangerously.”

Momo frowned, propping himself against the wall and folding his arms. He was starting to wonder just how much trouble Tachibana was borrowing, here, because he sounded an awful lot like Ooishi-senpai when he was caught up in worrying. “It’s not like tennis is a safe game,” he said at last. “You could just as well call the game Atobe and Tezuka-buchou played brutal, but Tezuka-buchou didn’t let that stop him. Just like Echizen didn’t let it stop him when he had that accident playing Ibu.” He stilled, startled, when he saw Tachibana actually flinch, fist clenching tight. This really had Tachibana wound up!

“That was an accident, though,” Tachibana said, low and fierce. “It wasn’t the same.”

Momo considered that; Tachibana was definitely acting like Ooishi-senpai in the worst of his worry-moods. And the thing to do, then, was generally to use logic. Yeah, he thought he saw an opening, here. “It happened because they were both doing all they could to win. It wasn’t on purpose, but they were both doing dangerous things. Whatever happened in your game, that wasn’t on purpose either, was it?”

“Of course not!” Tachibana flapped an irritated hand. “But it still happened because I—”

“Tachibana-san,” Momo interrupted, quiet and firm. “If you don’t want to take those risks, then don’t. But that’s part of what tennis is. Do you want to keep playing tennis or not?”

The glare Tachibana turned on him was hot and fierce, but when Momo only ducked his head a little and looked back stubbornly, it started to soften into amusement. Finally, Tachibana relaxed and laughed. “Do you talk back to your senpai like this, or just to other teams?”

Momo rubbed a hand through his hair, sheepish. “Sorry. It’s just… well, I’d like to play you some time, you know. And find out if what your sister said about your real strength is true.”

Tachibana’s brows rose. “Just what did An say?” he asked rather warily. Momo grinned.

“That I’d be in trouble.”

“I’m not too sure about that,” Tachibana noted dryly, pushing himself up off the bench. “You play a pretty ruthless game, even when we don’t have racquets in hand.” While Momo fidgeted with his bag, face hot, Tachibana looked out at the court where two beginners were rallying slowly amid shouts of contradictory advice from the bystanders. “I do want to keep playing tennis.”

“So do the rest of us, Tachibana-san.” Momo hesitated, but Tachibana seemed more amused than annoyed with him, still, and he finally added, “Trust that the rest of us know what we’re facing when we step onto the court, and that we choose to do it anyway.”

“Just like I need to choose, hm?” Tachibana smiled a little and caught up his bag, slinging it over his shoulder. “Good advice, Momoshiro.” There was a glint in his eye as he glanced over at Momo. “Come see me after Nationals, and I’ll give you that game you want. No holding back. My word on it.” And then he laughed, and Momo figured he’d probably lit up like a lightbulb; he certainly felt that way.

“I will!” He straightened up, reminded of what they were all aiming for right now. “And we’ll see you there.”

Tachibana gave him a firm nod and turned away, down the steps to the street. Momo watched him go, excitement tingling through him at the thought of getting to play someone like that for real. He’d have to tell Echizen. Nothing like a bit of healthy envy to remind someone of what was really important. Knowing Echizen, he’d instantly plot to come along and scam a game of his own out of Tachibana.

Momo grinned and fished his racquet out of his bag. He felt like playing for a while, after all, and if there was no one here up to his level maybe that was okay.

Sometimes it was good to just play.

Two Weeks Before Nationals

Genichirou watched Akaya lean against the low wall around the Rikkai tennis courts, braced on both hands and panting for breath. They had been trying, for days, to push Akaya back to a state of no-self, and had yet to succeed, but Akaya was certainly improving his endurance as a side effect.

“I think,” Akaya finally gasped, “the other way was easier than this!”

“I imagine it was, yes,” Genichirou agreed, crossing his arms. “No-self is, after all, what you reached for when your old way of playing a strong opponent failed.” Akaya made a pitiful sound and gave him a tragic look. Genichirou firmly stifled the smile that wanted to twitch at his mouth, at these theatrics, but relented far enough to add, “It’s a good thing in the long run, Akaya. You would never have defeated Yukimura or Yanagi or I playing the way you have been.”

Akaya’s dramatic pitifulness turned into something between a glower and a genuine pout. “You could have mentioned that sooner, Sanada-fukubuchou!” He grabbed his water bottle and took a quick swallow, muttering, “Why did you let me play like that for so long, if it wasn’t going to work?”

Genichirou wrestled with his pride for a long moment, but he finally admitted, “I probably shouldn’t have.”

Akaya froze in the middle of another swallow, staring at him wide-eyed.

Genichirou looked away, over the courts, mouth tight. But he owed Akaya this much explanation, as a member of his team and the person who would lead Rikkai next year. “For a while, I thought all you needed to do was learn to control that overdrive mode of yours. Managed properly, it could be a powerful technique.”

He still remembered Renji’s voice, quiet and just the faintest bit admonishing, the day he’d said, It isn’t a technique, Genichirou. That’s just how hard Akaya runs away from his fears. The fear of losing, in particular, Genichirou had understood then.

Akaya was, perhaps, not the only one. The thought pricked at him uncomfortably, but self-deception was no part of his discipline. Akaya wasn’t the only one who’d turned his fears into anger. Genichirou had let himself be distracted and had fallen for a little while into driving his team instead of leading them. Akaya was the one who’d stopped Genichirou before he went too far, out of that suppressed fear. Yes, Genichirou owed him this understanding.

“When it became clear how unlikely you were to be able to control it,” he went on, levelly, “we were already in the middle of tournament season and I held back from suggesting any alterations while you were still winning by using it. That only encouraged your lack of control, and you’re right that I should not have done so.”

“Oh.” Akaya laced his fingers around his water bottle, looking down, maybe a little shaken.

“I’m pleased that you found a stronger approach on your own,” Genichirou allowed, a bit softer, knowing from experience that Akaya needed encouragement from his senpai. Really, he should have seen how fragile Akaya’s game was long ago. “Very few have that ability.”

Akaya looked up at that, old ambition flickering back to life in his eyes. “You and Yukimura-buchou, you said.”

“And Chitose and apparently Seigaku’s Echizen,” Genichirou finished, still having trouble believing that last. He hesitated and added slowly, “I can’t say exactly what Tezuka may have done in the time he’s been away from the tournaments, but he certainly has enough raw ability for it.”

Akaya nodded seriously, and Genichirou smiled just a little, watching the way his focus tightened. That was what he liked to see in his players, and more strategic awareness would serve Akaya well, next year. He picked up his racquet again and beckoned sharply. “Come along, then. Try it again.”

Akaya stepped back out onto the court quickly, for all his complaining, and was ready to meet Genichirou’s first serve as it whipped over the net. They had been working for almost two hours, and Akaya still hadn’t managed to move himself into no-self, though Genichirou thought he’d come close a few times. What was far easier to see was the way Akaya kept catching himself back from that furious overdrive of his, and the frustration in his scowl and the set of his hands on his racquet as Fire blew past him yet again.

“Akaya,” Genichirou called out calmly as the scowl flickered darker for a dangerous moment. Akaya stopped and stood for two slow breaths before he looked up again and nodded, mouth in a hard line. Genichirou considered, as he pulled out another ball, and finally decided to see whether an example would do the trick, the way his example had helped Akaya understand what he’d done in the Regional finals matches. “You won’t win like that,” he said flatly. “You won’t win unless you stop running away from the game.” He settled stillness over his own mind and released his awareness of the other courts, the rest of the club, what he planned to do for the rest of the day. There was nothing but here and now, and his opponent across the net, and his heart settled into the clarity of no-self.

Akaya’s heaving breath stilled, and his eyes widened, blank and dark.

“Come,” Genichirou ordered, and threw the ball up to serve.

Pressure and presence to almost match his own blazed up like fire across the net, and Akaya was there to catch the ball, angle as perfect as Genichirou had ever seen. Their rally took off with blazing speed and the cutting precision that Genichirou reveled in. He loved playing at this level. Akaya turned back ball after ball, dashing forward and leaping back with perfect timing to catch even Fire. He was gasping for breath and dripping with sweat, letting no-self sweep him up without moderation, but he was smiling through it, brilliant and wild.

It was one too many attempts to return Fire with Fire that finished the point, just as it had when Akaya played Seigaku’s Fuji, and Genichirou noted with the merciless clarity of this state that Akaya hadn’t completely shed his need to beat Genichirou at his own game. Genichirou had no particular objection to that, of course, but it showed that Akaya’s no-self was still incomplete.

He lowered his racquet and let that unthinking perception fall away, subsiding back to all the little, daily concerns of what might be instead of the purity of what was. Akaya’s eyes were still fixed on him, and Genichirou shook his head. “Akaya. We’re done for now.”

It took a few moments before Akaya blinked and shook his head, settling back onto his heels. “That…” he said hesitantly. “That was…?”

Genichirou smiled faintly. “That was it. It isn’t complete yet, for you, but you found it again. Do you think you can do it one more time?”

Akaya looked down at his hands, flexing them, and stooped to pick up his racquet from where the last ball had knocked it. “Yeah, that was… I… it was like…” Akaya took a breath and closed his eyes, lips moving silently. Genichirou thought he caught the shape of limits and win, and when Akaya’s eyes snapped open again they were clear and sharp. His whole body shifted, poised around his center.

“Good,” Genichirou murmured, fishing out another ball. “Let’s see what you can make of this, then.”

They only stayed out for another hour, not even going past the time allotted for club practice. Akaya’s endurance was improving, but he’d spent a lot of strength against Genichirou, even before he started burning it with the breathless speed of those perfect, instant perceptions and actions that made no-self such a powerful tool. “Strength training in the mornings,” Genichirou directed as he shepherded Akaya toward the changing rooms with the rest of the team. “And work on your grip exercises during the day in class, too, since you can’t seem to resist using Fire when you’re in that state.”

“Well, it’s what works,” Akaya protested, stumbling and righting himself with a grab at Niou, who looked amused and permitted it. “I mean, I can see that it’ll work, it’s right there, it’s like I can’t not use it.”

“Then we will also be taking you around to view more games, where you can study more techniques than just ours,” Genichirou told him, inflexibly. “Use this to play your own game, Akaya, not mine.”

Akaya sighed and thumped down onto the bench in front of his locker and started untying his shoes. “Yes, Sanada-fukubuchou.”

“Quit complaining, it’ll be good for you.” Niou ruffled Akaya’s hair as he passed behind. “You’re still the worst on the team for leaping to conclusions about an opponent. Not,” he added with a glance at Genichirou, “that you don’t come by the habit honestly.”

Genichirou ignored him, which got a smirk, but rising to Niou’s bait would only amuse him more. “Do you have the list of Nationals teams for Yukimura?” he asked Renji instead.

“Right here.” Renji nudged his bag with a toe as he pulled on his uniform pants.

“Is he well enough to plan strategy?” Yagyuu asked, knotting his tie precisely.

“He came off the opiates yesterday,” Renji said, answering the real question, as he tended to do. “He should be entirely coherent by now.”

“He’ll still be in pain, though,” Jackal said quietly, closing his locker. “Don’t tax him too much.”

Marui gave his partner a curious look, sucking a bubble of fresh gum back in. “How do you know all this about injuries, anyway?”

“I had appendicitis when I was eleven. The surgery was pretty similar, just in a different location.” Jackal hesitated for a long moment, and finally added, more to his bag than to his teammates, “It was two months before I was ready to play at strength again, and that was against other Elementary players.”

Shocked silence fell on the changing room.

“That,” Renji said, hanging his bag over his shoulder, “is what we will be discussing today.”

Everyone but Niou relaxed at that assurance, used to trusting Renji’s strategy. Niou just watched the two of them silently, eyes sharp. Genichirou felt them on his back, as they left.

“This is going to be a gamble, isn’t it?” he asked, once they were off school grounds and into the maze of residential streets.

Renji actually smiled. “It’s always a gamble, Genichirou. Even for us, winning and losing often comes down to chance.”

“You know what I mean.”

“I know.” Renji looked up at the sun-dappled leaves of a tree reaching over a low brick wall as they passed. “Seigaku will be trouble, if Tezuka is back. Shitenhouji will be, as well, most likely. But we know them both, and we will not meet them unprepared.”

Genichirou sighed and made himself relax his grip on the strap of his bag. “Yes. You’re right, of course.”

“The bigger problem,” Renji said, lightly, “will be keeping Seiichi from hurting himself by pushing too hard, too fast in his reconditioning.”

Genichirou considered their friend, and his merciless drive to advance his game, and grunted. He had no doubt whatsoever that Renji was right. Considering that, he was actually relieved when they found Yukimura in his back yard, merely stretching out.

“Sanada. Renji.” Yukimura straightened up from touching his head to his knees and pushed his hair back off his face. “Now that I can pay attention properly, tell me again who’s going to be at Nationals.” His eyes on them were as intense as his body was relaxed, with none of the alarming haziness of the past weeks, and something in Genichirou settled with relief as he dropped his bag and sat. Everything was as it should be, again.

Renji settled cross-legged on the grass and pulled the list of teams out of his bag, and handed it over. “Only a few of these have enough strength to give us trouble. But those few who do will take careful planning.”

“Hm.” Yukimura ran an eye down the list. “Who’s a challenge this year?” His mouth quirked up. “Besides Seigaku.”

“Shitenhouji has two powerful singles players and a very strong doubles pair,” Renji recited, spine straight. “Their other doubles pair is… erratic but not certainly not negligible. Shishigaku has only Chitose left, who could match us, but they have one good doubles pair and another strong singles player; I doubt they would be trouble, but it wouldn’t do to be careless against them. Fudoumine has Tachibana, and he could well choose to place his two best players in singles instead of doubles, against us. Again, I doubt they’ve progressed fast enough to be real trouble, but they have a personal cause after the way Akaya played against Tachibana.”

Genichirou sniffed. “Hypocrisy.”

“His new team doesn’t seem to know about that, though.” Renji cocked his head thoughtfully. “Speaking of which, there are conflicting reports about the Kyuushuu champions, this year. Higa. Kite Eishirou leads them, and several reports say they play very violently.”

Yukimura’s eyes narrowed. “All of them?” At Renji’s nod, he glanced at Genichirou. “That might be useful, if we encounter them.”

Genichirou nodded slowly, following the logic. “I’ll keep working with Akaya, then. The more complete his state of no-self is, the better a lesson that will be.”

“Ruthless,” Renji noted, not at all disapproving. “The rest seem to present little threat. Makinofuji has fallen off sadly, this year, and Yamabuki has played solidly but has no truly first tier players. Hyoutei could have been some trouble, but they’ve been eliminated.”

“So only Shitenhouji and Seigaku might be strong enough to force the matches to Singles One.” Yukimura looked back and forth between them, eyes bright and hard. “Should I take Singles Three, if we meet them?”

Genichirou bit back a protest. He hated the thought; it wasn’t fitting! “That would be… bad for morale, I think,” he said, instead.

“The power of your reputation is a strong weapon in itself,” Renji agreed. “And if we meet them both, then the second will know you can’t be fully recovered, if you play in that slot.”

Yukimura leaned back on his hands in the sun-warm grass, looking thoughtful. “So. You would have me stay in Singles One, and hope that I don’t find Tezuka or Shiraishi there, if the match goes that far?”

“That has always been our pride,” Genichirou said quietly. “That we do not alter our line-up for Nationals. Many of the other teams will, putting their best players in sooner to end the match early or turn its momentum. Not,” he added, annoyed by the irregularity as he was every year, “that the game order at Nationals makes that easy.”

Yukimura laughed. “That’s the point, Genichirou. They want to see everyone play, if possible.”

A taste the organizers shared with Yukimura, and which Genichirou had never entirely approved of. “You are the best of Rikkai,” he said firmly. “You should play Singles One, as usual.”

Yukimura’s smile turned a little mischievous. “Hoping to get Tezuka to yourself?”

Genichirou firmly ignored the heat in his face, and Renji’s quiet chuckles. “I will play and defeat whoever I meet in Singles Two.” The pivotal slot, for Nationals, the third match that could turn the entire thing one way or the other.

Yukimura touched his knee in unspoken apology for teasing. “Of course you will.” And then he stretched up onto his feet. “So! Who will play a few games with me?”

Genichirou recalled his thought that Yukimura was being sensible about his recovery, and chided himself for foolishness. This was the captain of Rikkai, after all.

His captain.

He stood as well, slinging his bag back over his shoulder as Renji sighed and shook his head at both of them. “Let’s go.”

Seven Days Before Nationals

Keigo waited at the top of the stands surrounding Hyoutei’s tennis courts, avoiding the sun-hot plastic of the seats and leaning against the rails instead, arms crossed. He watched the first and second years running energetically around in the uniform he’d had to pack away, and refrained from glowering, because that was beneath him. He waited until Hiyoshi dismissed the club for the day before he drew his racquet from the bag at his feet and came down. He actually preferred to stay away entirely until after the club was gone, but today he had business with Hiyoshi; business he’d thought to have more time to take care of before he had to retire.

That wasn’t what he needed to be thinking about right now, though.

“Hiyoshi.” He caught his successor at the edge of the stands, last out of practice, and jerked his head back at the courts. “Come play a match with me. I think it’s about time.”

Hiyoshi stopped looking ever so faintly harassed and brightened up in a bloodthirsty way, instead. Keigo bit back a grin. He liked Hiyoshi’s attitude; it was why he’d chosen Hiyoshi to follow him as captain. Hiyoshi’s drive shone fierce and bright enough to hold even Hyoutei’s club, and he’d always had an appropriately disdainful approach to the copious and pointless advice of less-capable senpai. Keigo appreciated such things, and approved of the alertness with which Hiyoshi set himself on the far side of the net. They would see, today, just how far that alertness could take him.

Keigo didn’t bother with taunts or prodding words, today. Hiyoshi didn’t need them, and had stopped responding much to them months ago. Keigo approved. His first serve was hard and fast, challenging Hiyoshi to catch it and be ready in time for the deep return. Hiyoshi was in place to catch that, too, easy and sure, and he sliced the ball home behind Keigo for the first point.

Keigo smiled.

Point after point tore by, drive and drop shot, smash and lob, testing and prying and hammering at each other. He took the first three games before slowing just a little bit to let Hiyoshi try to catch up. Hiyoshi focused tighter when he was chasing someone. Keigo drew him out and out, pressing him to show the true strength of his form. When Hiyoshi sank down in his stance, sinuous and flexible, and caught the first shot of the Rondo on the face of his racquet, Keigo laughed out loud and drove the ball deep into the far corner instead. Hiyoshi’s eyes glinted back at him with silent challenge.

The ferocity and determination of Hiyoshi’s game did a heart good to see, and Keigo thought that, even if he didn’t have a lesson to teach today, he might have drawn the game out just to see more of this. When he let Hiyoshi take his sixth game, he had to turn his back so Hiyoshi wouldn’t see his expression, or the pleasure he was taking in that blazing hunger Hiyoshi showed so openly.

Playing for a tiebreak turned the game hotter. When two points either way would win the match, there was no room to relax, no room for mistakes. Even Keigo was pushed hard, though his goal was not to win—not yet. He returned the fierce speed of Hiyoshi’s drive with a cord ball, forcing an abrupt change in direction, and watched closely as Hiyoshi sprinted after it. He only barely missed, and there was no rasp in his breathing, no tremble in his calves. Good. They’d played to 33-32 and Hiyoshi could still keep going. The word Keigo had had with their coach a few weeks ago, about Hiyoshi’s endurance training, was clearly bearing fruit.

The serve returned to Keigo and he bounced the ball a few times. “Looks like you’re finally able to deal with a long game,” he called, casually. “About time. We can’t have you being walked all over by a first year again.”

Hiyoshi straightened abruptly, staring at him. “You…”

Keigo’s smile this time showed teeth. “Let’s see how far you can go.” He tossed the ball up and served with his full strength.

Hiyoshi bared his teeth in answer, dashing to meet the ball and drive it back.

Another point, and another, and Hiyoshi was clawing his way level with Keigo every time. A sinking drop shot gave another point to Keigo. A flat drive hit from a leap, higher than any drive had a right to be, gave another to Hiyoshi. In the end it was the Rondo that finished the match, Hiyoshi tiring and just a little too slow to sink down in his stance and catch the first shot before it struck his racquet from his grip. They reached 47-45 before it ended, though. Keigo was satisfied.

“You were drawing the game out on purpose,” Hiyoshi half-accused, flexing his no doubt stinging hand.

Keigo crossed his arms and leaned against the net pole. “Did you believe you were really keeping up?” When Hiyoshi nodded, short and unwilling, Keigo held up a finger. “Remember what that looked like, then. There are always a handful of players who use that tactic to unsettle an opponent.”

“Yes, Atobe-buchou,” Hiyoshi answered slowly, scowl easing into a more thoughtful frown, and a corner of Keigo’s mouth tilted up.

“You’re the one I chose to lead Hyoutei, Wakashi. Start thinking like a captain.”

Hiyoshi looked at him for a long, silent moment, eyes steady and serious. Finally, he drew himself up, chin lifted. “Yes, Buchou.”

Keigo nodded, satisfied, and flicked his fingers in the direction of the club changing rooms. “Get going, then.”

Hiyoshi dipped his head, halfway between the mocking respect he gave loud-mouthed senpai and genuine acknowledgment. As he passed Keigo, he murmured, “I’ll catch you by my own effort. Don’t wait up.”

Keigo laughed out loud, and swatted Hiyoshi’s rear with his racquet. “As if I would! We’re Hyoutei, after all.” He chuckled, watching Hiyoshi make his way off the courts, straight-backed and just a little pink. It faded, though, as he thought about Hiyoshi’s admonition not to wait. There was something else he’d been meaning to do, for a few days now. Perhaps, now that his duty to his club and his kouhai was taken care of for a while, he should think about that again.

Not that it took much thinking. He knew who he had to go to, to finish working out his new technique. He just wasn’t really looking forward to it.

Keigo took himself off to the private showers and stood under the hot water for a while, turning things over in his head again. In the end, there was just no other option. Tezuka was still gone. Yukimura was still gone, and for all his sharp edge, he’d always been a lot harder to provoke than Sanada. Who knew whether Yukimura would even have agreed to play him, right now.

Sanada was going to be a complete ass about this, was the thing, Keigo reflected, as he toweled off. That was part of Sanada’s mental game, after all. Keigo was honest enough to know that he was very much the same, but that didn’t mean he was looking forward to being taunted by a player who was going on to Nationals when he couldn’t, this year.

His eye fell on a magazine someone had left behind, open to an article covering the “exciting” final match of the Kantou Regional games. He curled his lip and dropped the damp towel on top of it, pulling on fresh shorts and a hooded shirt briskly. He’d already planned to take Hiyoshi and Ohtori to the National games, so they could watch the competition and get some practice judging the players and strategies of other teams. He didn’t expect to entirely enjoy that. The match he needed to play with Sanada was more of the same. It was his duty, this time to his own game, and he would do it. He hauled his bag over his shoulder and jogged down the steps of the athletic building to head for the station and catch a southbound train.

Fortunately, Rikkai’s courts were almost as obvious as his own, and he didn’t have to ask directions from or deal with any of the native students until he got his feet down onto hardtop and issued his challenge.

Sanada planted his hands on his hips as his club goggled at their visitor, and looked Keigo up and down. “You want what?”

“A match, Sanada, you do remember what those are?” Keigo snapped. “You should be grateful; you obviously need to play more of them against real opponents, if you almost lost to a first year.”

As he’d confidently expected, that fired Sanada right up. “And you think you’re a real opponent, do you?” He caught up his racquet and gestured sharply at two of his players to clear one of the courts. “I’ll show you differently, then.”

Keigo grabbed one of his own racquets and walked out opposite him, breathing slow and deep. He needed an opponent of Sanada’s caliber to test his developing technique against; he didn’t expect it to be easy, but he knew this could work. He fixed his eyes on Sanada and started to widen his focus, bit by slow bit, still as acute as ever but taking in more and more of the court that surrounded Sanada, of the pattern his movement made over time.

And then Sanada served.

Keigo’s focus wavered, tightened, wavered again as he chased ball after ball, fighting to keep equal attention on the weight and spin of the ball against his racquet and the building shape of Sanada’s movement across the net. He’d never tried this with a player of his own level yet, and after being provoked, Sanada was showing even less mercy than usual. Keigo was wringing wet and panting for breath, but he could see it. Moment by moment, he could see the shape of Sanada, of his game, of his attention and fields of vision, coming clear.

“You couldn’t even make it to Nationals this year,” Sanada called, pushing at Keigo’s game with the words, “and you thought you could challenge Rikkai? Challenge me?” He drove home another point and straightened up, eyeing the way Keigo leaned with his hands braced against his knees. “Is this some kind of joke, Atobe?”

Keigo didn’t spare the breath to answer, just dashed for the next ball, gritting his teeth with the ache starting behind his eyes as he focused tighter and wider, fighting to bring what he saw into a coherent pattern, to make a weapon of his perceptions. Watching so closely, he saw the words that Sanada said too quietly to be heard.

Is that all you’ve got?

The ball came back to Keigo and he saw Sanada settle into the stance for Mountain. Before anyone said it, his intention was obvious; he wanted to make this an endurance game, grind Keigo down in his own area of strength. The Mountain was exactly the technique Keigo hadn’t been able to get past, the last time they played.

But this time, he saw it.

He saw, for one flash, the whole pattern that Sanada’s movement over time had built. As if they had weight in his hand, he could feel, trace where Sanada’s lines of sight were. Exultation spiked through him like lightning, blazing and brilliant, and he set himself to make the shot straight into Sanada’s blind spot. For one instant, the world crystallized into cool perfection around him: the World of Ice he’d been struggling to reach since he first caught a glimpse of the possibility.

And then he started, shocked, as the net abruptly sagged between them. The start shook him out of position, and the ball flashed past, and he blinked, half in and half out of that web of perception, watching the net slip down to rest against the surface of the court. Finally, he managed to turn his head to see Yukimura by the net pole.

“That’s enough,” Yukimura said firmly, coming out to stand between them and set one foot pointedly on the net.

Keigo glared, furious. He’d just had it, and that point would have been his and turned the game! “What,” he growled, “are you my opponent instead?”

Yukimura just cocked his head, ignoring the burst of outrage from the rest of the club. “I’ll be glad to play you,” he finally said, and a tiny, infuriating smile curved his lips, “if it’s an official match.”

Keigo jerked back. He was used to the way Sanada taunted opponents, and he gave as good as he got, thank you very much. But he’d never thought Yukimura had a taste for that! “What?”

The tiny smile got wider. “Hm. You’ll know soon, I think.” When he tipped his head meaningfully at the stairs up out of the courts, Keigo could only throw his racquet back into his bag and go. After all, he couldn’t very well strangle Yukimura with his bare hands in front of the whole Rikkai club. Pity, that.

He fumed all the way home, and when he got back to the school grounds he stalked into his own courts and took his frustration out on a box of tennis balls. He hurled one serve after another across the net, the new serve he’d been working on ever since he started wondering exactly what Seigaku’s Echizen had thought he was doing when he leaped for that last ball. He thought he’d figured it out, and the bruising, muscle-clenching force that the technique required suited his mood right now. Ball after ball struck the court with ferocious spin, deformed, scuttled along the ground without bouncing.

His concentration (and brooding) were interrupted by his team clattering down the stands behind him, yelling. He sighed and cast a rather dour look over his shoulder. Even after it was all over, he apparently couldn’t escape…

“We got the host-city spot in the National tournament!” Mukahi called down, nearly bouncing with excitement. “They picked us, this year! We can go!”

Keigo stood very still. This was what Yukimura must have meant.

On reflection, he might just be even more insulted, now. Him, Atobe Keigo, to take his team to Nationals despite losing? To let everyone say they’d only made it there out of someone’s pity?

Shishido, who knew him better than Keigo really would have liked sometimes, yelled down, flatly, “We’re going, Atobe! We’re going no matter what!”

“We want to show our real strength!” Ohtori chipped in, and that argument, at least, Keigo could understand. Still…

Hiyoshi’s voice cut through the others, sharp and fiery. “Please, Buchou!”

Keigo sighed and grumbled silently to himself about kouhai who had learned strategy a little too well. Of course, Hiyoshi would know, now, to appeal to his responsibility as his team’s captain. He glowered at the balls scattered across the court, wavering between hunger and outrage.

And that was when he heard the chant.

Hyoutei’s chant echoed out from the building that overlooked the courts, and he turned to see what must be the entire rest of the club, and most of their supporters to boot, leaning out windows and crowding the roof. From the roof rail a long banner unfurled. Congratulations, Hyoutei Gakuen men’s tennis club, for making it to Nationals!

Keigo rolled his eyes. “Idiots,” he muttered. He turned and glared at his apprehensive looking team, sparing an especially sharp look for Hiyoshi, who returned it without the slightest hint of shame over this blatant manipulation. Yes, Keigo was pretty sure it was his successor who’d told the rest of the club about this, made it impossible for Atobe to gracefully refuse, and grudging approval for the canniness of that move blunted his annoyance. “Fine, then.”

He lifted his hand and snapped his fingers, cutting off the chant into breathless, waiting silence. It tugged at him, that silence, the weight of his club’s eyes on him, sparkling down his nerves with the same tingle of exhilaration, chance, danger as always. He lifted his head and tossed a dangerous smile back at them. “Follow me to Nationals, then!”

Cheers rolled down over the team, like a wave breaking.

Keigo dropped his racquet into his bag; no time for more practice with this right now. He’d have to talk to Sakaki-sensei at once about their strategy against the other teams they might meet. There wasn’t much time left to prepare. He gave one more glance to the scuff marks on the far side of the court, though, and smiled a little. Tannhäuser, he’d name this serve. After the legend of redemption and second chances that came if you only waited a little while. He’d polish this, and his other techniques, for Nationals as soon as he had time.

Other techniques.

Keigo stopped short at the foot of the stairs up into the stands where his team was waiting. They were going to Nationals. And it was not at all unlikely that he’d be meeting either Sanada or Yukimura there. Two very dangerous players who, by chance and fate and a single second’s delay, had not seen the completion of World of Ice, today.

Keigo started laughing and couldn’t stop, even when Oshitari made sardonic remarks about the effects of stress and Shishido demanded, more bluntly, whether he’d finally stripped a gear.

An official match, indeed.

Keigo caught his breath and swept a glance over his team, fiercely delighted, watching them straighten and step toward him in answer. He slung his bag over his shoulder with all his usual flair, head high.

“Let’s go.”

Six Days Before Nationals

Tachibana An was a well-raised girl, and she would normally never dream of eavesdropping on her brother’s personal conversations (unless, of course, there was no chance of getting caught). But considering the recent upsets in her brother’s life, and especially in his tennis, and considering Fuji Shuusuke’s reputation for unpredictability, she felt justified this one time in lurking just inside the doorway to hear what Fuji wanted from her brother. Especially what he wanted that had him visiting this late at night with his tennis bag over his shoulder. She listened through the barely open door while they exchanged pleasantries about everyone’s healing injuries, or possibly those were threats, or maybe both at once. Boys. Her ears perked up when Fuji asked Onii-chan to come with him.

“Where?” her brother asked, obviously curious about all this himself.

“Mm. I was thinking the street court just near here, actually.”

She knew it! Fuji wanted a match!

…this close to the tournament, though? An puzzled over that as she slipped back into the kitchen and finished feeding the dog, keeping a sharp ear on the sounds of her brother moving around upstairs. Fuji must want something that only her brother could give him. What was unique about Onii-chan?

Well, when she put it that way, it was actually kind of obvious. When he came back down with his own tennis bag and called that he’d be back in an hour or so, she ran for her room. More specifically, for her cel phone.

This was too good an opportunity to pass up.

“Hurry up, hurry up,” she chanted under her breath as she ran back down the stairs and jammed her feet into her sneakers, phone ringing in her ear.

“Hello?”

“Kamio-kun, it’s An.” She slipped out the door, patting her pocket absently to make sure she had her keys.

“An-chan! I was just about to call you!” His voice turned shyer. “I have these tickets to a live concert…”

An flapped an impatient hand, even though he couldn’t see it. “Kamio-kun, this is way more important! Fuji Shuusuke was just here, and he asked Onii-chan for a match! You have to come!”

“Why?” he asked, sharp and focused again, thank goodness. “Is something wrong?”

“Of course not, but I think Onii-chan might be ready to play seriously again!” An broke into a trot down the street. “You need to see this, you’ll understand everything if you just see. Just meet me at the street court near our house, okay?”

“Okay, I’m coming.”

An nodded with satisfaction as she slid her phone into her back pocket and broke into a lope. She’d never found the words to explain to Kamio or to Ibu what had been so incredible about her brother’s tennis, or why the match against Kirihara had troubled him so very much. But if Kamio could see for himself, she knew he’d understand, and understand what it meant that her brother had bleached his hair again.

And why she had cried when she’d seen it, helpless to gulp back those tears of hot relief.

She bounced impatiently on her toes when she got to the stairs up to the court, looking up and down the street for Kamio. Fortunately, he was only a minute or two behind her.

“They came here?” he asked as he slid to a stop beside her, not even out of breath.

An nodded and took his arm. “Come on, we’ll stay quiet and watch from the top of the stairs.”

They snuck up to the court and crowded into the shadow of the low wall that ran around it. They were just in time to hear Fuji’s voice, silky and provoking, say, “Could it be that you’ve been overrated?”

An promptly clapped a hand over Kamio’s mouth, just in time to stifle a sharp exclamation of outrage. Her brother was laughing.

“You don’t have to try so hard to provoke me, Fuji. If you want a game against my real strength, I’ll give it to you.” An watched Onii-chan shift his shoulders and straighten under the floodlights spilling over the court. Kamio made a startled sound around the hand she’d forgotten to take away as the very air turned heavier.

“Try not to get hurt,” her brother said, low and clear, and An’s breath caught. She’d seen her brother play, back before he’d moved to Tokyo; she remembered that perfect confidence, tinged with amusement, and she pressed her clasped hands against her mouth, hoping.

The next ball was almost too fast to see, and it tore by just a breath away from Fuji’s face. An’s heart leaped with excitement.

“What…?” Kamio whispered beside her, and his eyes were wide when she glanced over.

“I thought I warned you,” her brother told Fuji, arms crossed. “If you don’t pay attention, you’re going to get hurt.”

Fuji’s still shock melted into a slow, fey smile, blue eyes gleaming under the lights. “So I see.”

An was having a hard time not squeaking with glee, and she leaned forward, eager for the next ball. This one, Fuji caught, and the rally was on, flashing back and forth across the net at a speed that set her pulse pounding.

“This…” Kamio sounded just as breathless as she felt. “This is Tachibana-san’s real strength?”

“Yes,” she whispered back. “Oh yes! Finally, he’s finally playing for real again!” And then she bit her lip, because Fuji had given her brother a lob, and she knew what Fuji’s specialties were, now. Beside her, Kamio gasped, “If he smashes it, Fuji will just—” he broke off with a wordless sound of frustration as Fuji, sure enough, spun into the stance for Higuma Otoshi. An, though, held her breath, still hoping.

And then she punched the air, triumphantly, as Fuji’s racquet spun out of his hands, gut burst. “Yes!” she hissed.

“He broke Higuma Otoshi!” Kamio exclaimed, starting up out of their concealing shadow.

Onii-chan didn’t look at them, but he answered calmly, “Not quite.” An looked up at a flicker of movement and stared as the ball came down in her brother’s court and bounced past his feet. “Not bad, Fuji.”

Fuji smiled over his shoulder, sharp and challenging, before it faded into a rueful look at his racquet. “I suppose this means we’re done for now,” he sighed, picking it up. “I’d wanted to play you for longer.” He came to the net and held out his hand. “Thank you, Tachibana. I think I know what I need to, now.”

“Good.” Onii-chan smiled, fierce and pleased. “We’ll look forward to meeting you at Nationals.”

Fuji strolled past An and Kamio with a friendly nod, and An thought she was the only one who watched him long enough to see the casual smile melt off his face, replaced with the most edged look she thought she’d ever seen in another player’s eyes. She shivered a little, hoping she’d get a chance to see this one play for real, himself. She’d never seen anyone return one of her brother’s smashes cleanly, broken gut or not.

“An, Kamio.” Her brother sounded just a tiny bit exasperated. “What are you two doing here?”

An turned, recalled to the present as Kamio stammered a little. “I called Kamio-kun to come watch, once I figured out Fuji was probably going to ask you for an all-out game,” she said, matter-of-fact. “He’s never seen you play like that, and he needed to.”

Her brother gave her a bit of a glare, but it faded when Kamio said, husky, “That was incredible, Tachibana-san.”

Of course, it came back a bit when Kamio added, “Why haven’t you played like that before?”

An nibbled her lip, just a little guilty for putting Onii-chan on the spot, as her brother’s mouth tightened for a moment. “My closest friend on my old team was injured while we were playing,” he finally said, quietly. “If I hadn’t been using that style, it wouldn’t have happened.”

An’s brows went up when Kamio relaxed, startled that that put him at ease. At least until he said, “It… it wasn’t because of us, then?”

“Of course not!” Onii-chan gave Kamio a very startled look. “Why would you think such a thing?”

“Well, I mean!” Kamio ran a hand through his bright hair and said to his shoes, “None of us is strong enough to be a decent opponent for you, and you have to spend so much time doing the things that a coach should be doing, and when that guy said you’d gotten weaker and you didn’t, you know, grind him into the pavement or anything… it seemed like the most likely answer.”

An watched her brother open and close his mouth a few times, and shook her head. “Oh, Kamio-kun.” She came to wrap an arm around him and whapped him firmly over the head. “You’re such an idiot, sometimes.”

“Ow,” he muttered, pushing his disordered hair back into place. But he leaned his shoulder against hers.

“You know, An, I’ve always been grateful that I’m never going to be one of your players. Your leadership techniques are a little too vigorous.” Onii-chan was smiling, though, and he came to rest his hands on Kamio’s shoulders. “It wasn’t your fault, in any way. All of you were what brought me back to tennis. I don’t know if I’ve ever said how grateful I am.”

Kamio looked up at her brother with shining eyes. “Tachibana-san…”

And that, An thought, smiling a bit ruefully to herself, was why she always dodged Kamio’s shy almost-date offers. Way too much of Kamio’s heart already belonged to her brother, and An didn’t intend to take second place to anyone. “So when are you going to give in and play me like that?” she prodded.

Kamio looked horrified. “An-chan!” She glared at him, and he backpedaled quickly, hands lifted. “I mean, you’re really good, you really are, it’s just…”

“Not until you show me you can do at least four sets of flyes with half my weights, regularly,” her brother said firmly. An pouted a little, but that was, at least, a reasonable bar to set, considering the weight and velocity of her brother’s shots when he played seriously.

She’d have to work on her weight regimen more intensively.

Onii-chan obviously knew her well enough to follow the thought, because he asked, “How has your own training been coming, Kamio?” He tucked his racquet back into his bag and lifted it over his shoulder, leading them both back down the steps of the court.

Kamio brightened. “It’s been going really well! My time is up to fifty minutes of intermittent sprints before my speed falls.” He smiled up at her brother. “Everyone is working really hard, and it’s paying off.”

“Of course it is,” Onii-chan said with the perfect confidence that made all of his team kind of glow to hear. An strolled along beside them, smiling quietly. She’d always known her brother wouldn’t be able to give up tennis. He was born to do this, and after Nationals, everyone would know it.

It was probably just as well Kamio was distracted, because the glint in her eyes as she thought that made her look very much like her brother.3

Four Days Before Nationals

Genichirou stood beside Yukimura, watching as the tennis club filtered off the courts, chattering and excited and confident. Of course they were confident. Their captain had returned, the miracle had happened, there was no way they could lose.

Genichirou envied them that innocent conviction, a little.

“Are you sure you want to do this?” he asked quietly, not looking at his friend.

“Of course I’m sure. We know, now, how recovered I am against another first rank player…”

Because yesterday Yukimura had played Genichirou until he dropped where he stood, losing 3-6.

“…now I need to know where I am against the second rank.” Yukimura unfolded his arms and stretched. Glancing over, Genichirou caught a gleam in his eye and snorted.

“And you told me to be careful.”

“I didn’t say a thing about being careful,” Yukimura defended himself, smiling. “I just said you and Atobe should finish it in an official match, not off record like that one was.”

“That wasn’t the only reason you stopped us,” Genichirou stated flatly.

After a moment of silence, Yukimura shook his head. “Atobe is arrogant, but he’s not foolish. He had something specific in mind, when he came to find you. I’m not inclined to help opponents with their training when we’ve yet to meet them in the tournaments.”

“Hmph.” Genichirou settled back, though. At least Yukimura hadn’t thought he’d lose or something foolish like that. “Well go on, then. I think the courts are clear enough, now.”

Sure enough, Akaya had waved Marui on toward the changing rooms and was trotting across the cleaned courts to them. “You said you wanted me for something after practice, Yukimura-buchou?”

“Yes.” Yukimura stepped down off the grass and onto the courts. “I wanted a match with you today.”

Akaya lit up like a sparkler someone had just set a match to, and Genichirou felt a smile twitch at his mouth. At least it looked like they’d enjoy themselves.


Akaya set his feet against the surface of the court, breathing deeply. He hadn’t been able to play Yukimura-buchou for months and months, but he remembered very clearly what it was like. And it was a lot like drowning in something. He braced himself for the weight of it as Yukimura stepped back to his baseline, and it was still a shock when his captain looked up, eyes suddenly sharp enough to cut, clear across the length of the court. The rush of danger and excitement and fear down Akaya’s nerves plunged him straight down into the response he’d been practicing for three weeks now, the clarity of no-self. The world sharpened, clear and light and waiting.

It was an effort to pull himself back out.

Yukimura was smiling, still holding his first ball. “It’s a better response than your old one, Akaya.”

Akaya gave his captain an extremely patient look. “Of course it is, but I’m not going to use it until I need it.” As if he didn’t know he couldn’t last a whole match against Yukimura, like that. Not yet, anyway.

Yukimura laughed. “Good.” He threw the ball up and the sheer force of his focus hammered into Akaya.

He’d never understood exactly how Yukimura-buchou did it, but he’d seen it in game after game, felt it every time they played. Some players, especially the ones who were afraid or just weren’t ready for it, even froze up completely. Sanada-fukubuchou got all old-fashioned about it and talked about sword-spirit and gathering your ki. Yanagi-senpai talked about Yukimura’s confidence and focus and subliminal cues that reached the other player.

Niou-senpai just said that even an idiot could tell when there was a knife coming at him.

Akaya drove himself through that pressure, past it to reach the ball, settling back into the familiar balance of desperation and exhilaration. This. This was his goal, and there was nothing in the world quite like the strain in every muscle and tendon to catch Yukimura’s shots, the spike of triumph whenever he did.

He was catching more of them, today. Yukimura-buchou was playing closer to his level than usual, and a corner of his mind wondered if that was the point. Was this a training exercise? Practice in conserving his strength?

Even with his captain holding back, Akaya was losing ground, though. One shot and then another struck past him, beyond his reach as Yukimura turned his racquet, steady as rock and fluid as water, to spin the ball. One more wickedly curving slice and Akaya was down two games, including his service game.

All right, fine; now he’d let his instincts have their way.

His captain smiled coolly as Akaya let himself feel the threat of Yukimura’s strength, and stilled himself into the transparency of no-self, the poise so perfect it wasn’t even waiting. The intensity of it felt like an exact match for the weight of Yukimura’s game, and Akaya saw the next serve coming, was behind it in four strides, felt the spin of the ball against his gut and moved, countering the spin and throwing the ball back to the far corner all in one breath.

This game was longer, rally after rally as the ball sang back and forth between them, and Akaya only lost after he’d taken three points. Observations came together without any words to frame them, in the back of his head, and sent him diving into the fourth game. When Yukimura jumped to serve or to smash the ball, he pulled up just a little short. His drives had all the finesse Akaya remembered in muscle and bone, but less strength. His breath had a faint catch in it at the top. All those things braided together and called fast, hard shots out of Akaya’s hands.

This game, Akaya took. The next, as well, snatching the last two points with the driving force of Fire twice in a row.

Startlement was enough to shake Akaya out of no-self, and he straightened up, puzzled. He’d seen Yukimura-buchou return Fire, with no more apparent trouble than any other shot, stealing the force from it with seeming ease. “Buchou…?”

Yukimura’s eyes gleamed like steel across the court. “No time for that right now, Akaya. Come.” The weight of his presence abruptly turned overwhelming, towering up like a tsunami wave. Adrenaline spiked through Akaya, and plunged him back into no-self, into the space of pure perception and action that might stand a chance of answering that same state in his captain.

There was no time for thought, no time for evaluation or planning, only time to move, to see, to move again. Another game to Yukimura. Another, by one point, to Akaya. He could feel his strength starting to drain, though, the fine edge of his responses blunting. The last two games went fast, and they didn’t go to him.

Akaya stumbled to his knees as match point cut past his racquet, and stayed there for a few moments, gasping for breath as he slid back out of no-self into the everyday tangle of “won” and “lost” and “oh yeah, it’s hot out.” It had been closer than he’d ever come before, this match, and he was satisfied and frustrated at the same time. Especially since, looking back on it, there had definitely been something odd about Yukimura-buchou’s game.

“That was definitely more painful than I’d hoped it would be.” There was a breathless edge in his captain’s voice, and Akaya looked up to find him leaning hard against one of the net posts with Sanada-fukubuchou hovering beside him. Yukimura’s face was pale in a way it hadn’t been since the bad months.

“Yukimura-buchou?” Akaya scrambled back to his feet and hurried to them. “Buchou, what…?”

His captain smiled at him and waved a hand. “Don’t worry, Akaya. I knew what I was doing.”

“What were you doing?” Akaya demanded, eyes raking up and down Yukimura, not that he didn’t know by now that the scariest injuries were the ones that didn’t bleed. “I thought, at the start, you were working on conserving your strength, maybe…”

“Possibly a wise tactic, if not quite today’s goal,” Sanada-fukubuchou noted, one hand on Yukimura-buchou’s shoulder as if to steady him.

Yukimura-buchou laughed, only to catch it short the way he’d been doing right after his surgery, and that twisted something in Akaya’s chest. “I’m measuring just how much I’ve recovered, Akaya. And how long I can play against someone who’s just below our level.”

Akaya chewed on his lip. “Echizen,” he said, softly, and Yukimura’s smile brightened.

“Very good. You’re getting better at strategy.”

“You did win,” Akaya offered, finding himself glad of that, now.

His captain’s eyes darkened. “Barely.” He slowly straightened up, though, and reached up to ruffle Akaya’s hair. “You’ve come a long way in just a few weeks.” Quiet and serious, he finished, “I’m proud of you, Akaya.”

Akaya swallowed and bent his head under the weight of that approval, cheeks hotter than even a hard game could account for. “Thank you, Yukimura-buchou.” His captain’s hand slipped down to his shoulder and held him firmly for a moment, steady and encouraging.

“Well, I think we’re done for the day,” Yukimura-buchou said more lightly. “I should stretch a little more, though. Go on ahead, Akaya.”

Akaya looked up at that, worried all over again. “Are you really sure… I mean…” He eyed Yukimura-buchou’s lingering paleness and glanced up at Sanada-fukubuchou. He would be staying, wouldn’t he? To make sure their captain was all right?

A corner of Sanada-fukubuchou’s mouth curled up, dryly amused, and he jerked his head toward the changing rooms. Akaya relaxed a little at that, and collected his bag, and went.

And he tried not to think too very hard about how much Yukimura-buchou still had to recover, if his captain’s crushing strength was only enough, now, to defeat him six games to four. Thinking about that made his chest twist tighter. Instead, he thought about the training he’d do in the days they had left, and how none of them would let any other team drive them to Singles One.

They should not let any match go that far.


“He can be very protective, sometimes,” Genichirou observed, keeping one hand under Seiichi’s elbow as they walked slowly along the half-wall around the empty courts.

Yukimura sighed, leaning on his hand for a moment’s balance as they turned the corner. “I scared him. I had hoped he wouldn’t notice—that he’d think it was just an exercise in control.”

“So how bad is it?” Genichirou asked bluntly, now there were no other ears to hear.

They were at the next corner before Yukimura answered. “The pain wears on my endurance worse than I’d expected. If Akaya had been able to hold on a while longer, I’d have lost.”

A finger of chill ran down Genichirou’s spine. “Your range of motion is still impaired also. How much of that is the pain?”

“Pain by itself, I can get through,” Yukimura said sharply. “I can’t pull too hard on the incisions, yet, though. Anything that requires a long reach, or for the core abdominal muscles to clench… I’m barely at seventy percent of what I could normally do.”

And that seventy percent gained by forcing his way against the pain until he’d almost passed out. Genichirou’s hand tightened on Seiichi’s arm, though he let go again at his friend’s annoyed sound. Seiichi’s steps were steadier now, and his breathing easier. “I think you’d better plan to take some painkillers before the match, if we have to meet Seigaku or Shitenhouji,” he said quietly.

Yukimura laughed full out, this time, but it was bitter. “They won’t do more than take the edge off, not unless I take so many they affect my game.” After a long, quiet moment, he sighed. “Still, that’s something.”

“We will not lose,” Genichirou said firmly. “You’re with us again, and we won’t lose to anyone.”

Seiichi looked up at him, mouth tilted wryly, and there was, perhaps, a shade of exasperation in his eyes. But he sounded as sure as ever when he said, “I know you won’t.”

Genichirou nodded and stayed close as they made another lap around the courts in the low, golden sunlight.

Two Days Before Nationals

Tezuka Kunimitsu knew the value of self control; he’d been taught that from a young age by his grandfather. That was why his step was measured as he walked down the hallway to the classroom on Rikkai’s campus where the place-drawing for Nationals was being held, and his hands didn’t shake in the least as he quietly opened the door. He was just a little late; he’d missed one of his connections in Osaka and had to wait for the next train. He’d hoped to be here from the start, for the first real moment of the National tournament. Stepping softly into the room, he could feel the weight of anticipation already built up, the silent challenges passed back and forth between the other captains and vice-captains in the room.

Looking down the sloping rows of seats to the platform at the front of the room, he saw the drawing had already started. Indeed, he seemed to have arrived just in time for Seigaku’s name to be called. Ooishi was getting up, untangling one foot from his chair, looking a bit flustered. The edge of silent challenge blunted in a rustle of amusement among the others. Perhaps even contempt.

Kunimitsu wasn’t prepared to put up with that, not after the way Ryuuzaki-sensei said Ooishi had been holding their team together. He let the door close with a small thump behind him and called down, “I’ll get this, Ooishi.”

Heads snapped around, across the room, and the weight of the atmosphere locked around him like jaws. Kunimitsu nodded to himself a little, satisfied. No one would be permitted to treat Seigaku with disrespect.

“Tezuka!” Ooishi was smiling now, bright and relieved. And then he huffed out a small, exasperated breath that said Kunimitsu should have let him know he would be getting home today. Kunimitsu offered a small tilt of his head in apology, and Ooishi shook his head and sat back down, relaxed and rueful. Kunimitsu was forgiven.

He strode down the shallow stairs, marking their upcoming opponents as he went. Kite’s expression was calculating and chill in a way that said the rumors about Higa might be true. Shiraishi said something quiet to his vice-captain, never looking away from Kunimitsu. Atobe’s eyes were glittering and his smile was fierce and pleased. Rokkaku’s young ‘captain’ was nearly bouncing, but Saeki just watched Kunimitsu, sharp and measuring. Kunimitsu stepped lightly over the long leg Kuroshio’s Tamaki casually stuck out into the aisle and raised an eyebrow; Tamaki only laughed, apparently satisfied.

Sanada, not to Kunimitsu’s surprise, didn’t look around at all. Yukimura might have been stifling laughter over that.

Kunimitsu climbed the steps to the platform and murmured his apology for his lateness. Paper rustled against his fingers as he fished out a single slip from the blue box that held the lots for seeded teams. He drew C block. A quick glance at the chart showed he’d drawn a spot on the same side of the bracket as Shitenhouji. He’d speak with Ryuuzaki-sensei about how to prepare for that match.

As he turned away, his eyes finally crossed Sanada’s, and the fire in them sent a curl of anticipation through him. Perhaps, this year, they would finally meet on an official court again. Or perhaps…

Yukimura’s gaze was lighter but sharper, fit to cut an opponent to pieces. For now, though, he only nodded to Kunimitsu, quiet acknowledgment that they had both returned to their proper places. Kunimitsu nodded gravely back. If the two of them met, this year, it would be a good match.

He climbed back up to sit beside Ooishi and watch the rest of the drawing. “How is the team?” he asked quietly as Takashiro was called up.

“They’re well,” Ooishi answered softly, watching the chart starting to fill in. “Everyone’s training hard. Losing the Regional finals by such a thin margin seems to have inspired them.”

That was as it should be. “Echizen too?”

Ooishi hesitated. “I… want you to see for yourself, before I say anything.”

Kunimitsu held back a frown; that sounded less promising. To be sure, Echizen was the one he worried most about, the one of his team most lacking a clear path to follow, in the game. But he’d hoped that the anchor of a team to fight for would steady the boy. Apparently not.

Perhaps, remembering Echizen’s blank bewilderment that day on the street court underneath the tracks, he wasn’t actually all that surprised.

Team after team went up to draw from the black or blue boxes of lots, and be placed by the organizers in the block they drew. Fudoumine fell on Seigaku’s side of the bracket, the seeded team for B block. Hyoutei fell on the other, one of the two unseeded teams in F block, and an urge to smile tugged at Kunimitsu’s lips when he saw Atobe’s disgruntled look.

“Will you be ready for the ranking matches Ryuuzaki-sensei wants to hold?” Ooishi asked, very quietly.

The same topic he’d just been thinking on, in a way. Kunimitsu was silent for a long minute before he spoke. “I don’t think ranking matches would serve the team well right now.” He watched Murigaoka’s captain mount the stairs, not really seeing him, seeing instead the team he had built and come to know, this year. The one he had brought Echizen Ryouma into, and given to him as a charge and a cause.

“But…” Ooishi frowned. “We have nine players, now, and only eight spaces.”

“Every one of those nine has proven his right to be a part of the Nationals team. The only one whose fitness should be in any doubt is me, and if it’s necessary to demonstrate my recovery, I can do that without ranking matches. If we have a nine-person team, we will call one person alternate and choose whoever seems most suited to any given match.” His team had earned that, all of them.

It was Ooishi’s turn to be silent, searching look fixed on Kunimitsu. Finally, he nodded slowly. “I understand. We’ll talk to Ryuuzaki-sensei about it when we get back.”

Kunimitsu settled back in his seat, satisfied, and started paying attention to the chart again.

Finally, Rikkai was called, and the background murmurs of conversation fell silent as Yukimura stood. The eyes on him were, if possible, even more devouring than they had been on Kunimitsu. Yukimura climbed the stairs with familiar, careless grace, every step sure and easy, and smiled at the officials as if he didn’t feel the pressure of his opponents’ regard at all. Rikkai fell across the bracket from Seigaku, in the H block, and Atobe brightened up at once, even as a few other captains on the same side looked grim.4

Perhaps only Kunimitsu was still watching closely enough to see the way Yukimura’s hand tightened on the back of his chair as he sat back down. Perhaps only Kunimitsu had recent enough memories of pain to recognize it from only that sign.

Yukimura would be in Singles One, then, no question, to keep him from having to play too often. Kunimitsu thought about that, about the still-incomplete recovery that flash of pain indicated. Perhaps… perhaps Kunimitsu would take Two after all, and try to make sure of Sanada instead. He wasn’t sure, though, whether Yukimura, and Yukimura’s intimidating presence on the court, would be a good match, a good lesson, for Echizen right now.

He would decide once he’d seen Echizen play, for himself.

One Day Before Nationals

Kunimitsu prowled the edges of club practice the next day, nodding approval as the second years ran by in their laps, pausing here and there to correct a first year’s swing. But it was his team he kept most of his attention on.

“Kikumaru has improved his endurance considerably,” he murmured as he stopped beside Ooishi, watching Kikumaru playing Kaidou. Pride in his partner lit Ooishi’s smile.

“He has. By almost half an hour, playing at full strength.” He nodded at the next court over, where Momoshiro and Fuji were taking turns serving to each other with multiple balls. “Fuji still won’t say exactly what he’s working on, but Momo has been making good progress on his situational awareness and his speed.”

“And Echizen,” Kunimitsu finished, with a faint edge, “appears to be testing the limits of his wrists.” On the third court, Kawamura hit yet another heavy drive and Echizen bared his teeth as he met it and threw it back, two-handed.

Ooishi sighed, sounding resigned. “He’s been… very focused on his training.” He waved Inui over. “What is Echizen up to, by now?”

“He’s up to seven kilogram weights for his flyes and wrist curls,” Inui reported. “Thirty kilometers a day, running with ankle weights. And, as you can see…” he nodded toward the court where Echizen was returning one after another of Kawamura’s balls.

“I think Sanada said something to him, after their match,” Ooishi said quietly, watching their youngest member with worry dark in his eyes.

Kunimitsu folded his arms, watching thoughtfully. “If Echizen played from a state of no-self for long, I imagine Sanada told him he needed more physical strength to support it.”

Ooishi made an aggravated sound. “There’s only so far Echizen can push himself until he grows some more!”

“Perhaps he needs to be reminded of the strength of technique, over raw power.” Perhaps he really would put Echizen in Singles One against Rikkai. If the match chanced to go that far, Yukimura was certainly the strongest possible lesson in the advantage of superior technique.

And then he realized Ooishi and Inui were both watching him expectantly. He thought again about what he’d just said, and suppressed a rueful snort. He supposed he was another such lesson, yes.

Well, a match with Echizen would certainly serve more than one purpose, today. Kunimitsu nodded silent agreement and went to gently pluck Kawamura’s racquet from his hand.

“Come on, come on! Burni… eh?” Kawamura blinked at him, wiggling his empty fingers in a puzzled way. “Tezuka?”

“Try some precision drills with Inui, for a while,” Kunimitsu directed.

Kawamura glanced at Echizen, who was suddenly looking eager instead of grimly determined, and smiled. “Sure thing.” He and Inui made for the next set of courts, though they didn’t do it as fast as they might have.

Kunimitsu took his place on the court, nodding to Echizen and ignoring the sudden rustle of the club as they all tried to draw closer. “Let’s see how far you’ve come.”

Echizen just nodded back, and the lack of words, cheeky or otherwise, rang a note of warning for Kunimitsu. He watched the development of their first game carefully, awareness of the club dropping back in his mind. Echizen had certainly made progress. He’d always been alarmingly quick, and that quickness was matched with a more solid step, now. His returns were harder, cleaner. The drives he’d developed himself came sure and easy to his hands. When he took his third point with a new drive, ball scuttling wildly along the ground without bouncing, he swung his racquet up to his shoulder and gave Kunimitsu a triumphant grin.

“Drive C,” he announced to the excited whispers and exclamations of the club around them.

“A useful addition,” Kunimitsu agreed, “particularly if you complete it.”

Echizen made a face. “I did. It just freaks out the referee if I use the complete version too often.”

Kunimitsu wondered for a moment what the referee had to do with anything, and then considered the height Echizen would need, to give that ball the force and spin it required, and eyed the no doubt very handy ladder steps up the side of the referee’s chair. He caught back an amused smile and merely nodded, gravely. Echizen’s eyes sparkled under his cap as if he’d seen the smile anyway.

That was better.

Kunimitsu took the first game, and the second, and Echizen’s scowl was only normally annoyed, and only for a moment before he set his feet and gave Kunimitsu a challenging look. His eyes turned distant and focused, and very familiar pressure swept across the courts—a feeling like a storm was coming. Kunimitsu was impressed, if not exactly surprised, when Echizen spoke.

“Do you do this, too?”

“Always,” he answered quietly, watching Echizen’s eyes widen and then narrow in fierce speculation. The boy pulled his focus back together, though, and Kunimitsu watched him, pleased. Echizen was already past the first senseless rush of no-self.

And if Echizen seemed far more inclined to follow Yukimura’s use of it, to stun the spirit of his opponent, than Kunimitsu’s own subtle integration of awareness into his game, well each player had to find his own style.

They played faster, after that, fast and hard and precise, and part of Kunimitsu’s awareness was taken up with watching how Echizen tracked the path and spin of every ball, reaching and reaching again for answers to Kunimitsu’s tennis. When Echizen took his first game, chatter broke out around them, among the watching club. Echizen wrinkled his nose briefly, and then grinned at the flash of Kunimitsu’s amusement he clearly caught, straight face or no. Yes, Kunimitsu told him silently, ball after ball, I am not surprised. I always believed this of you. And ball after ball, Echizen’s focus sharpened, brightened, and his spine relaxed. Force flowed properly into his shots again, and when he took a second game Kunimitsu lifted a brow, asking if he understood. Echizen just looked back, waiting, silently demanding, and Kunimitsu finally nodded agreement.

It had been a very long time since he’d let himself play full out, a year and a half since he’d realized there was lasting damage to his arm that the demands of his real game would tear into something irreparable, if he didn’t take care. It felt good, to stretch out again at last, and Echizen’s breathless laugh, ringing through the shocked whispers of the club, said he might understand. Tennis, this thing they did, was for joy, not for pain or fear or ambition, though all of those might be in it before the end. Kunimitsu stroked the ball across his racquet, spun it sharp as glass, controlling the path with a pure precision he’d missed with a year and more of heartsick ache. Echizen threw himself after each ball with fierce determination, thought and strategy burning up in the immediacy of his response.

This, Kunimitsu understood as he watched, was why Echizen had lost to Sanada. Echizen didn’t have the raw strength to meet Sanada here, without thought, without strategy, without the aid of Echizen’s cunning. But Echizen would throw himself into the game anyway, body and heart, trying to win. Kunimitsu couldn’t say he disapproved, but Echizen would need to learn better balance.

Echizen took one more game, taking the last point with what must be his completed Drive C, ball spinning so fiercely it broke even Kunimitsu’s control. In the end, though, Echizen’s control of the ball wasn’t equal to Kunimitsu’s yet, and the last game was Kunimitsu’s sixth instead of Echizen’s fourth. Echizen’s eyes were hidden under the brim of his hat as they met at the net, and Kunimitsu shook his head a little.

“As long as you have a cause to move forward for, there’s nothing to fear in a loss,” he said quietly, under the swell of excited talk from the club.

Echizen looked up at that, eyes still dark but also puzzled. “A cause?”

“Your reason to win,” Kunimitsu clarified, and a chill stole through him at the absolute incomprehension on Echizen’s face.

“Reason?”

Kunimitsu took a slow breath, holding on hard to his outward calm. The realization settled into his mind, icy and edged: Echizen hadn’t understood. Kunimitsu had left his club with the thought that Echizen had understood and accepted his charge to be come the team’s support, and thereby to let the team support him. Clearly, he hadn’t. And he’d fought Sanada without any cause driving him forward but victory itself. When he failed to grasp victory…

No wonder there was fear in Echizen’s tennis, now.

“All right,” Ryuuzaki-sensei called, “enough gawking, everyone get back to work!”

“Water,” Kunimitsu suggested to Echizen, to give himself time to think. When they were both sitting down to drink, and stretch their legs carefully, back out from under the eyes of the whole club, he finally ventured, “Why did you think I fought so hard to win, against Atobe?”

Echizen frowned up at him like he’d asked why the sky was blue and opened his mouth, but after a long moment he closed it again and took a sip of water, frowning down at his toes instead. “You didn’t seem to… mind,” he muttered, eventually. “Even though you fought that hard, it was like you didn’t mind losing.”

“It was a good match. And there was still you to play, yet, so I was confident Seigaku would win.” Kunimitsu watched Echizen carefully, sidelong, as he drank, hoping this time it would make sense. Echizen was still frowning, turning his water bottle in his hands.

They both started when Ryuuzaki-sensei spoke from the other side of the fence, behind them. “You have to be a lot blunter than that, Tezuka-kun, trust me. And even then, well, his father never did quite get it.” She was standing with her arms crossed and a tilted smile making small lines around her eyes. “Listen, brat, no one has blamed you at all for losing, have they?”

Echizen shook his head silently, a little wide-eyed. “How do you know my dad?” he asked, low.

Ryuuzaki-sensei stared. “He didn’t even tell you that? Why that little…!” A slow breath through her nose seemed to restore her grip on her temper, though her hands were still tight on her folded arms. “He went to school here. I was the little ingrate’s coach. I think that’s why he brought you back here for junior high, and it’s obviously a good thing he did.” She waved a hand at the busy courts, the training exercises of the team and the club. “No one blamed you for losing, because Seigaku wins or loses as a team, Ryouma. The team is always here to support you. And for you to support. Even,” she added, with a mock-glower at Kunimitsu, “if that sometimes makes you do crazy, reckless things.”

Echizen looked back and forth between them. “The team,” he said, slowly. “You mean you were trying that hard… for the team. And that’s why it was okay to lose?” There was a thread of incredulity in his voice.

“That’s why I wasn’t afraid to lose,” Kunimitsu corrected. Echizen finally stilled, at that, staring up at him for a long, long moment. The sounds of the club seemed far away as Kunimitsu waited.

“You wanted me to not be afraid to lose. That day by the tracks.”

Kunimitsu nodded silently.

Echizen looked down at his water bottle, fingers tightening around it. “I hate losing,” he said, very soft but also very harsh.

“Hate it all you like,” Ryuuzaki-sensei exclaimed, throwing her hands up. “No one likes to lose! But Tezuka’s right; it’s nothing to be afraid of. Everyone loses sometimes.” She smiled, wry and crooked. “If they don’t, that just means they aren’t playing hard enough or long enough.”

Something passed between her and Echizen, some understanding, and when Echizen stood he lifted his chin with every bit of determination he’d ever shown. “I’m not stopping,” he declared.

Ryuuzaki-sensei had a gleam of something like triumph in her eyes. “I didn’t think you would. So what are you doing lazing around by the bench, hm?”

Echizen sniffed and tugged on his cap. “Waiting for my old lady coach to get done lecturing.” He shot them both a cheerfully insolent smirk and trotted back out to the courts, intercepting Momo as he and Fuji finished.

“Brat,” Ryuuzaki-sensei muttered, though Kunimitsu could hear the affection clear in her voice.

“Sensei. Thank you,” he said quietly. He doubted he could have gotten all of that through to Echizen on his own, at least not without a solid few months of regular matches to demonstrate the point in.

She just snorted. “It’s my job.” She flicked her fingers at him. “Go do yours, now.”

Kunimitsu nodded respectfully, because Ryuuzaki-sensei’s advice was always worth attending to even when she gave it teasingly, and rose to make another round of his club. They were excited, energized. He paused by Fuji, who was leaning against the fence, dripping with sweat and testing the strings of his racquet with a faint frown, like he was considering going straight back out. “You’ve been training more seriously than usual, today,” Kunimitsu observed.

Fuji smiled, faint and crooked. “Mm. I thought I’d try it, and see if I could. Be serious, I mean.” He leaned his head back against the fence, looking up at the hot, cloudless blue of the sky. “My match against Kirihara was something new. I liked the difference.”

“I’m glad,” Kunimitsu said, honestly. He had been disturbed by their conversation, earlier in the year, about Fuji’s lack of motivation when it came to playing a real game. If his friend had found a motivation, Kunimitsu was very glad for him.

Quiet fell between them for a while, but Fuji didn’t move back toward the courts so Kunimitsu waited.

“I went to Tachibana,” Fuji said at last. “He was the only one strong enough, who I thought I could ask a favor from. He played a quick game with me, at his full strength.” He laughed, soft and breathless, as though he’d just finished the game in question. “I want to be stronger than I am, Tezuka.”

Kunimitsu couldn’t completely suppress his smile at that, words he’d once doubted he would ever hear from Fuji. “How is that going?”

“Well, I think,” Fuji murmured, and straightened up from the fence. “Come play a little, and I’ll show you.”

Kunimitsu sorted matches in the back of his head as he set himself on the court opposite Fuji. Echizen to play Yukimura, if it went to Singles One. Fuji… perhaps he would put Fuji in Singles Two or Three against Shitenhouji. He was fairly sure of finding Shiraishi there, after Shiraishi’s frustration last year at not getting to play before Rikkai mopped up his team. That could be a good match for Fuji, now, even if it risked a loss. As Ryuuzaki-sensei had pointed out, Seigaku won or lost as a team.

If both his friend and his protégé were finally ready to play as part of that team, Kunimitsu would trust that Seigaku could win.


Chitose Senri leaned back, balancing his tall wooden chair on two legs, rubbing his forehead with one hand. “Let me get this straight,” he said to the dining room’s hanging lamp. “Daimaru was saying bad things about Seigaku and you got pissed off and challenged him to a game.”

His sister, nearly vibrating with nine-year-old outrage, nodded vigorously.

“And you froze up for a second and he nearly hit you with the ball, except Tezuka intervened.”

“He even returned the point for me!” Miyuki burst out, bouncing earnestly on her toes. “It was really cool!”

“I’m sure it was,” Senri agreed, ignoring the stifled sounds of hilarity from his vice-captain. “So then Daimaru started picking on Tezuka instead. Tezuka Kunimitsu, one of the top players in our age bracket, who is down here for rehabilitation after busting up his shoulder so bad some people thought he’d never play again.” Obviously, it had been a good choice to keep Daimaru off the team this year. That was not the kind of reputation his team needed to get.5

Miyuki paused. “Well, I didn’t know all of that until you told me. But yeah!” She scowled. “He said if Tezuka-niisan wouldn’t play him, that would mean Seigaku must be really weak again this year and he’d tell everyone. Daimaru is really a jerk.”

“Just don’t say so in front of Kaa-san,” Senri sighed. “So Daimaru won the first match, but in the second Tezuka kicked his ass?”

“Don’t let Kaa-san hear you say so,” Miyuki sniped back at him, and Senri took his hand away from his eyes to glare at Tanaka. His vice-captain was folded over the Chitose’s dining room table with his head buried in his arms, laughing.

“Well,” he said, letting his chair fall back down to all four legs. “The way I see it, we can do one of two things. We can kick him out of the club for interfering with another player like that. Or we can throw him to the wolves, line up some practice matches with Higa or something, and hope some of the idiocy gets beaten out of him.”

Tanaka finally wiped his eyes and caught his breath. “It sounds like Unoki was involved, too.” He glanced at Miyuki for confirmation, and she nodded. “With the two of them encouraging each other, letting them run around outside of the club might just make them worse.”

Senri made a long arm to ruffle Miyuki’s hair until she batted at his hand, scowling. “What do you think?” he asked her. “Is getting thrown to the wolves enough, or should I talk to the coach about booting them out?”

She thought about it, pursing her lips in a move that was obviously copied from their mother. “You should throw him to Tezuka-niisan,” she finally said. “At Nationals! So he can show he’s better than Daimaru with everyone watching.”

Tanaka grinned. “Cut-throat little thing, isn’t she?”

Senri made a dubious face. “I don’t think that would be the best possible line-up, if we get far enough to face Seigaku, but I bet I can find someone just as embarrassing before then. And maybe,” he added, when she started to pout, “we can have some practice games with Seigaku while we’re in the same city.”

Miyuki grinned and held out her hand. “Deal.”

Senri shook on it solemnly, and sent her off to show her mother the tournament medal that had been the occasion of her telling him, on their way home, all about the nice guy she’d been practicing tennis with this month. The one who’d helped her get over her anxiety on the court. Tezuka Kunimitsu, who’d have thought?

“She has you totally wrapped around her finger, you know,” Tanaka chuckled.

“Hey, it’s part of being a big brother,” Senri said easily, and flicked a finger at the potential line-ups they’d been writing out. “All right, back to work. Maybe we should put you in Singles Three against Fudoumine.”

“They do seem to like to front-load their matches,” Tanaka agreed, judicious. “You think we really need me for that, though? I mean, they’re all in their first tournament season. I know they’re seeded, but you said they weren’t really National level, when you saw them at Kantou Regionals.”

Senri’s mouth quirked. “Yeah, but you could have burned through steel with the glare Kippei’s vice-captain gave me, when I remarked on the fact. They’ll have been training hard, and these are the ones Kippei gathered, after all.” He sighed, leaning his chin in his hands as he brooded over the paperwork spread out on the polished surface of the table. “He was just about born to be a team captain. I think I’m going to strangle him for running off and making me do it, instead.”

Tanaka rolled his eyes. “Yeah because the poor guy was only traumatized by permanently injuring his best friend, I mean it’s not like he has an excuse or anything. Though shaving his head and giving up tennis and moving in with his mom in Tokyo was going a little overboard. Maybe I’ll just phone up his vice-captain and we’ll lock the two of you into a tennis court and not let you out until you’ve settled this between you.”

Senri smiled and tapped Singles Two on the sheet for Fudoumine. “Yeah, you will. Right there,” he said quietly, absolutely sure. “That’s our match.”

Tanaka gave him a long look. “It will never not be creepy when the two of you do that,” he said, filling in the slot with Senri’s name. “Just try not to tear each other up any worse, okay? I kind of want our other wing back, when we get to high school.”

Senri had to admit, he did too. “I’ll do my best.” As Miyuki’s voice rose in the next room, eloquently protesting the cosmic injustice of having to do homework after she’d won her very first tournament, he grinned. “If all else fails, I’ll sic Miyuki on him.”

“Ruthlessness clearly runs in the family,” Tanaka murmured, and pulled out another sheet. “Okay, so what about Shitenhouji?”

“We’ll need Nakamura and Oonita in doubles, no question,” Senri said, leaning back again with his arms folded behind his head. “Shitenhouji has some pretty fierce doubles this year, and I’d probably better take Singles Two again with them; everyone knows how antsy Shiraishi is after last year, so he’ll come in early…”


“Singles Two against Seigaku, I expect?” Shitenhouji’s coach asked, pencil poised.

“Definitely.” Kuranosuke reached up to catch another of Kintarou’s wild shots before it could hit the window above them and shook out his stinging hand. “If Tezuka isn’t there himself, it should be Fuji. Tezuka hasn’t seen me play in a while, any more than I have him, but I’m sure he remembers enough not to take us lightly.” Kintarou came bounding over to retrieve his tennis ball in time to hear that, and made big eyes at Kuranosuke.

“Why can’t I play in this year’s tournament, huh? Seigaku has a first year! I bet I’m just as good as him! I won all over at Regionals!” He jumped up on the bench they’d taken over and leaned against Watanabe-sensei’s back, pushing their coach’s hat down over his eyes as he peered down at the match sheets.

“Because you aren’t focused enough yet, Kin-chan,” Kuranosuke said briskly, tossing the tennis ball to Koishikawa as his vice-captain came after his drill partner to drag Kintarou back to practice. “You’re even worse than Zaizen at judging your opponents. You’re not playing in Nationals until you can do that.”

“I’m gonna play at Nationals next year!” Kintarou called back as Koishikawa herded him back toward the courts. “Hikaru will let me!”

Zaizen paused in the act of serving against Konjiki to give Kintarou a look eloquent with silent denial, and Watanabe-sensei chuckled, pushing his hat back where it belonged. “You’re sure about not letting him play in Nationals?” he said, quietly enough not to catch Kintarou’s attention again.

“Absolutely not,” Kuranosuke said, just as quietly but fierce. “Kin-chan is a genius, I’m not arguing with that, but he still hasn’t figured out that that’s not enough. Shitenhouji is as strong as it is this year because we have very talented people who know their own strengths, inside and out. Kin-chan only thinks he knows his own strength, right now, and he has no feel for how to gauge anyone else’s. Genius alone will only get you so far.”

Watanabe-sensei hooked a foot over his knee, looking relaxed but watching Kuranosuke with sharp eyes. “Letting him lose to one of the stronger players might teach him that.”

Kuranosuke shook his head, adamant. "Yeah, it probably would, but I’m not interested in giving up a tournament match for that. We can set up some practice matches before the fall Invitationals."

His coach smiled and waved a casual hand. “Okay, you’re the boss. You are planning on letting the kid watch, at least, aren’t you? Not that I think that’ll be quite enough, but it might prepare the ground.”

Kuranosuke snorted softly. “Since I’d need to chain him to the school gates to stop him from coming, yes. Kenya can look after him once we’re there.”

“You still haven’t forgiven Kenya for losing that third game against Makinofuji’s Shinokura, have you?” Watanabe-sensei asked with a tiny grin.

“Not really, no.” Kuranosuke eyed his best speed player, who was currently rallying with Ishida and laughing every time he lost his grip on his racquet. He’d hoped partnering Kenya with Zaizen would calm him down, but no such luck so far, any more than Kenya had lightened Zaizen up.

“Well, you’re the captain, whatever you say.” Watanabe-sensei evened up his stack of match sheets and stood. “I’m sure it will be a learning experience for everyone.”

Watching his coach saunter away, Kuranosuke wondered exactly what Watanabe-sensei was up to. He was definitely up to something. He always was, when he sounded like that. Kuranosuke supposed he was lucky that they could count on it always being something for the good of the team.

Not always very nice, but always good. And after all, it wasn’t like he was a terribly nice person himself, so he supposed it all worked out. He smiled, sharp and pleased, as he scooped up his racquet and turned toward his players.


Keigo stood at the window of Sakaki-san’s office, one hand spread against the cool glass, watching the busyness of the tennis courts below. “We’re rushing everyone’s reconditioning. You might have told me sooner that there was a possibility we’d be playing in Nationals after all.”

“If the thought hadn’t occurred to you, I certainly wasn’t going to suggest it,” his teacher murmured, pen moving over a student assignment from the stack on his desk.

Keigo’s mouth curled. He liked the ambiguity of that. On the one hand, perhaps Sakaki-san hadn’t wanted to disturb Keigo’s little struggle to hand the club over to Hiyoshi. It hadn’t been the easiest thing Keigo had ever done, and doing it while distracted by the ‘maybe’ of Nationals hanging over his head would not have been pleasant. On the other, Sakaki-san had always been very strict about his students advancing on their own merits and efforts, and Keigo had never been an exception to that. He had never wanted to be. So perhaps he’d merely been left to figure it out on his own. Perhaps it was both at once.

That would be very like his teacher.

“Speaking of thinking. What do you think about Mukahi’s request?” Sakaki-san asked, glancing up, eyes sharp.

“Mm.” Keigo turned and leaned back against the windowsill, arms crossed. “I think he’s ready to play. He’s been very determined to not drag his partner down again, and that motivation has driven him hard these past two months. I say let them play as a Doubles pair again.” He met his teacher’s eyes steadily, prepared to stand by his judgment. Sakaki-san had been the one who’d taught Keigo to do that, after all.

Their coach nodded slowly. “Very well. I’ll leave the decision to you, then.”

Keigo smiled, sharp and amused. “Of course.” The decisions were always in their own hands, in the end. Not always the consequences, but the decisions. That was Hyoutei’s way.

That was how they would win.


“We will win,” Kite Eishirou told his team quietly, “by whatever means are necessary.”

A chorus of enthusiastic affirmatives answered him and he nodded, satisfied. “All right, then, go get some rest. We catch an early plane tomorrow.”

“You know,” Kai said, leaning against the wall with a foot braced on it and his arms folded while the others made their way off the courts, “that won’t hold any water with Rin, if he gets really wound up in a match.”

Eishirou snorted, catching up his towel from the bench and scrubbing it over his face. “That’s why we’re putting him in Singles Three against Rikkai. As long as it’s only Kirihara, he shouldn’t be too tempted.”

“Hm. You really think Kirihara has totally changed his form?”

“You have only to watch the video from the Kantou Finals,” Eishirou pointed out. “He hasn’t just changed it, he’s broken his old form. This is the perfect moment to strike, while he’s still uncertain of his new one.”

“And you’re that sure Rikkai won’t change their line-up at all?” Kai tossed over his water bottle. “And drink something already; you haven’t had enough water, as hot as it is out today.”

Eishirou’s lips quirked up. “Perhaps what I should really start threatening you with isn’t gouya, but letting everyone in on what a secret mother hen you are.” He took a couple long swallows, though, knowing Kai was right. He usually was, however obnoxious he might like to be. “Rikkai won’t change anything. That’s their version of intimidation. They’ll send Kirihara against Hirakoba, because they won’t think they need Yanagi or Niou, for us. Their loss.”

Kai’s eyes glinted behind the fall of his hair, frizzy and damp after the practice they’d just had. “It sure will be.”

Eishirou nodded, short and sharp. They would win. They would prove themselves. And then he would have both the leverage to get rid of Saotome, and the profile to attract a coach worth the name. He thought he might like to see what Higa’s tennis could become with something better than that pathetic excuse for a coach.

Honestly, some weeks he thought they’d be better off if he had a little accident and drowned Saotome, and did the coaching himself.


Kippei shook his head over his team and called out, “All right, everyone come here.” Fudoumine stopped their exercises (after a few last balls) and came to gather around him, dripping with sweat and breathing hard but still determinedly on their feet. “It’s the day before the tournament starts,” he admonished them. “It won’t do any good if you wear yourselves out completely today. I want everyone to cool down and go home for a solid dinner. And no sneaking out to the street courts, after!”

Kamio looked faintly guilty at that, and Kippei had to laugh, resting a hand on his shoulder. “Stop worrying! We made it to Nationals. We’ll play, and play well.”

“Yes, Tachibana-san,” they all answered, and laughed a little themselves at the rough chorus. That was better.

“Of you go, then. I’ll see everyone at the gates tomorrow.”

Ishida and Mori, Uchimura and Sakurai, all clattered off to gather up the balls and sweep the courts. Kippei held Kamio back, and Shinji, after one look, waited quietly by him as well.

“What is it, Tachibana-san?” Kamio asked.

Kippei leaned back against the wall of the club storage building with a sigh. “I spent most of this summer wondering how much I should tell you about Shishigaku, if we wound up against them. I suppose I should be grateful that An forced my hand by telling you about me and Senri.” Not that he was particularly grateful, but he supposed he should be. Telling them was the right thing to do. He just wished it weren’t.

Kamio and Shinji shared a meaningful look, and it was Shinji who said, “You have something to settle with Chitose. We understand.”

“That too, yes,” Kippei admitted, recalling his own absolute certainty that Senri would be there to meet him in Singles Two, the familiarity of that knowing. “But more than that, I wanted to be sure I told you something.” He looked down at them, serious. “I’m the captain of Fudoumine, not Shishigaku’s ex-ace. You’re my team, now. And I’m proud to lead a team like this.”

Kamio’s eyes got wide, and he might just have turned a little pink. His voice was definitely shaky when he said, “Tachibana-san…” Shinji only went still, but it was the stillness of draining tension, far rarer than his dangerously poised stillness on the court. He was the one who said, softly, “Thank you, Tachibana-san.”

Kippei nodded, satisfied. He would always be grateful to these six players for making a place he could belong, where he could find his tennis again, and he would take them just as far as they could all go.


Seiichi walked home between Renji and Sanada, savoring the feeling of finally being back where he belonged after so long away. Most of the way back, at least. Far enough to be a promissory note for the rest, one that Seiichi believed, had to believe, would be honored. If he wasn’t quite fit, yet, to be Rikkai’s captain again, they believed that he would be, enough to want him to stand in that place and be with them at Nationals, if only as an adviser and icon. The thought warmed him and frustrated him at the same time.

Not that they were talking about that at all.

“Do you think Akaya will be invited to the fall training camp, this year?” Renji asked, as they walked through the falling dusk.

“Surely he will be.” Sanada glanced over at Renji, brows raised. “I expect all of our team will be.”

“Good.” Renji smiled. “You know he won’t be satisfied without a few final matches against us.”

Against their real strength, Seiichi filled in silently. Against Seiichi’s fully recovered strength, especially. But none of them said it.

“I expect it to be a full camp this year,” he said, instead. “Most, if not all, of Seigaku should be there. Probably a few from Hyoutei and Rokkaku. Possibly most of Fudoumine. And, of course, a handful each from whoever winds up in the Nationals’ best eight.”

“Do you ever wonder,” Renji asked, rather whimsically, “if the real point of the fall camp is to let us all settle any left-over scores and un-played games from the tournament?”

Seiichi laughed and swerved to nudge Genichirou with his shoulder. “No wonder you were so frustrated last year, when Tezuka didn’t show up.”

“Hmph.” Genichirou hitched his bag more firmly up on his shoulder, but didn’t pull away. “The point is to work with some of our high school senpai, so they know our potential and we’re familiarized with our new clubs. Why else would they bring the new high school captains or vice-captains in, during the last week?”

“To be sure,” Renji murmured, so perfectly sober that Seiichi knew he was teasing.

“The last week was rather amusing, our first two years there,” Seiichi admitted, peaceably. “I don’t think most of our respected senpai knew whether to be covetous or alarmed, over us.”

Sanada smiled slowly, at that. “It will be interesting to see how they react to Akaya, then.”

They finally came to the corner where the three of them turned down different streets, and paused a moment, silent among the long shadows.

“I’ll see you both tomorrow,” Seiichi said, at last.

“For the start of our third victory,” Sanada agreed, standing straight.

“For the most interesting matches of the year,” Renji smiled.

Seiichi breathed in their confidence and nodded, reaching out to grip their shoulders for a moment. “Until then.”

The three of them turned away as one, and Seiichi paused at the start of his road home. He tipped his head back to watch the brightness slowly fade from the sky, moving on toward the night that would bring the morning of Nationals.


Ryouma braced his feet against the shingles of the roof and folded his hands behind his head, looking up at the stars starting to come out. This was one of the few places he could be fairly sure his dad wouldn’t find him and bug him, and he needed that. He needed to think, before he played tomorrow.

When he’d first lost to Tezuka-buchou, he’d been startled, but he’d also kind of thought it was a fluke—that Tezuka-buchou must the the exception to the rule, the one person in his age bracket that could beat Ryouma. He’d thought that right up until he’d lost to Sanada.

Then he’d thought, little and small in the back of his head, that maybe all the bullshit his dad said when they played was really true. Maybe he really wasn’t all that good. He’d thrown himself so hard into his training this month, not just to get stronger, but also to shut up that little thought. It had worked sometimes, when he could see the numbers written down on his exercise sheets, and watch them rising steadily. It helped, at least.

And then Tezuka-buchou had come back.

Ryouma had hoped playing Tezuka-buchou again would tell him something, and he’d gritted his teeth and braced himself for maybe losing again. But something had happened while they played. The longer the match went on, the less he’d wanted to grit his teeth and the more he’d been able to relax, in spite of his uncertainty. In a weird way, it felt steady, even while he’d been tearing across the court, going all out after the ball.

And now he was thinking about it, the last games against Sanada had felt a little like that. Under the desperation to not lose, there’d been a little of that same feeling, every time he looked across the net and saw Sanada watching him with absolute concentration and attention. Like he was a serious opponent who really mattered. He’d made Sanada acknowledge that, even though he hadn’t won, which he hadn’t thought was something that could happen. It never had before, anyway.

Maybe… maybe that was how things could work, somtimes. Maybe at Nationals he’d have a chance to find out.

Ryouma stared up at the darkening sky and thought the little lightness in his chest might be hope.

End

 

1. There are eight teams from Kantou going to Regionals, in this AU, in order to make the teams match up better with the population density of the regions. See note 4, below, for more detail. back

2. Okay, so Rikkai is from Kanagawa. However, the only canon we have for where Yukimura is hospitalized is a sign out front that says Kanai General. There is no such hospital, of course, and Kanai city is in Gunma prefecture, significantly inland and north of Kanagawa. The fact that Echizen is in Kanagawa when he meets Kirihara for their unofficial match, and that the rest of the team, on being notified, arrives by the end of a one-set match, suggests that “Kanai General” cannot possibly actually be in Kanai, and must be in Kanagawa, most likely in Rikkai’s home district itself. The same issue also suggests that Konomi was, despite the clear equivalence with the feeder schools for Tokai University of Hiratsuka, thinking of Rikkai being in Yokohama, seeing as Echizen is only supposed to go “23.8 kilometers” to get to the store he’s visiting when he encounters Kirihara. I hereby declare that, for the purposes of this project, Rikkai, and Kanai hospital, are in Yokohama, possibly in the Kanagawa ward which has a likely looking river inland, and Seigaku is, therefore, most likely in Meguro.

As for the surgery itself, I’m loosely basing it on laproscopic, video assisted thymectomy, which involves several small incisions in the torso. This is actually a treatment for myasthenia gravis, not Guillain-Barre, and the therapeutic effects take one to two years to become clear. It’s also usually done by trans-sternal surgery, which would be absolutely impossible to play tennis four weeks after. Konomi, you lose so hard on details. It is, however, a surgical procedure used to treat a neural disorder involving an immune malfunction, and is, therefore, about as close to a real-life equivalent as can be had. Which isn’t very, but there you go. back

3. I refuse to believe that the sharp, scrappy girl we meet at the District tournament, the girl who’s uncompromisingly proud of her brother’s strength, and who approves of Fudoumine—the Fudoumine we’d just been shown has a reputation for violence which is actually pretty well-earned—would be distraught and weeping over Tachibana’s real play style. I flatly refuse. This is the girl who went to smack Atobe a good one just for denigrating her local street-players. An is not some kind of limp noodle, for pity’s sake! She’s a tennis player herself, and in this universe, good tennis players understand the risks of the game and do not protest them. That’s left to the small fry like Arai. I refuse to consign An to that fate after the raring start we saw from her. back

4. The National Tournament bracket is considerably altered in this universe. You do not need to know any detail beyond what’s in the story to get the basics, but in case anyone is interested, here are some extra details. First of all, it’s divided up into eight blocks, A-H, to appropriately distribute the seeded and unseeded teams. Places are drawn using a box of seeded lots, which contains only one copy of each block letter, and a box of unseeded lots, which contains two copies of each block letter. The unseeded teams in each block will play each other in Round One, and the seeded team for that block will play the winner in Round Two. Shitenhouji, Fudoumine, Shishigaku, and Seigaku are all in the same half of the bracket. Yamabuki, Hyoutei, Rokkaku, Higa, and Rikkai are all in the other half. Two Kantou teams were swapped for Kansai terms, one Kantou team was assigned to a different prefecture, and one Kansai team likewise. Kantou now has four seeds, Kansai two, and Chuubu two. For the visual version of the bracket and a full explanation of the alterations, see the arc Appendix. back

5. This Chitose never left Shishigaku. Sending him off to Shitenhouji only reduced the centrality of his story with Tachibana and screwed with the Shitenhouji match weirdly. Konomi could have given Discoball no Kiwami to some other player, if he was that hot to have Tezuka confront it. In this version, Chitose’s still at Shishigaku, with all the weight of that history, and, while I’m willing to preserve a few idiot bullies for the sake of Tezuka’s recovery, I’m not willing to suppose that Chitose would have that kind on his team. So the guys who got into it with Tezuka are non-regulars. back

The River’s Grace

This story picks up immediately after the Flipside of Chapter Seven, Becoming the Phoenix.

Wen Qing left Wei Wuxian grumbling under his breath about finally being able to get dressed and stepped out of his rooms with a tired sigh. Imprisonment by the Sunshot alliance had not been restful, surrounded at all times by the simmering hostility of cultivators who hated her very name, and that was coming on the heels of several years of steadily increasing tension and fear as her kinsman and sect master went slowly insane. And now, to top it off, was yet more of Wei Wuxian’s self-sacrificing idiocy. Perhaps she’d look forward to being locked up in the Cloud Recesses, after all; it was certain to be quiet, at least. If only…

Three sets of eyes landed on her with palpable weight, and she stiffened her spine against a flinch.

“Wen-guniang!” Jiang Yanli took a quick step toward her, hands reaching out. “A-Xian, is he all right?” The near-frantic worry running under that soft voice, worry for her little brother, rang so hard and true against the feelings Wen Qing was trying to quiet in her own heart right now that she flinched after all. Jiang Yanli blinked, startled a little out of her intensity, and Wen Qing took a quick breath to master herself again.

“He is badly injured,” she said, clasping her own hands tight at her waist. “The progress of it is halted, for now. Improvement will be more difficult.” She couldn’t help the way her voice caught in sympathy with the faint, wounded sound Jiang Yanli made. “Some improvement is possible. How much, I don’t yet know.”

Jiang Yanli took a long breath of her own and visibly pressed back her crowding worry for her brother. “Thank you, Wen-guniang,” she said, quiet and earnest, and reached out to close her hands gently around Wen Qing’s white knuckles, so gentle, so careful with one of the clan that had killed her own that Wen Qing’s eyes went helplessly wide at the touch and she had to bite her lip hard to force back the prickle of water in them. Jiang Yanli tilted her head and studied Wen Qing for a long moment before turning to Lan Xichen. “Lan-zongzhu,” she dropped him a small, courteous bow, straight-backed, “may I trouble you to leave Wen-guniang with me for a little time? Jiang will take responsibility, of course, and I will see she is escorted back to you.”

Lan Xichen smiled as if they shared a secret. “Of course, Jiang-guniang.” He nodded courteously to both of them and turned away down the steps, gathering up his own little brother as he went. Lan Wangji glanced back at them, but followed obediently.

The corners of Jiang Yanli’s mouth tucked up in a satisfied manner. “There, now. Lan-zongzhu told me that a-Cheng brought your brother and people here to our halls. Let’s go find them. And perhaps afterwards you and I can talk for a while.”

Wen Qing’s next breath shook as she pulled it in. “I…”

Jiang Yanli wrapped an arm around her shoulders. “Come,” she urged, gently. “You didn’t get a chance to speak with him, earlier, did you?”

Wen Qing shook her head and finally managed to unlock her muscles and move, following where Jiang Yanli guided her. They went down the stairs and through two courtyards that looked considerably scruffier and more lived-in than the guest quarter usually did, dark wood rails draped with drying laundry along one side. Jiang sect cultivators frowned at the crimson of her robes, but stepped back out of their way and bowed as Jiang Yanli swept her on by. Wen Qing’s heart clenched with how much it reminded her of Wen cultivators giving way before her as she glared them out of her brother’s path.

Finally, Jiang Yanli knocked lightly on the door of one of the guest halls and pushed it open, and there was a-Ning turning to look at her, face brightening. “Jie!”

Wen Qing strode forward and caught him in her arms, holding him tight for a long moment before she could make herself lean back enough to look at him properly, hands patting gently over him and stroking back his hair. “A-Ning. Are you all right?” She barely noticed the soft rattle of the door closing behind them.

He gave her the reassuring smile that she’d learned a long time ago not to always believe. “I’m fine, Jie. Jiang-zongzhu told everyone that no one is allowed to do anything to us.” His smile tilted a little. “He’s gotten kind of scary since he got better.”

She pressed a finger to his mouth. “We can’t talk about that,” she whispered, soft and stern. “On your honor. For Wei Wuxian, all right?” He nodded soberly and she reflected on the unforeseen advantages of her little brother’s idolization of Wei Wuxian. “Good. And yes, I suppose he isn’t completely useless. He stood by his word, at least.” A-Ning gave her an alarmingly knowing look, and she huffed at him. “Oh cut it out. Anyway, we’re going to have to be apart for a while, but I’ve just been to look at Wei Wuxian, and he promised to look after you and bring you with him to visit when he can.” She couldn’t keep her hands from straightening his robes a little, which was when she realized that he was wearing fresh clothes.

Jiang Wanyin really did stand by his word, it seemed.

“Jie.” A-Ning’s hands settled on her shoulders, and when she looked up he was giving her a small, earnest smile. “We’ll be all right. Jiang-zongzhu will make sure we’re not hurt. And Wei-gongzi will be there.” His hands tightened. “So you have to take care of yourself, too, okay?”

She blinked back water from her eyes, lips pressed tight together to keep them from trembling. It took a long moment to wrestle her voice back under control, but finally she could say steadily, “I will. I promise, a-Ning.”

He smiled for her, sweet and true, and she felt the world settle back into place a little.


When she stepped back outside, she found Jiang Yanli sitting on the steps as if at her own writing table, at least three different tallies of some kind spread across her knees. She looked up with a smile as Wen Qing emerged.

“A little better, now?” she asked, folding her lists back away neatly.

“Were you out here all this time?” Wen Qing had meant to thank her, but startlement had always sharpened her tongue. She took hold of herself, reminding herself sternly of how precarious her family’s position still was, and folded her hands. “Excuse me. We are, yes. Thank you, Jiang-guniang.”

Jiang Yanli stood, eyes dancing, and Wen Qing couldn’t help feeling that she was amused by the attempted formality. “I can do my work as well here as anywhere, at least until we start preparing to leave. This made sure no one interrupted.” She held out her hand. “Now, let’s get you cleaned up, hm?”

Wen Qing blinked down at the hand, feeling a bit of vertigo. The gesture was so very familiar, but not from this side. She genuinely thought she might kill for a proper bath right now, though, so she pushed the disorientation aside and reached out to take Jiang Yanli’s hand, and let herself be led deeper into the guest quarter.

The bathhouse made her feel human again. The weight of steam in the air opened her lungs all the way down, and the lap of hot water against her skin whispered to her that she was a full person in other people’s eyes again. Jiang Yanli came in with her, a silent, reassuring presence. When Wen Qing made a frustrated sound over all the tangles in her hair, gentle fingers took the comb out of her hand.

“Here.” She drew Wen Qing’s hair back and started working the comb through it bit by careful bit.

Breath caught in Wen Qing’s throat; her grandmother used to do this, and that was another person she couldn’t see any more. “Jiang-guniang…”

“Yanli,” Jiang Yanli corrected her. “A-Cheng took responsibility for your family. That makes you my responsibility as well. I know you understand how that goes.”

Older sister to older sister; yes, she did. Wen Qing pressed wet hands over her face. “I can’t tell you the cause of Wei Wuxian’s injury,” she whispered. “I promised that I wouldn’t.”

“I would not wish you to break a promise you made to a-Xian,” Jiang Yanli said, quiet and steady as the tug of the comb through her hair. “Tell me, instead, of what he’s feeling now.”

Wen Qing let out a shaky sigh, relaxing a little now she knew she would not be pressed to break her word. “He’s in pain,” she said, low, looking down at the reflection of diffuse daylight from the high windows on the water. “It’s as though he tore a muscle. If he tries to do that same thing again, the pain will be very bad, and even when he doesn’t, it will always be there.”

Jiang Yanli’s breath hitched, but her voice was still steady when she asked, “Is there anything that can be done to heal him? You said some improvement was possible.”

“If he rests, if he can be kept from trying to bring his qi to bear, that will help some.” She couldn’t help the rather dubious edge to that particular prescription, knowing Wei Wuxian, and his sister’s faint huff from behind her only confirmed it. “Repairing the damage…” Her voice slowed even as her thoughts sped, sorting through her learning, her knowledge of the body and spirit. His meridians, at least, she could probably heal. “I believe I can repair what pains him now, the damage he did himself on top of the original wound. But that wound…” She slapped a hand down onto the water, all the more frustrated because this was a wound of her own making, however he’d insisted on it. “I just don’t know.”

Hands folded over her shoulders, gentle. “Shh,” Jiang Yanli said against her ear. “You’re willing to try. That’s all I need to know. Thank you.”

“Of course I am; I’m a physician.” Wen Qing tried to ignore the tightness in her throat, the same tightness that had been there when she’d watched Wei Wuxian toss his own anger and pain aside to comfort her about her brother. She scrubbed her hands over her face, trying to pretend the wetness there was only water from the bath. “He’s such an idiot,” she muttered.

Jiang Yanli’s soft laugh was a little unsteady, but true. “Sometimes.” She straightened up, hands squeezing Wen Qing’s shoulders for a moment before falling. “I think all the tangles are out, now.”

Wen Qing pushed her uncertainty aside with the prospect of having really clean hair again.

There were also clean robes for Wen Qing, when she got out. They weren’t any of her own robes—the fabric was rougher and the red was darker—but they were still Wen robes, with flames stitched at the shoulders in subtle, same-color thread. That little kindness was, finally, the last thing she could take, and she slid down to her knees, robes clutched to her chest as she bit her lip fiercely and tried not to drip tears on them.

Jiang Yanli knelt beside her, only half dressed herself, and gathered Wen Qing into her arms. “It’s all right,” she said, soft and certain. “We’ll take care of you and yours. All of you will be safe.”

Long months of strain and terror and knowing there was almost nothing she could do any more to protect her family snapped all at once, and a harsh, frightened sob ripped out of Wen Qing’s chest as if it had been waiting there since the day her little branch of the clan was first imprisoned. “A-Ning!” she gasped against Jiang Yanli’s shoulder, “Grandmother…!”

“Yunmeng Jiang will protect them,” Jiang Yanli said, still soft but unbending as iron. “You endangered yourself to care for my family. I will hold your family safe.” She held Wen Qing until she quieted, exhausted by the day’s wild rapids-ride of emotions. Eventually Wen Qing managed to sit up again, rubbing the back of her hand over sore eyes and trying not to blush with embarrassment because it made her raw cheeks sting. Jiang Yanli just gave her a small, indulgent smile and stroked her still-loose hair back. “There, now. Let’s get you dressed.”

Wen Qing felt a little more composed when she was properly dressed, but still flustered by the brisk, gentle hands that helped settle her sashes and section her hair back to be bound up. She wasn’t used to it being this way around, any more, but she also couldn’t quite find any words of protest. When Jiang Yanli took Wen Qing’s hand on her arm to guide her back through the guest quarter halls, she walked quietly alongside, sheltered by Jiang Yanli’s presence and her calm, unwavering smile, marveling a little at the feeling.

When they reached what seemed to be Lan territory judging from all the white robes, Jiang Yanli turned and rested both hands on Wen Qing’s shoulders. “If you wish to see to a-Xian, or visit your brother, send word to me and I will see that it happens. All right?”

In face of her calm certainty, Wen Qing felt the rising knot of tension in her chest ease again, and she nodded slowly. “I will, Jiang-gu—” Jiang Yanli’s brows rose, and Wen Qing found herself blushing again. “Yes, Yanli-jie,” she murmured. The hands on her shoulders tightened briefly in an encouraging little shake.

“Good.”

Wen Qing couldn’t help wondering, as Jiang Yanli led her up the steps to deliver her back into Lan Xichen’s care, if this was where Wei Wuxian had really learned that unbending certainty that made seemingly impossible things happen—from watching his sister, when something was truly important to her.

Personally, she would bet that it was.

Ten Months Later

Wen Qing let Jiang Wanyin hand her off the river-boat and onto the pier, and tried not to feel like a woman at the end of her bridal journey, because she most certainly was not. She was, in fact, still a little dubious about the wisdom of this step. It was more than sanctuary he had promised her, this time; it was the full weight of the Yunmeng Jiang sect, to do as she wished with.

Which was a ridiculous thing to promise a refugee from a defeated sect, and if she actually had any affection for him, she should probably make him take it back. Or better, have Yanli-jie make him. But Yanli-jie had refused to, so here she was, at the landing of Lotus Pier.

“Jie!” Her brother was nearly bouncing, were he stood between Yanli-jie and Wei Wuxian, and she huffed a soft laugh and went to him. “You’re here,” he said against her ear as he hugged her tight. “You’re really here for good?”

“I think so,” she answered, low. “One way or another.” He slanted a hopeful, sidelong glance at Jiang Wanyin, as they drew apart again, and she rolled her eyes. A-Ning was such an invincible romantic.

Meanwhile, Wei Wuxian had sidled up to his own brother and draped an arm over his shoulders. “Jiang Cheng, you should have told me you were wanting to court Qing-jie! All those times I was at the Cloud Recesses for check-ups, I could have so easily carried your love tokens back and forth. Just look at all that time the two of you wasted!”

Wen Qing whirled around to smack his arm. “As if I’d take such a thing from you!”

In the same moment, Jiang Wanyin elbowed him off with an exasperated, “Wei Wuxian!”

Wei Wuxian slid out from between them, open hands held up, grinning back and forth. “See? You’re of one mind already.”

A-Ning was nodding, apparently earnest if you didn’t notice the smirk at the corners of his mouth. “Auntie Hong did say…” He laid a hand over his mouth when she glowered at him, a promise of silence that she didn’t believe for one moment. Especially not when he and Wei Wuxian were so obviously entertained by this and egging each other on.

“All right, you two, stop teasing.” Yanli-jie sounded far more indulgent than scolding, but the teasing did quiet as she came and wrapped an arm around Wen Qing’s shoulders. “Let’s get you settled, hm?”

Every now and then, over the last year, Wen Qing had wondered if she’d imagined or mis-remembered the sense of shelter she’d felt in Jiang Yanli’s presence. She’d wondered if it had been wishful thinking, or perhaps just the stress of the moment making her overestimate the protection of the one who’d been kindest to her. The feeling of safety that settled over her now, though, was just the same. It was a feeling that had been vanishingly rare, for her, for a very long time. Cautiously, she let herself relax into it, and was gathered in a little closer, settled more comfortably against Yanli-jie’s side. It felt… nice. So nice she thought she might willingly stay for this alone. “It has been a long, trip,” Wen Qing admitted.

Yanli-jie smiled as if she knew Wen Qing was talking about more than one river journey. “It’s good that it’s over, then.” She shooed the boys ahead of them, up the path from the pier, keeping Wen Qing at her side. Wen Qing looked around curiously as they walked. Merchants apparently set up on the Jiang sect’s own pier, and greeted them cheerfully as they passed. She liked to see that; she’d always thought it foolish, the way so many Wen cultivators, and especially Wen Ruohan’s own family, held themselves aloof from the day-to-day business of farming and crafting and selling. It was just asking to be swindled.

When they reached the gates of Lotus Pier itself, Jiang Wanyin looked back at her once, openly anxious, before he straightened and swept an arm toward the first courtyard, welcoming her in. Wen Qing stepped neatly over the door-sill and stopped short, looking around.

She had never been inside Lotus Pier before. The height of the outer wall had made her think it might be a little like the Unclean Realm, full of tall, straight buildings. Instead it opened out around her like… well, like a flower. Curved walls and walkways swept out gracefully from the gates. She stepped out into the courtyard, turning to see the courtyards to either side. Everywhere, water lapped against warm, honey-colored wood and light spilled through glass and paper panels. “It’s so warm,” she said softly. She hadn’t expected that, beside a river, but it was true. The lightness of the place around her felt a little like Yanli-jie’s arm around her shoulders.

“You are welcome here.” Jiang Wanyin’s voice was almost as soft as hers had been, and when she looked back at him she could see a tangle of hope and loss and longing, so plain on his face that she wondered a little how he would ever manage diplomacy between the great sects. She folded her hands tight, not sure she could actually answer all of that, or that she wanted to try, and was very grateful for Yanli-jie’s voice falling gently between them.

“There will be time later, to discuss things.” Yanli-jie took Wen Qing’s hand to lead her onward, and patted her brother’s shoulder as she passed, which seemed to be enough reassurance for now. The tension in his whole body eased, at least. Yanli-jie led the way to a set of rooms on what Wen Qing thought was the landward side of the complex; they already held Wen Qing’s things, sent on ahead when she’d finally agreed to come. Seeing them here made her feel more as though she’d committed herself to this path, and Wen Qing took a slow breath to calm herself.

“You are not a prisoner here,” Yanli-jie said quietly, behind her.

“I’m a prisoner wherever I go, for now,” Wen Qing said flatly, as much to remind herself as to remind Jiang Yanli. “A very gently held one, and I’m grateful for that, but the fact remains that the four great sects can’t let the highest ranked remaining Wen cultivator wander free.”

Yanli-jie’s tone didn’t change in the slightest, still quiet, still so very certain. “You are under the protection of the Yunmeng Jiang sect. If you choose to be under that protection in Hebei, or Jiangsu, or even Shaanxi, then you shall be.”

Wen Qing spun around to stare at her, and found Yanli-jie smiling a gentle and utterly immoveable smile. “Yanli-jie!” she protested, “I can’t possibly just… just run off to wherever! The Jiang sect’s reputation…!”

Yanli-jie laughed softly and came to lay a gentle hand against her cheek. “Wen Qing, listen to yourself.”

Wen Qing blushed hot against the cool of her palm. Jiang Wanyin had just laid Jiang’s reputation in her hands like a flower; of course she thought about it! “It’s because you say reckless things like that,” she muttered. “You and Wei Wuxian and Jiang Wanyin; all of you.”

“All of us, who are Jiang,” Yanli-jie agreed. “This is the core of us: to know with absolute certainty what we will and will not do, or allow to be done.”

Which actually sounded very familiar from years on years when keeping her brother and clan safe defined the absolute boundaries of her world. She nodded reluctant understanding, even if it still bewildered her that the principle could be applied as broadly, as freely as she’d seen Wei Wuxian and Yanli-jie do.

“Yes, I thought you’d probably understand,” Yanli-jie murmured, reaching down to take her hands. “A-Cheng is still finding his own certainty. Perhaps, if yours is changing now, the two of you can help each other along.”

Wen Qing chewed on her lip. She did appreciate Yanli-jie’s thoughtfulness, in finding something she and Jiang Wanyin might actually talk meaningfully about, something that would tell them of each other. And she couldn’t deny that, with her entire clan here under Jiang’s protection and her now, too, there was probably a certain logic in actually becoming part of Jiang. And it was certainly the case that Wen was dead as a sect, as a school of cultivation. It was just…

Yanlie-jie smiled and shook her head. “Nothing will ever change the fact that you are Wen Qing, any more than I will become other than Jiang Yanli, even when I go to take over the care of the Jin sect.”

It was absurd, Wen Qing told herself firmly, to feel bereft when Yanli-jie hadn’t even left yet. “No, I know that,” she said, low. “I just don’t know if…” she finally found the words, and smiled wryly as she said them, “if this is something I will or will not do.”

Yanli-jie’s smile turned bright and approving, and she squeezed Wen Qing’s hands gently. “Then take your time to think, and be sure of your way.” Just as gently, she let go. “I’ll send someone to let you know when dinner is ready.”

Alone in her new rooms, Wen Qing walked through them slowly, noting all the little things she’d accumulated in the past year at the Cloud Recesses—the green and white blanket Lan Wangji had brought her a few days after she’d first found herself coughing in the damp; the apothecary chest Lan Mingxia had insisted on stocking up for her before she left, apparently convinced that Lotus Pier wouldn’t have so much as a jar of ginger root; the graceful iron and blackware tea set that she’d managed to keep with her through all her moves, and which Meng Ruyan had brought her about a month after her arrival, recovered from Yiling; the chest of new robes in deep crimson that no one had ever said a word of reproach over.

For a moment, the urge to return there was almost overwhelming, despite the way that the knowledge of her political imprisonment had always hung over her shoulder, there. At least that was a familiar weight. The weight of Jiang’s obligation to her was new and a little alarming, in comparison.

Yanli-jie had said she was free to leave if she wished, though, and Wei Wuxian was the last one she’d expect to try to influence another person’s choices, and this was the sect that had cared well enough for her brother to make him tease her over the possibility of joining it. So she took a breath and sat down firmly at the writing table in her new receiving room and used the very fine ink laid out there to start writing a brief letter of assurance that she’d arrived safely, which Lan Mingxia would want to know.


A-Ning appeared well before dinner to show her the way to the miniature village that their clan had created on a corner of Jiang land. There was a rather nice wooden walkway through the fields and woods, to reach it.

“When the children started going back and forth so much, Jiang-zongzhu said there’d better be a path, so they didn’t track mud all over the compound every day.” A-Ning’s tone was more wry and knowing than she quite expected, and she felt a sharp pang at not having been here to see what made it that way. “And then he did half the construction himself. Wei-gongzi said he’s just like that.”

“And this is the person you want to set me up with?” she asked dryly. Her own tongue was sharp enough; she wasn’t at all sure adding another would make for a good partnership.

He ducked his head and gave her an appealing look. “I’m just teasing, Jie.” She sighed and reached up to wrap an arm around his shoulders.

“I know. And he did put his sect’s reputation on the line to honor his word and shelter our clan. That’s a good basis for an alliance.” She ruffled his hair briskly. “But you know perfectly well how long I’ve been fending off marriage offers!”

“All right, all right, I’ll stop!” he laughed. “I’m not sure Auntie Hong will, though.”

Wen Qing looked up as they came out of the trees on the edge of a handful of houses and gardens, heart lightening at the sounds of excitement and welcome as people noticed them. She smiled as her clan gathered to greet her, and held out her hands to them.

Perhaps she wouldn’t mind a little teasing.


Dinner surprised her. Instead of eating in any of the halls, they gathered around a common table, just Yanli-jie, her brothers, and Wen Qing and hers. If she’d really thought about it she supposed she might have expected, but even knowing what that worm Wen Chao and his equally repellent mistress had done to Lotus Pier, it was still hard to remember when living voices rang over the water all day. Now, though, with just the five of them around a table, it came home to her again—they, too, were the survivors of a destroyed sect.

With that thought weighing on her mind she asked, quietly, “Is it going to be all right for me to walk around Lotus Pier?”

Jiang Wanyin lifted his head from apparent concentration on his fish. “You are welcome to every part of Lotus Pier,” he declared firmly.

“Even wearing this?” She tugged at the collar of her crimson robes.

She could see how he wavered, at that, mouth flinching into a tight line, and she sighed. She hadn’t expected it to be that easy, no. Not here, not once she really thought. Across from her, Wei Wuxian stirred, and she gave him a sharp look to quiet him. She already knew what he would say; now she needed to know what everyone else who lived here thought. Yanli-jie had a hand on his wrist, too.

Jiang Wanyin’s hands were tight on the edge of the table, but his voice was even. “Even so. There are a few people I’ll probably need to speak to, to make sure they understand the weight of Yunmeng Jiang’s debt to you.” The hard line of his mouth flickered with a momentary smile. “I can’t say it wouldn’t be easier if you were less obviously Wen, but… you’ve refused to abandon your sect with the same conviction that led you to such lengths to heal me, and then Wei Wuxian. It… it’s an admirable thing, to have that.”

“Thank you,” she murmured, casting a thoughtful eye around the table. That matched well enough with what Yanli-jie had called the core of Jiang. From the way both Jiang Wanyin’s siblings beamed at him, though, she suspected this was a new sentiment for the now-Master of Jiang. Perhaps one that his attraction, and then obligation, to her had drawn him toward. No wonder they approved of his bringing her here. No wonder Jiang Yanli had so delicately prompted her to discuss this very thing with him.

“All right.” She set her bowl down and folded her hands, glancing over at Yanli-jie. “I can see why you think I would be good for him. Now tell me why he’d be any good for me.” If everyone was going to be thinking about this alliance, they might as well have it out in the open.

Both of the Jiang boys choked and sputtered at her bluntness, even Wei Wuxian, who should know better. A-Ning, at least, merely spooned up more of his soup and looked on calmly.

Yanli-jie folded her own hands, smiling, and gave her back equally blunt truth in return, which she appreciated. “Your sect threatened your family, to have the use of your abilities. Would you not enjoy a sect that protects and cherishes you, instead?”

Wen Qing hesitated. Her first instinct was to ask what the price of the protection would be, which… rather made Yanli-jie’s point for her. “I would,” she admitted, slowly. “I think anyone would.” She looked back over at Jiang Wanyin, who had certainly protected her clan, so far. But cherish, really? “I’ll think about that,” she allowed, at last.

“No one would wish you to do otherwise.” Yanli-jie served a-Ning more soup with a tiny smile.

“Wen-guniang.” Jiang Wanyin leaned toward her, earnest. “I wouldn’t…” He hesitated at her arched brows, and rephrased. “I do not intend to press for any such thing.”

She smiled; he had that much self-awareness, at least, to know he might do it without intending. “I believe you. And thank you for that.”

They got through the rest of dinner calmly enough, and afterwards Wei Wuxian offered to show her around Lotus Pier. His penitent expression said it was an apology for teasing, so she agreed.

She was not surprised in the slightest when his tour of the place included two back ways into the kitchens.

He smiled when she paused at a pavilion that was out over the water, shaded by willows. “Shijie likes this spot, too.”

“I’m not surprised.” Wen Qing would bet her copy of Essential Prescriptions that Jiang Yanli was born with more than one fixed element of water. If there were ever a woman who had both water’s placid and dangerous natures, it was her. To Wen Qing, though, this space felt very calm. She leaned against one of the corner pillars, watching the river flow steadily past. She hardly noticed when Wei Wuxian slipped away, unusually tactful.

He was trying to make her comfortable. They all were, even Yanli-jie, who she was fairly sure was also trying to make her think about her future. So she supposed the question she had to answer was: could she be comfortable here?

For now, of course, the answer was yes. She had her clan here, safe under her eye. She had a debt of honor owed her, balancing out the power Jiang held over her as her custodian in the eyes of the cultivation world. She had a friend, in Wei Wuxian, and another in Jiang Yanli. Those, at least, might last even beyond the weight of the other sects’ attention and suspicion, beyond the time when she and her little clan had to stay under someone’s protection. And if her clan were eventually able to return to their ancestral home, if that much weight could be lifted from her heart… she supposed there might be room for the grace and welcome of this place to settle there.

She also had a man who thought he was in love with her, and that made her sigh, because it had never really gone well for her.

As if the thought had summoned him, Jiang Wanyin spoke from the walkway behind her. “Wen-guniang? Wei Wuxian mentioned you might still be out here. Do you know the way back to your rooms?”

“Mostly, but a guide would probably be helpful.” She turned to see him standing at the entrance of the pavilion, robes dark in the lengthening shadows as the sun dipped behind the trees. He looked quite handsome. She was sure there were plenty of young women, in the cultivation world, who would be happy to sigh and giggle over him, quite likely without ever speaking to him for more than a minute or two. Very like men got about her. She turned back to look out over the water. “Jiang-zongzhu, who do you think I am?”

“Well… you’re a genius physician, obviously,” he said, a bit hesitantly. She heard slow steps approaching, and he stopped at the rail, almost double arm’s length away, looking out across the water along with her. “I know you honor your commitments and responsibilities, from the way you’ve made sure your family is taken care of. I think you must value compassion over power, after the trouble you took to keep people safe from Wen Ruohan and his sons.” More softly, he added, “I know you have great courage. And I know that, by all rights, you’re the Master of Wen, now. If you wish to hold fast to that, and not to be the Lady of another sect, I could hardly blame you.”

With each sentence, she felt a little more tension drop away, as if the river were washing it away, bit by bit. Those were not the words of someone who saw nothing but a pretty face. Good. “I hardly know what I want to be, now,” she said, low, trading him truth for truth. “It’s been so long since it was even a choice. I chose to hold fast to being a physician; that and my brother were the things I would not give up. Everything else followed from those things.” She glanced over at him, thoughtful. “If you could do anything you wished, would it be this?” The boy she remembered somewhat from the Lan summer lectures three and more years ago hadn’t seemed to have leadership of his sect particularly on his mind.

Jiang Wanyin took a while to answer, hands working against the smooth wood of the rail. When he did finally speak, there was an edge of wonder in his voice. “I think it would be. Our sect, our tradition… being able to carry those on is important. And I’ve always loved Lotus Pier itself. If I could go anywhere… I think I would still be here.”

The way he phrased that made Wen Qing smile a little. She thought he probably cared more about the land and the people involved than about the school of cultivation. Which might not be a bad thing, considering the stupidity some sects could display over their pride in their own techniques. “So is Lotus Pier the thing you won’t give up?”

“Yes,” he said, quiet and sure. “Lotus Pier, home of the Yunmeng Jiang sect.”

Her brows rose and she turned to look more closely at him. There were more subtleties in his answer than she’d expected. Some pride in his sect after all, but far more protectiveness of it. Ambition, but for roots rather than for power—or, perhaps, for the power that deep roots brought with them. Above all, she thought, a home; a place to belong. That had never been a driving desire of hers. Necessity had taught her to be more warrior than guardian, to be the striking hand, not the guarding arm. But those two in combination were a good match. “And if I wished to travel?” she asked, barely louder than the river under their feet. “To research and to heal and to repair the name of Wen by carrying it in a healer’s hands?”

He turned to face her, eyes wide in the deepening dusk; she could see his robes stir as if he held back a step toward her, his hand lift from the rail before it curled and fell to his side. “Then the power and protection of Jiang would go with you and guard your path. Whatever choice you make.”

The hasty qualifier, and the very way he moved, made her think that the heir of Jiang had not been very used to people telling him yes. No wonder Yanli-jie wanted someone steady in place, to watch over her brothers, before she went off to wrangle the Jin sect. Wen Qing could understand that, and it was certainly something she knew how to do.

And the power and protection of Yunmeng Jiang was not a small thing, even now. To be Wen Qing, the Lady of Jiang, premier physician of the cultivation world… she had to admit, she didn’t dislike the thought. To be the partner of the young man standing a careful, courteous distance from her right now and chewing on his lip uncertainly, who thought her courageous and compassionate…

“I might like that,” she said out loud, and straightened up from the rail, smiling a little. “So. Show me the way back to my rooms.”

For one breath, it was as though her words didn’t make sense to him, and then he brightened like a tiny sunrise in the dusk. “Yes, of course!” There was such breathless wonder in his voice that when he shyly offered her his arm, she only rolled her eyes a little, and laid her hand on it lightly.


The next morning, Yanli-jie visited and brought breakfast along with her. “I was hoping we could have a talk, just the two of us,” she said, as she set out tea and dumplings on the sitting room table.

Wen Qing sighed and picked up her cup. “Yes, I’ll take care of them.”

Yanli-jie smiled as she laid her tray aside and settled on the other side of the table. “I thought you probably would, once you had a chance to think about it. I wanted to talk about how I can take care of you, though.”

Wen Qing nearly choked on her mouthful of tea, and stared at Yanli-jie, startled. Yanlie-jie sighed and looked penitent. “Yes, I was afraid you might have forgotten that part, when I pushed you so quickly to think about what it would mean to partner with a-Cheng. I’m sorry, a-Mei.”1

The endearment Wen Qing had only seen in letters until now made her cheeks warm. “Please think nothing of it,” she murmured.

“Of course I’m going to think of it.” Yanli-jie took a delicate bite of her own breakfast. “You’re my family, now, on top of being my responsibility. So I want you to be happy.”

“I wouldn’t have agreed to let him court me if I didn’t think I’d probably be happy with the results,” Wen Qing said a bit sharply, fingers tightening on her cup. She’d been taking care of herself for a very long time, and that had included fending off men ever since she’d lost her baby fat. It was just about the only thing she’d liked about being taken in by Wen Ruohan, that it had eliminated a fair bit of that nonsense.

She hadn’t agreed to consider Jiang Wanyin just because he had a nice jaw-line and good shoulders.

Yanli-jie reached over to lay a hand on her wrist. “Dearheart, listen to what I’m saying, not to the words someone else burned onto your heart,” she said, quiet and firm.

Wen Qing’s breath caught, thoughts jarred out of that familiar old track.

I want you to be happy.

“Oh.” She swallowed a little hard and turned her hand up to clasp Yanli-jie’s. “Yes. Sorry.”

Yanli-jie smiled, rueful. “I know how that goes.” She squeezed Wen Qing’s hand, and let go with a gentle pat.

“It would make me happiest if you were still here,” Wen Qing admitted softly, “but everything I’ve heard about Jin Guangshan is… very familiar. And Jin Zixuan is a skilled enough cultivator, but I never saw him show the smallest glimmer of political awareness.”

Yanli-jie laughed, sweet and bright. “He does rather need someone to look after him, at the moment. But just because we live in different places doesn’t mean we’ll never see each other.” Her smile turned rueful. “Just look at a-Xian and Lan er-gongzi.”

“I’d rather not,” Wen Qing said dryly, scooping up a dumpling at last. “I might see more than I’d prefer to.” She chewed and thought, while Yanli-jie sipped her tea, clearly hiding a smirk. “I want my clan to be able to go home,” she finally said. “Jiang has protected them. I’m grateful. But my clan belongs on our ancestral ground.”

“That should be easily enough done, now.” Yanli-jie tapped a finger on the table, eyes distant and calculating. “We will need to think about what means of communication they will have, in case someone tries to use them as leverage against you, once they’re out from under Jiang’s direct shelter. I’ll speak with Meng-gongzi about this.” She nodded firmly and looked at Wen Qing, brows raised expectantly, as if the biggest single trouble in Wen Qing’s life were already solved and Yanli-jie wanted to know the next one.

It took Wen Qing a moment to shake off her shock. If that was so easy… she supposed she was left with the more nebulous desires. She traced a finger down the curved side of her cup and said, very softly, “I want to be known for what I really am. For what my strength truly is. Not that I’m related to someone powerful, or that I could manipulate people with my looks if I wanted to.”

“But rather, for your brilliance?” Yanli-jie supplied, and only smiled when Wen Qing lifted her chin with all the hard pride she’d earned. “Well, you have a start on that, here. It’s one of the reasons a-Cheng is so smitten with you, and a-Xian certainly respects you as his equal.” She tilted her head, eyes steady on Wen Qing’s. “Do you want to start planning for your work around the Golden Core transfer to be publicly known?”

Wen Qing’s hands clasped tight on each other. She felt a bit as though the ground had just lurched beneath her. “Is that really possible?” She’d assumed political considerations would make that a post-humous monograph that she’d have to leave to be released after the death of everyone involved.

“You’re my family, now, a-Mei.” Yanli-jie’s smile was a little terrifying in its gentle, immoveable calm. “Anything is possible.”

Wen Qing swallowed hard against the sudden lump in her throat. She’d always had to be the one trying to make things happen against the odds. No one had ever offered to do it for her. “I…” She swallowed again and bit her lip hard until the huskiness was gone from her voice. “I’d like that.”

“Then we shall.” Yanli-jie sipped her tea, quite composed. “So tell me what else you’d like.” Her smile turned bright and laughing again, coaxing Wen Qing to laugh with her. “The Lan Sect seems to have taken decent care of you, but I want to know the little things. What do you like best to eat? What kind of blankets do you really want? What kind of lamps do you prefer, those nights you’re staying up far too late, reading?”

Wen Qing ducked her head a little at that last one, grinning. “I actually like candle lanterns best.” Which everyone from the servants at the Nightless City to Lan Qiren had disapproved of her profligate use of, but she’d never cared. She found the scent comforting, and it was one of her only extravagances. They could deal with it.

“Then you’ll have them,” Yanli-jie promised, and Wen Qing couldn’t help a soft smile.

This seemed to be the shape her life was taking, now.


It was Wei Wuxian who came to find her out in the little pavilion over the river, that evening.

“So.” He hopped up to sit on the pavilion rail, swinging his feet casually. “You’re gonna stay?”

“I wouldn’t have come if I hadn’t been planning on that,” she said rather dryly. He tucked his chin down and looked at her with wide and appealing eyes.

“Yes, but… really stay? I mean, be at home here?”

She reminded herself that he was brilliant in his own right, an absolute menace, and a frequent threat to her sanity, not an uncertain little boy.

All right, not just an uncertain little boy. Wen Qing sighed.

“I’m thinking about it.”

“That would be really nice.” His smile was wistful. “I’ve been thinking I might travel, with Lan Zhan. But it would be really nice to know everyone would be here, when we come back.”

“Well it’s not as though I can just leave you to your own devices, obviously,” she grumbled. “Just look at all the trouble you get into.” He grinned at her and she glowered more fiercely. “Look at all the trouble you drag me into.” His grin brightened as if it had been a compliment, and she swatted at him. He leaned precipitously aside to avoid her, so far over the water that she wound up snatching his sleeve to pull him back upright instead. “If you’re trying to make your brother look less troublesome by comparison, you can stop now!”

His smile turned crooked for a breath. “Jiang Cheng has always been less trouble than me.” She gave him a long look and leaned her elbows on the rail, looking out over the slow, inexorable flow of the river.

“I’m thinking he probably makes less trouble because you were always looking after him.” She slanted a glance at Wei Wuxian, and found him blinking at her, as if startled someone had noticed. “Thought so.” She smiled, almost as crookedly as he had. “No wonder you’re so bad at letting anyone look after you.”

“Kind of like you, Qing-jie,” he said softly.

He sounded so much like a-Ning, when he thought his sister needed comforting, that she couldn’t help laughing. It seemed she was getting a new family out of this, one who wouldn’t bother to wait on a wedding or any other formality. One who had already neatly included a-Ning, which would have been her first concern. She was still a little uncertain about being Jiang-furen, but being Qing-jie, being a-Mei… those she rather liked already.

She pushed back from the rail. “I always missed star-gazing, when I was stuck in the Nightless City,” she declared, “and I had to climb for the best views, in the Cloud Recesses, to get above the mist. Show me the best star-gazing spot here.”

Wei Wuxian smiled, so sweet and bright and happy with this simple thing that a fierce little burst of protectiveness flickered through her heart. He jumped down lightly from the rail. “It’s on the roof of the library hall. I’ll show you.”

She let the open sky and graceful walks wrap around her, as she followed along, like she’d let the stone of her mountains and the sharpness of their air, let herself settle into them as if into new robes, testing the fit across her shoulders.

She thought it might be a good one, in the end.

End

1. a-mei 阿妹 is a diminutive prefix plus ‘younger sister’. Considering how given Jiang Yanli is to the a- diminutive as an affectionate gesture, this more or less comes out to “my dear little sister”. back

Becoming the Phoenix – Eleven

Ruyan,

We’re all back home at the Unclean Realm with no difficulties. I know you worried, since Pan-guniang came with us, but there were no bandits, no issues with the road, no cultivation business along the way at all. Jin-zongzhu apparently decided to quit while he could, which does seem to be the way he goes about things. Every Jin cultivator we saw on the way out pretended they didn’t even see we had an extra rider with us. I don’t think I’ve ever seen a scandal swept out of sight so quickly. Perhaps Jin Guangshan has a bright future cleaning floors, if he finds the business of leading a sect isn’t working out for him?

Pan-guniang is doing as well as can be expected. I know she told her sect to think of her as dead, when she left, but I’m pretty sure that was when she expected to actually be dead at the end of this. I’m not sure she quite knows what to do with having succeeded and still being alive to possibly cause trouble for her sect.

Although, just between you and me, I don’t think that’s the only reason she agreed to stay with the Nie sect for the time being. It sounds like her father didn’t entirely approve of her plan, but Da-ge certainly does. I’ve walked in on them discussing moral philosophy twice already.

This is going to have some interesting effects, though. Jin Zixun won’t be able to show his face, even if Jin Guangshan doesn’t bother to actually do anything else to punish him. I won’t be surprised if Jin-zongzhu tries to get him out of sight and out of mind, somehow. Sending him abroad maybe? Everything he used Jin Zixun to do is poisoned, now, all those aggressive maneuvers and attempts to bully or overawe, so I have to wonder what other path to power he’ll look for.

I think I might take an escort along, for my next round of inspecting everyone’s fragments. Just in case.

Huaisang


Yanli-jie,

How do you manage with these two? I thought I was prepared. I know perfectly well how stubborn Wei Wuxian can be, and I didn’t imagine he got that way by having a compliant family. But I honestly thought Jiang Wanyin was the less reckless of them!

I suppose that isn’t entirely fair. Wei Wuxian would undoubtedly still take the prize in any contest of recklessness. But really! When the Master of Jiang comes to the exiled remnant of a defeated clan, one step up from a prisoner, and bows his head to the ground before her, and declares that his entire sect bears a debt to her, without even bothering to close the screens first

How have they both survived this long? Didn’t anyone teach Jiang Wanyin how to manage his responsibilities to his sect? I feel as though I should send him to the Library pavilion to copy out the Shenzi and meditate on the responsibility of a ruler to suspend judgement so that a path can be seen.

Please don’t think that I would deny his gratitude. It’s not that. It’s just that I’m feeling once again that nobody around me thinks even once before leaping with both feet. I was content to have us be even, if he could only protect my clan. For him to offer me the protection of Jiang, not even a full year since the Sunshot Campaign… This can’t really be a good idea, can it?

You think more calmly, and see more clearly. What is the reasonable path, here? If you say it, then I’ll trust that it’s said in wisdom. With the utmost respect,

Wen Qing


Jie,

I hope you’re doing well. The clan is fine, although we all miss you. Auntie Hong sends her greetings and specifically said to tell you that Jiang-zongzhu has a temper just like yours but is far more yielding, and so that should be a good match.

I’m just saying what she said, Jie.

The plantings are mostly doing well, though there are a few things we’re having to put in tall beds so they get enough drainage. The soil is much wetter, here, than in the mountains. Wei-gongzi figured out that our senna needed sulfur in the soil, down here, and now it’s doing much better. Wei-gongzi knows a lot of things; I think he must have read every book in both the Jiang and Lan libraries. Although I don’t know when he’s had time, considering how hard he trains in the physical arts, too. He’s kept helping me with my archery. I’ll show you, next time we visit!

He’s been much better since he went to you for intensive treatment. I’m really glad. Even when he was having trouble, he still looked after us. Lately, he’s been bringing the youngest Jiang disciples over to play with a-Yuan. Or maybe I should say, so a-Yuan and the Jiang disciples can play with him. I think they’ve climbed every tree between here and the main compound, and little Jiang Bingwen is teaching a-Yuan how to set kites for shooting practice. I wouldn’t have expected it, but Wei-gongzi is good with children.

In your last letter, you said you’d found some good books on healing, in the Lan library. It’s good that they’re treating you well, but don’t get too caught up in research while there isn’t anyone there to bring your meals. I’ll worry, if you do. Wei-gongzi says he’ll take me along again when he goes for his check-up next month, so I’ll see you soon. And maybe you’ll join us here soon? We’d all like that. Your loving brother,

Wen Ning


Mingjue-xiong,

I understand and agree with your reasoning, that the position of Chief Cultivator could and should be one that sets an example, provides a center for our sects to find their way from. I only question whether the one to take up that place should be me.

Not that I believe it will do me the smallest bit of good to protest, should both you and a-Yao think so, but I would have you consider first what example will best serve us, now.

My uncle would, no doubt, say that my example would be one of righteousness, though he might say it more grudgingly now than he would have a few years ago. I daresay Jiang Wanyin would think that my example is one of calm and consideration. Both those perceptions, though, are colored deeply by the nature of the viewer, and by the things they themselves need of me.

You are firm enough in your own thoughts, and know me well enough of old, that I will trust your perception of me to be truer.

If both you and a-Yao, who has seen more of my heart than any other, say that I am the best choice for this task, I will believe you.

Lan Xichen


Jiang-guniang,

I trust this letter finds you well. The work on Golden Unicorn Tower’s new lotus pools has been completed. Should you wish to view it, we will receive your visit.

Jin Zixuan

[written small on the blank end-paper]

Jiang-guniang,

I’m sorry he’s like this. Thank you for your patience and forbearance, and if it isn’t an imposition please come. He’s been driving everyone to distraction over this project. He emptied the lily pond completely and scrubbed it down to stone before planting the lotuses, and then he wasn’t satisfied with their placement so he started all over again, and he won’t let anyone else help. Everyone who has anything to do with him begs your gracious indulgence to please visit, if it will not inconvenience you.

Luo Qingyang


Lan Zhan,

Can you believe this? Shijie is going to visit the Flower Peacock! And she won’t let me or Jiang Cheng go with her! She says I’m not allowed to scare him off. I really don’t know what my wise shijie sees in that brat.

So I’m stuck here with nothing to do but worry. Please, please tell me your uncle will let you out of pris the Cloud Recesses long enough to visit. Or, if not, Jiang did get a request from a family in Shitai, and you know there’s no sect there right now. We could meet up in Chizhou and head south from there. You could say with perfect truthfulness that you were going to answer the call for a cultivator.

Lan Zhan, do you ever think about how many places don’t have sects nearby? How many places are like Qishan now, just on a smaller scale? Small enough that maybe no one really noticed when the local sect or clan died out? Qishan, Yueyang, Taishan, Shitai, Jiaozuo… those are the ones big enough that we know about them. How many others?

I think about how we met my lineage uncle, sometimes, about he and his friend traveling the country wherever they think they can help. I found that admirable. Did you?

Let me know if you can meet me at Chizhou. I miss you.

Wei Wuxian


Wei Ying,

I will go with you.

Lan Wangji


Meng Yao looked up from his chart of buildings yet to be restored as Xichen sighed over one of his letters. “What is it?”

“You were right.” His husband smiled at him, soft and rueful. “Mingjue-xiong agrees that it should be me.” And then his smile quirked a little. “So does Pan-guniang, apparently.”

“I’m not surprised. She had the very closest of views, of you bringing half the cultivation world to a halt simply by standing and taking no action. Even if she were shaky on her philosophy, that would have been a bit hard to miss.” He laid aside his own papers and reports and crossed the room to kneel by Xichen’s writing table. “Would it make you unhappy, to do this?” If the answer was yes, then he’d find someone else.

Xichen lifted a hand to cup his cheek gently, and Meng Yao smiled and turned his head into it. “I hope it will not. I think it will not. But I will need you beside me, to be my passionate heart and my clear sight.”

“You have me,” Meng Yao promised, lifting a hand to lay over Xichen’s. “I’ve been yours since the day you reached out your hand to take me up. You will always have me.”

Xichen reached out to gather him close, so apropos that Meng Yao was laughing softly as he curled into Xichen’s lap. “Then I shall fear nothing.” Xichen smiled down at him and leaned down to kiss him, slow and sure.

“Mmm.” Meng Yao snuggled into his arms and teased, “Not even scandalizing our sect, if anyone comes to ask you something and sees this?”

“Let them see,” Xichen murmured, watching him with dark eyes. “Let them know that all is well with us.” His fingers tipped Meng Yao’s chin up for another kiss, deeper still and tasting of Xichen’s desire for him in a way that made Meng Yao breathless. When long fingers stroked down the line of his bared throat, he moaned into Xichen’s mouth, fingers tightening in the heavy silk of Xichen’s robes.

“Xichen…” He gasped as Xichen’s mouth moved down, hot and wet against his throat. Heat turned to a sharp tingle as Xichen sucked, marking his skin above the collar of his own robes, and his eyes went wide. “Xichen!” Xichen almost never left marks where anyone else would see them.

“My own,” Xichen said, low and fierce against tender skin, and Meng Yao’s eyes slid closed with the surge of want that rolled through him.

“Yes.” When Xichen lifted his head, Meng Yao reached up to touch his fingertips to Xichen’s headband, wetting his lips. “May I?” If Xichen needed to mark how Meng Yao belonged to him, needed the reassurance that Meng Yao was and always would be his… then let there be no restraint between them.

Xichen smiled slowly, and his eyes on Meng Yao were heated. “Of course. Whenever you wish.”

Meng Yao reached back to undo it and let the ribbon of white silk slide through his fingers to coil on Xichen’s writing table, silver plaque clicking softly against the dark wood.

The moment he let the ribbon go, Xichen caught him close, kissing him deep and demanding, and Meng Yao relaxed willingly into his hold, answering each kiss with hot, open hunger. “Mmm.” A shiver of want ran through him as Xichen lifted Meng Yao in his arms and carried him into their sleeping room, not even pausing to close the outer doors.

Their clothes wound up scattered across the bed and floor, stripped away by impatient hands, Xichen’s and, increasingly as he was caught up in the urgency of Xichen’s kisses, Meng Yao’s. Meng Yao purred into Xichen’s mouth at the feel of Xichen’s body wrapped around his, sleek and bare and powerful; he always loved how completely Xichen could enfold him, and it was even better when Xichen held him this breathlessly tight. “Yours,” he murmured, nuzzling under the corner of Xichen’s jaw. He moaned out loud as Xichen’s fingers slid between his cheeks and pressed into him, slow and sure.

“Mine,” Xichen agreed, low and velvety. “My heart. My joy. Mine for all time.” He kissed down Meng Yao’s throat and across his chest, scattering love-bites as he went. Meng Yao gasped, breath catching each time at the edge of Xichen’s teeth or the pull of Xichen’s mouth on his skin, light-headed with the burning heat of his response to that forthright possessiveness, to the feel of Xichen’s fingers worked him open relentlessly.

“Xichen,” he whispered, voice husky, “please. Now.”

Xichen caught his mouth again, kissing him deep and intent, and Meng Yao answered him with all the passion Xichen’s fierce need had built in him. The easy strength of Xichen’s hand sliding under him, lifting his hips up off the bed, made a breathless thrill twist tight in his stomach.

“Is it all right, like this?” Xichen asked against his mouth. “I want to see you.”

Meng Yao wrapped his legs around Xichen’s waist and relaxed, deliberately trusting, into the support of Xichen’s hand holding him up. He smiled at the way Xichen’s breath caught, and murmured, “Oh yes.”

The slow, hard stretch of Xichen’s cock pushing into him burned down his nerves, sweet and sharp as the feel of Xichen’s teeth marking him had, and he moaned, words breaking into gasps. “Yes… oh yes… ge-ge, you feel so good…” The hand at the small of his back tightened and Xichen kissed the words off his lips.

“So do you, my own.” Xichen eased back and drove into him, hard and deep, and Meng Yao groaned with the surge of sensation, arms tightening around Xichen’s neck.

Xichen didn’t pause, and Meng Yao stopped thinking, gave himself up willingly to the pleasure of Xichen’s body moving against him, inside him, and the branding heat of Xichen’s kisses, voice going hoarse and breathless as Xichen fucked him hard. When Xichen’s mouth closed on his throat again, wet and hot and hard enough to mark, the thrill that sparked down his spine spilled him right over the edge, and he gasped, voice cut off with the force of pleasure raking through him, sweet and intense.

Xichen groaned and caught Meng Yao up tighter against him, driving into him faster, and still hard enough to push soft whimpers out of him as the thickness of Xichen’s cock worked the tightness of his hole. When Xichen stilled, Meng Yao let his whole body fall lax, only supported by Xichen’s hand, and the small sound of satisfaction he made wound together with Xichen’s.

Slowly, Xichen settled them both against the bed, not letting go of him, and Meng Yao snuggled close, perfectly content. “I’m here,” he said softly, against Xichen’s shoulder. “I’m yours. All that I am is yours.”

Xichen’s arms tightened around him, more gently now but still wonderfully enveloping. “Thank you, my heart. My treasure,” Xichen said against his hair. For long moments, they simply lay in each other’s arms, quiet and at peace.

A rustle from the receiving room made Meng Yao lift his head to see a very quickly retreating flurry of white. He glanced up at Xichen, prepared to tease, only to find Xichen wearing a small, satisfied smile. “Xichen!” he laughed.

“You did want me to set an example for the cultivation world,” Xichen murmured, fingers sliding into Meng Yao’s hair so he could tip Meng Yao’s head back for a kiss. “What better example than happiness?”

Meng Yao melted into pliancy against him, feeling the words ring in his heart. “If that’s what you wish,” he agreed.

Xichen smiled down at him. “I think it is, yes.”

Meng Yao smiled back, and spoke from the perfect calm within him. “Then it will be so.”

He would not have thought of it, without Xichen to say it, but this happiness he had found was something he could wish for more than himself, now he was sure it would not be taken from him. "You make the world so right," he whispered to Xichen, pressing close.

"Only with you by my side," Xichen said softly, against his hair.

The thought came truly clear for the first time, that what he gave to Xichen was the same thing Xichen gave to him, and Meng Yao felt like his heart might overflow with that understanding. "Then I will always be there," he whispered.

For this, he would do anything.

End

Becoming the Phoenix – Ten

Meng Yao was almost, a little bit, starting to sympathize with Lan Qiren on the subject of Lan Wangji and Wei Wuxian.

Just a little bit.

Because he seemed to be tripping over them everywhere, no matter what corner of the Cloud Recesses he’d sought out, usually for some quiet. He’d found them in the river pavilions.

“Lan Zhan, you cannot possibly tell me that this piece was meant to be tuned that high, not with that many overflowing sounds in it! It’s got to be a lower tuning.”

He’d found them in the library.

“Lan Zhan, you didn’t tell me that Lan has a copy of Songs of the South, and I just said the other day how bored I was! Now, was that nice?”

He’d found them around back by the waterfall.

“Honestly, Lan Zhan, what’s the point of rules that constantly contradict each other? It’s not like you even can obey all of them!”

“The point is to reflect on the contradictions.”

“All right, then, what kind of personal enlightenment are you supposed to get out of embracing the entire world when every other line is telling you what to reject?”

He found them in the forest.

“Look how many there are, now! You take such good care of them, Lan Zhan.” Wei Wuxian held up one of the, admittedly copious, rabbits, apparently so it could rub noses with Wangji, and Meng Yao turned right around in his tracks and made his way back down the path. He’d take the long way around.

“Can’t Wangji just kiss him already and have done?” he asked Xichen under his breath, as they both watched Wei Wuxian and Wangji chase each other over the roofs. Wei Wuxian really did retain remarkable control of his qi, for a man they suspected of a losing encounter with Wen Zhuliu.

“I’m not entirely sure Wangji knows that’s an option, yet,” Xichen admitted ruefully.

Which at least succeeded in quashing Meng Yao’s sympathy for Lan Qiren, whose fault that probably was.

So when Meng Yao heard their voices around the corner, as he was looking through one of the library pavilion shelves for a history of the Nie sect that he wanted after a rather alarming mention of tombs in Huaisang’s latest letter, he just sighed to himself, resigned, and kept looking. If he was fortunate, perhaps he could escape with his book before the horseplay really got started.

At least until he heard Wangji say, low and serious. “Wei Ying. Your Golden Core—was it wounded in the Burial Mounds? Or did it happen earlier?”

Meng Yao froze and peeked around the corner just in time to see Wei Wuxian try to laugh off his own frozen moment with an airy wave of one hand.

“Why would you think anything ever happened to my Golden Core?”

Wangji just looked at him for a breath, perhaps noticing that Wei Wuxian hadn’t actually denied it, and then he spread a hand toward the books of tablature spread open on the table beside him. “When Wen-guniang asked for the music of concentration, rather than of cleansing, it became clear to me.”

Wei Wuxian dropped his laughing front like shrugging off a cloak, leaving him darker, almost the grim edge he’d had during Sunshot. “You can’t tell anyone else.” When Wangji didn’t answer at once, he stepped forward, seizing Wangji’s arm urgently. “Lan Zhan!”

Wangji bent his head just a little, voice steady when he answered, “I will not.”

It cut through the desperation running under Wei Wuxian’s anger, and left uncertainty clear to see, hope and hesitation tangled together. “Really?”

Wei Wuxian still hadn’t let go, and Wangji laid a hand over his. “You have my word,” he said, so openly earnest that he almost looked like Xichen. “I did not understand your reasons, during Sunshot, yet you still had them. If you ask this, you must have a reason now.”

“Lan Zhan.” Wei Wuxian’s voice had gone soft and his eyes as wide as if Wangji had just proclaimed his love in the main courtyard. “You… really?” The hope so clear in his face was fragile, this time, but when Wangji nodded he broke into a genuine smile, brilliant and sweet.

Perhaps that was what emboldened Wangji. “May I ask a different question?” At Wei Wuxian’s nod he edged a step closer and asked, “What am I to you?”

Wei Wuxian’s smile quieted into something softer. “Before all this,” he pressed his free hand to his chest, “I thought maybe you would be the one who understood.” He looked down as if he couldn’t hold Wangji’s eyes any longer. “Who knew me, heart and soul.”

“I am. I will be.” Wangji’s voice was soft, but the words rang through the air like a declaration, like a vow. Wei Wuxian looked back up, searching Wangji’s face. Whatever he was looking for, he seemed to find at least the promise of, because he wet his lips before matching Wangji’s tiny step forward.

“Then… what am I to you?” he asked, low.

Calm seemed to settle over Wangji. “You are the question and the answer.”

Wei Wuxian stared at him, lips parted. “Oh.”

They stood together in the soft light of the library, still holding on to each other, and didn’t say another word. Meng Yao carefully tip-toed out with his book, closing the door silently so as not to disturb them.

He wondered, smiling to himself, if all Lans fell so completely, when they fell in love.


Of course, with Wangji and Wei Wuxian just possibly starting to sort themselves out, something else had to come up. On reflection, Meng Yao couldn’t imagine why he might have thought it would be otherwise.

He leaned over Xichen’s shoulder to read the handsomely written letter that had arrived, grandly inviting them to attend a gathering of cultivation sects for a night hunt at Phoenix Mountain. This gathering was hosted, the invitation told them, by the Lanling Jin sect, who hoped the sects could come together in good fellowship and friendly competition, as it should always have been between them. “Does he expect anyone, besides perhaps Yao-zongzhu, to buy this?” Meng Yao asked, flicking his fingers dismissively at the fine paper. “I cannot be the only one who notices just how hungry he is for power.”

Xichen smiled crookedly. “I’m afraid you’re one of the few, my heart.” He huffed a soft laugh at the disbelieving look Meng Yao gave him. “I’m sure I’ve told you before that your perception is beyond the ordinary.”

Meng Yao’s cheeks heated. “Well, yes, but… he’s not even hiding it!”

Xichen tossed the letter onto his writing table and reached up to tug Meng Yao forward, tumbling him down into Xichen’s lap in a flurry of white and blue. Meng Yao went willingly, perfectly confident that Xichen would catch him, relaxing into the curve of Xichen’s arm behind his back and smiling up at him. “I will not have you discount your abilities, a-Yao,” Xichen said, gentle but firm about it. “Jin Guangshan is skilled at talking people around to his way of thinking, and doing so in terms he can deny at once, should he need to shift his ground.” He cupped Meng Yao’s cheek in one broad hand. “Your clear sight is an extraordinary gift, and I expect to rely on you to know if and how we should move to counter Jin, at this event.”

Meng Yao turned his head into Xichen’s hand and pressed a kiss to his palm. “Yes, my husband,” he murmured, savoring again the warmth and satisfaction of how Xichen knew and valued him, giving back the assurance of how he belonged to Lan, now. Xichen made a satisfied sound and caught his chin, lifting it so he could kiss Meng Yao, slow and possessive.

At least until someone cleared their throat, in the open screens of the receiving room, and they both looked up to see Lan Qiren pretending to examine the windchimes beside the entrance. Xichen grinned, positively impish for a moment, and lifted Meng Yao easily out of his lap, setting him lightly back beside the writing table.

The casual show of strength only flared the heat running through Meng Yao higher, and Xichen was perfectly well aware of how Meng Yao responded to such things. Meng Yao gave his husband a look that promised revenge when they were alone again, before straightening his robes and putting on an attentive expression.

“Yes, Uncle?” Xichen asked smoothly, with only a bit of a feline curl at the corners of his mouth.

Lan Qiren entered, giving them a stern look. “On the topic of appropriate behavior within the Cloud Recesses,” he said, “I have observed Wei Wuxian taking up some sword training again.”

“It seems Wen-guniang’s treatment has been successful.” Xichen’s tone was agreeable, but Meng Yao noted that his words weren’t quite, and focused his attention.

“Mm.” Lan Qiren stroked his beard. “I was willing to wait on her success or failure, but now we know which it is, and Wei Wuxian’s disrespectful and wild ways still require curbing. You are sect master here, Xichen. It is your place to ensure our ways are upheld.”

“To be sure.” Xichen was wearing his faint, public smile. “But Wei-gongzi is not part of our sect. Surely it cannot be our place to dictate his behavior.”

“Then dictate your brother’s.” Lan Qiren’s voice was growing sharp. “Wangji gives that boy far too much leeway. He should know better than to tolerate anyone who insists on disorderly ways, who would lure those around him into questioning what is righteous!”

The more Meng Yao’s focus on the exchange sharpened, the more clearly he felt the balance of power in the room, and it was tilting more and more heavily toward Lan Qiren. When he saw Xichen’s faint sigh, he also felt that balance start to tip all the way over, and his hand flashed out to close on Xichen’s wrist. Xichen blinked and paused in the midst of drawing breath to speak, glancing over at Meng Yao. Meng Yao met his eyes, lips tight. If Xichen trusted his perception, if he was Xichen’s eyes in this, then he could not let this tipping point pass by. No matter how annoyed Lan Qiren might be at him later.

His first loyalty was to Xichen.

“Zongzhu,” was all he said, almost a whisper between them. Xichen’s brows jerked up, and slowly drew down into a frown.

“Now?” His voice was barely a breath. Meng Yao bit his lip, not entirely sure what fire he might be touching off, but certain of what he saw. If Xichen were not to spend years wresting the Lan sect out of his uncle’s hands, he needed to act now. Meng Yao nodded, quick and faint but determined.

Xichen closed his eyes and let his breath out. As Meng Yao watched, it almost seemed that Xichen grew larger, his presence in the room flowing outward, weighting the air around him. When Xichen opened his eyes they were sharp and level as his sword blade, and when he lifted his head the simple movement commanded attention like a shout.

Meng Yao was glad he was already sitting, because it made his knees weak just to see, sent heat pooling low in his stomach.

“Uncle,” Xichen said, quiet and courteous but utterly certain in a way Meng Yao had rarely heard, “I have attended to Wei-gongzi’s discussions with Wangji, and I am satisfied that his heart is dedicated to what is just. If he leads Wangji to question what the Discipline of Lan truly means, that is well. Wangji will reach a deeper understanding of his way than unthinking obedience would yield.”

Lan Qiren stood very still, eyes fixed on Xichen, and Meng Yao could see how his jaw tightened, as if he’d clenched his teeth on a demand for obedience—an approach Xichen had just neatly closed off. “Wei Wuxian still walks too near a crooked path,” he finally said.

“Does he?” Xichen’s question sounded genuine rather than rhetorical, and when Meng Yao remembered what Xichen had told him about Xichen’s mother, he thought he knew what other question was hanging in the air between Xichen and Lan Qiren.

Is it his feet you see on that path, or hers?

Lan Qiren’s face darkened, but his gathering ire broke against Xichen’s bottomless calm like wind against stone. Meng Yao shivered at the unmoving weight of that calm, and the choice it presented Lan Qiren with—to yield or to openly start a fight with his nephew. And with his sect master. In the end, Lan Qiren spun on his heel, lips tight, and swept back out of their rooms without a word.

Xichen let out a long breath and reached for Meng Yao, pulling him in and holding him tight. Meng Yao pressed close, arms sliding around Xichen. “I’m sorry,” he said, softly. “I know you didn’t want to—”

“No,” Xichen cut him off, face still buried in Meng Yao’s hair. “I always knew it would have to come some day. If you think it had to be now, then I trust your judgement.”

Meng Yao sighed, curling up in his lap so Xichen could hold him more comfortably. “If it hadn’t been, if you’d let him continue to dictate Wangji’s course, or try to, you’d have had to truly fight to turn it around later.” He hesitated and added, softer, “Or else Wangji would have fought.”

Xichen straightened with a sigh, though his smile had returned to dance at the corner of his mouth. “My brother is not skilled at compromise of any kind. Better it be me who stands firm now than him who shatters things into pieces later.”

Meng Yao had to pause simply to admire the understatement. That undeniable fact brought up another, though. “If Wangji isn’t comfortable with compromise… will he choose to go to Jiang?”

Xichen’s expression was briefly both appalled and full of stifled hilarity. “Not soon, I hope. I doubt Wangji would find that an easy fit.”

“Well, Wei Wuxian does seem to enjoy challenges,” Meng Yao murmured, mischievous. “Perhaps he will choose the Cloud Recesses instead.”

Xichen broke into his rare, open laugh, catching Meng Yao close. “Uncle would add a new rule to the Wall every week!”

Meng Yao snuggled close with a soft snort. “Well, that’s one way to reduce its importance.”

Xichen looked down at him with a secret gleam in his eye. “There’s the clear vision that I love. I will rely on it, at this Phoenix Mountain hunt.”

Meng Yao smiled back, slow and sharp. “Yes, husband.”


At the opening of the Phoenix Mountain hunt, Meng Yao sat quietly at Xichen’s side, on the shaded platform that had been erected for the sect masters, and listened to Jin Guangshan’s fulsome welcome. He had a private bet with himself regarding the archery targets set up to one side, and was waiting to see if he was right.

“In the spirit of friendly competition,” Jin Guangshan declared, with the kind of smile that made Meng Yao wonder yet again whether he could really be the only one who saw how it never reached the man’s eyes, “let us have a shooting match to decide what path everyone will take into the mountain!” He swept a hand out at the targets. “Each target has seven rings, one for each major path. The closer to the red your arrow strikes, the more advantageous your entry!”

Meng Yao absently awarded himself a win; anyone who knew Jin Zixuan’s reputation as an archer might have seen it coming. Though he was still just a bit surprised that Jin Guangshan seemed to be ignoring Wei Wuxian’s reputation. Perhaps he didn’t believe it because he hadn’t seen much evidence of it during Sunshot?

Jin Zixuan stepped forward at his father’s genial wave to begin. Meng Yao was an indifferent archer, himself, but even he could see that Jin Zixuan’s form was clean and correct, if a bit stiff during his showy leap to release from the air. The arrow flew straight and true to the center of one of the targets, and a murmur of approval went through the ranks of Jin sect cultivators and a few of their allied sects as well. Jin Zixuan lifted his chin and remarked, “Not difficult at all,” as he strode back to his place.

And then Jin Zixun stepped forward, which made Meng Yao straighten, interested. Did Jin Guangshan have a bit of intimidation planned, here? With a disdainful sidelong look in Wei Wuxian’s direction, Jin Zixun declared, “Does anyone dare challenge that? Step right up if you do! I want to see anyone who thinks they can shoot better than my cousin.” He swept his habitual sneer over the entire gathering. “Who else?”

Meng Yao clapped his sleeve over his mouth to hide the grin he couldn’t help. Was Jin Zixun really going to be this stupid? Perhaps it wasn’t a planned gambit after all, but just Jin Zixun’s inability to keep from making a fool of himself. Huaisang’s eyes met his, wide with anticipation, and Huaisang snapped open his fan to hide his own amusement behind.

When Wei Wuxian promptly turned to Wangji and asked for the loan of his headband, Meng Yao had to bite back actual laughter, shoulders shaking. It was probably a good thing Lan Qiren had stayed home; hearing this might have given him an actual stroke from sheer rage. Xichen sat beside him, the image of serenity despite Nie Mingjue’s own sidelong glance and raised brows, and Meng Yao hid another chuckle at that silent statement of support for Wangji and Wei Wuxian. He didn’t think it would be lost on any cultivator who was friends with a Lan disciple.

Wei Wuxian huffed a bit over Wangji’s exasperated, if silent, refusal, and strolled down the range, unwinding one of his cuff wrappings instead. Meng Yao restrained a gleeful sound as Wei Wuxian raised the ribbon of black and bound it over his eyes. This was going to be even better than he’d hoped. By the time Wei Wuxian drew five arrows, Meng Yao was glancing around to appreciate the shocked expressions surrounding him, and most especially Jin Guangshan’s. He looked like a man in the path of a runaway wagon who knew it was too late to run.

All five arrows sang home into the centers of the targets, and the crowd of cultivators burst into applause, led enthusiastically by Nie Mingjue. Wei Wuxian sauntered back to his place, with a bright smile for his sister, who was very obviously laughing behind the painted silk of her fan, and a grin for Wangji, who refused to smile back openly but did look quietly satisfied.

Meng Yao did not clap much, being too busy trying to bury his helpless snickers in Xichen’s shoulder. “What did they expect?” he gasped, blotting tears of laughter on his sleeve. On his other side, Jiang Wanyin snorted with what sounded half exasperation and half agreement. When Meng Yao looked, though, he was smiling, habitually tight expression brightened with pride.

Jin Guangshan finally managed to smile too, albeit with a very tight jaw. “Excellent show! Both Zixuan and Wei Wuxian will take the most direct path. Who shall be next?” Meng Yao didn’t miss the sharp gesture, down by his side, that made Jin Zixun step back, glowering. Jin Guangshan was not terribly intelligent, he reflected, but the man was cunning, and he knew how to adjust his strategy on the fly.

Other cultivators started coming forward, many with a laughing air of being well content to come in second best to a display like that, which Meng Yao suspected was not what Jin Guangshan had been after. As little groups broke up and started up the mountain, he noticed Jin-furen drawing Jin Zixuan aside for some fiercely whispered words, after which Jin Zixuan came to stand below where Jiang Wanyin and Jiang Yanli were seated, looking just faintly hangdog. “Good afternoon, Jiang-guniang.” Apparently feeling his mother’s glare on his back, he bowed briefly. “I would be honored to escort you, if you wish to see the hunt.” He didn’t sound particularly honored, but the way his attention stayed fixed tight to her suggested that there might be true desire there, under the considerable awkwardness.

Jin Guangshan was ignoring the byplay completely, which suggested he didn’t think an alliance with Jiang would be to his benefit any more. But his wife did. Interesting. Meanwhile, Jiang Wanyin was making irritated ‘go ahead’ gestures at Wei Wuxian, who was hanging back at his gate, Wangji beside him. Wei Wuxian made considerably more violent gestures in Jin Zixuan’s direction, and Jiang Wanyin rolled his eyes and shrugged impatiently. Jiang Yanli seemed amused by them, at least. She’d stopped looking uncertain and started smiling, which in turn had made Jin Zixuan brighten. Meng Yao wondered if Madam Jin was concerned enough with her son’s happiness to not care about the politics, or if perhaps she was building her own strength within Jin, courting an ally and binding the sect’s heir to her in the process. She was close-mouthed, even in private; even Meng Yao’s information from his network couldn’t tell him which was more likely.

“Perhaps we could walk for a little while,” Jiang Yanli agreed, and rose to let Jin Zixuan assist her down from the platform. Her voice was soft, but her body language was reserved. Meng Yao thought that she hadn’t, herself, decided about Jin Zixuan yet; he would refrain from trying to interfere, then.

It wasn’t as though she lacked for people to look after her interests, after all. Beside him, Jiang Wanyin spread his hands sharply, miming the most irritated helplessness Meng Yao had ever seen across the grounds at Wei Wuxian, who was now sulking. Meng Yao was fairly sure he saw Wangji roll his eyes before drawing Wei Wuxian away with a word or two. As the last archers took their shots and the sect masters started to stand, Xichen smiled down at Meng Yao and held out a hand. “Shall we, my heart?”

Meng Yao laid his hand in Xichen’s, blushing a little at such open solicitousness. “It should be an interesting afternoon,” he murmured, which made the corners of Xichen’s mouth curl up.

“Indeed.”

It was quite a pleasant afternoon, actually. Meng Yao was proud of the skill he’d learned under Xichen’s tutelage, but it still delighted him to walk in Xichen’s protection, to know without doubt that he didn’t need to attend to the haunts and spirits around them unless he chose to. It was also helpful, today, because much of his attention was on political affairs rather than hunting.

Jin sect members were scattered over the entire mountain, keeping watch, readily assisting any cultivators caught alone with prey a little beyond them, obviously keeping Jin benevolence on everyone’s mind.

Wei Wuxian and Wangji tore through swaths of the mountain with an ease that clearly reminded more than one person of just who had won some of the harshest battles of the Sunshot campaign… at least when the two of them could be bothered to take their eyes off each other and notice the prey. Meng Yao heard more than one party laughing (or even cooing) as the two wandered by.

Yao-zongzhu was strolling with Ouyang-zongzhu, gossiping more than hunting. Meng Yao paused to drop a word in their ears about how many Jin cultivators were hanging about, and how he hoped they didn’t intend to steal anyone’s credit. Both of them liked the juicy possibilities of that gossip, and Meng Yao chuckled with them, conspiratorially, before parting ways again. He felt the weight of Xichen’s eyes on him the whole time, and the quiet certainty of Xichen’s nod, as they walked on, warmed him.

Jin Zixuan, when they crossed his path, seemed to be dealing with his uncertainty in Jiang Yanli’s presence by lecturing endlessly on the ghosts and monsters of the mountain. If Meng Yao was any judge, Jiang Yanli found it equal parts amusing and annoying.

Jin-furen was subtly shadowing the pair, and appeared to have a headache.

Jiang Wanyin was taking out his temper on every spirit that had the misfortune to be in his way, and might just come out of this hunt with the highest tally of anyone.

He didn’t see anything to be concerned about until they ran across Wei Wuxian and Wangji again, this time in the middle of an altercation with Jin Zixun.

“…still don’t bring your sword!” Jin Zixun was declaiming, more to their audience than to Wei Wuxian himself. Meng Yao stiffened when he noticed that the audience included Yao-zongzhu and Ouyang-zongzhu. They were exactly the kind of people Jin Zixun’s words could easily stir up fear in. “Such a grand occasion, and yet you still show no care for courtesy, no respect for other cultivators! Is this the measure of the Yunmeng Jiang sect?”

Meng Yao started forward, and Wangji immediately laid a hand on Wei Wuxian’s arm, obviously knowing the weaknesses of his temper well by now. This could get ugly very fast.

Both of them stopped short, though, when Wei Wuxian tipped his head back and laughed. “My sword? I wasn’t going to, to be fair, but I suppose if you really insist…” He closed his eyes, still smiling, fingers raised as if to summon a sword that he obviously wasn’t carrying.

One moment passed. Another.

And just when Jin Zixun was starting to recover himself from his own startlement and draw breath to attack again, cries of shock started echoing up the flank of the mountain, closer and closer, until a dark-and-silver streak flew through the trees and halted, hovering before Wei Wuxian.

He opened his eyes, smile curling wider, and reached out to wrap his fingers around the hilt. “There. Happy?”

While everyone stared, Jin sect cultivators started scurrying into the clearing. “The loose monsters!” one of them cried. “So many of them, so fast!”

“What?” Jin Zixun snapped. “Make sense!”

Another, who had sensibly stopped to catch her breath, straightened and bowed quickly. “Just now, a sword flew up the mountain and struck down many of the un-caught monsters on the way!”

Wei Wuxian smiled wider as every eye turned to him, and spun his sword casually in his hand. “I wanted to wait, so everyone would have a fair chance.”

Yao-zongzhu broke into guffaws of laughter. “Fair enough, fair enough! At least you didn’t steal anyone else’s prey. Well done!”

Part of Meng Yao was pleased that the gossip he’d seeded earlier in the day, the suspicion that it was Jin who wanted to steal everyone’s glory, was bearing such fruit now. Most of him, though, was leaning back against Xichen, weak-kneed. “Three months,” he whispered. “Barely more than three months since Wen-guniang declared him healed, to regather that much spiritual strength.”

Xichen squeezed his shoulder, and satisfaction was heavy in his voice. “Wangji has found a good match.”

Indeed, Wangji was watching Wei Wuxian with a very smitten look on his face.

Jin Zixun, on the other hand, was scowling, face dark with something approaching hatred. “We need to turn this around a little further, to be safe,” Meng Yao murmured.

“Very well.” Xichen stepped forward, strolling into the clearing with a light smile. “Wei-gongzi, so that was you? Congratulations on your tally of monsters.” His light tone did the trick, and Meng Yao watched everyone relax, save for Jin Zixun, who slunk back a few steps. Meng Yao followed along and cast his eyes down demurely as everyone greeted them, watching under his lashes as the weight of the confrontation thinned and blew away like smoke before the breeze of Xichen’s easy smile. Jin Zixun obviously saw it, too, because he turned on his heel and stomped away into the trees. Wei Wuxian watched him go, just as closely as Meng Yao.

At least until Jiang Wanyin stalked into the clearing. “Wei Wuxian! Your damn sword dropped this on me!” He brandished a sheath at his brother, who burst out laughing and then promptly ducked behind Wangji for shelter. Wangji looked disapproving, but Meng Yao noted that he didn’t move aside. The knot of cultivators broke up, most of them chuckling.

When they all got back to the Jin guest quarter, Meng Yao found Jiang Yanli and Jin Zixuan walking through the pools and flowering gardens of Golden Unicorn Tower while he explained eagerly why a rose went better in some particular nook than irises would have. She looked considerably more entertained by this than by the lectures on hunting. Meng Yao also noticed Huaisang standing in a nearby archway looking smug, and strolled over to him.

“How did this happen?”

Huaisang flicked open his fan and smirked behind it. “Did you know that Jin Zixuan gardens?”

“I did, actually.” Meng Yao made a small face. “It’s his hobby, as much as he’s permitted to have one.”

Huaisang’s eyes turned hard for one moment as they flickered over Jin Guangshan, in the stream of returning hunters. “Mm. He was out planting some new cuttings, the first time I visited to check on how that Golden Swords array of theirs is containing their yin metal fragment. By the time I talked him down from challenging me over having seen, he’d admitted that he designed almost all the gardens, here.” The smug smile returned. “So, when I ran across them on the mountain, I just asked whether he’d shown Jiang-guniang yet. She smiled, and that was really all it took.”

They both looked over at where Jiang Yanli had bent to take in the scent of a prettily pruned gardenia bush. Her smile did indeed make Jin Zixuan light up, so pleased by this small thing that Meng Yao moved ‘making her son happy’ higher on his list of reasons Jin-furen might be pushing this match.

“I was thinking of redoing the water lily pool in the third courtyard,” Jin Zixuan told her, eyes bright. “I could put lotuses there. I mean.” He glanced aside and his words started to stumble. “If you’d like to see it. If you visit, I mean.”

Jiang Yanli’s smile softened, and before he could reverse completely, she said quietly, “I’d like that.”

The raw hope in Jin Zixuan’s face, when he raised his head again, was almost painful to see.

“That seems like a job well done,” Meng Yao murmured to Huaisang. “Shall we leave her to take care of the rest?”

Huaisang closed his fan, beaming. “Let’s.”

As they strolled back to join the stream of returning guests, they passed Jin-furen, so clearly relieved that she actually returned Meng Yao’s bow with an absent nod instead of ignoring his existence as she normally contrived to.


The banquet that evening was very full. Jin Guangshan had managed to fit every visiting sect master and any spouse or heir that had come along into the long, blue and gold draped hall, and there wasn’t a great deal of room left except in the center. Jiang Wanyin and Wei Wuxian sat close enough to elbow each other whenever Wei Wuxian got his brother to forget his dignity for long enough. Wangji sat on Wei Wuxian’s other side and attempted, with middling success, to distract him from his teasing with a discussion of cultivation theory. Jin Zixuan sat across the hall, frankly mooning over Jiang Yanli, who was smiling a private, satisfied sort of smile. A little ways down from him, Yao-zongzhu and Ouyang-zongzhu were on their way to being drunk while Qin-zongzhu shook his head over them. Xichen quietly discussed the day’s hunt with Nie Mingjue over Meng Yao’s head.

It would have been quite pleasant if Meng Yao hadn’t felt the need to stay alert in case Jin Guangshan intended to add any refinements to a day that had already netted him a reasonable amount of good will.

In the event, it was Jin Zixun who moved first, clearly still smarting from being routed on the mountain, earlier. “Lan-zongzhu! Hanguang-jun!” he called across the hall, lifting his wine cup. “Let me offer a toast to you, for your kind assistance during today’s hunt!” When neither Xichen nor Wangji reached for their own cups, both looking a bit startled at the very idea, Jin Zixun’s smile showed his teeth. “Surely you won’t refuse my sincere respect?”

Yao-zongzhu laughed in an inebriated and drew breath to speak, and Meng Yao sighed. The problem with Yao Chenzhuo’s usefulness was that he was useful to absolutely everyone. Meng Yao widened his eyes just as ingenuously as possible and cut in neatly before Yao-zongzhu’s words. “Surely Jin hospitality does not require a guest to violate his family’s ways?” He cast a look of innocent uncertainty at Yao-zongzhu and Ouyang-zongzhu, watching to make sure they both reversed into drunkenly thoughtful frowns before he turned the same look on Jin Guangshan.

Jin Guangshan looked almost equally annoyed at both Jin Zixun and Meng Yao before he pasted on a smile and tried to wave the whole thing aside. “Of course not!”

“Of course it would!” The words rang out hard and clear from the doorway, and most of the room turned to see a young woman standing there in austere, green robes, with fury burning in her eyes. The heat of it trailed after her like a cloak as she stalked into the hall. “Jin Zixun would dare demand anything, for the sake of his convenience and his desires. And if it isn’t given, he’ll try to take it!”

“Pan Daiyu,” Xichen murmured, beside him. When Meng Yao glanced up at him, his brows were drawn in, troubled. “Alone, it seems. So this was her choice.”

To come alone so that whatever she did today could be disavowed by her sect, if necessary? Meng Yao took a slow breath. She had chosen to seek blood, then.

Jin Zixun had recovered from his frozen moment of shock, on seeing her, and apparently decided to bluff. “What are you talking about?” he scoffed. “Pan Daiyu isn’t it? What could I possibly want from such a scruffy little sect?”

“What you took after you drugged me unconscious while my father was visiting here, both of us under the hospitality of the Jin sect.” The quiet in the hall dissolved into shocked whispers, and she lifted her chin, mouth a hard line.

“You would accuse me of something you weren’t even awake for?” Jin Zixun looked around with a bark of laughter, inviting the guests to mock the accusation with him.

Pan Daiyu’s flat voice cut through the rising murmurs. “Call for the servant Zhao Shuang, then, to ask what happened after she brought me tea you had interfered with.”

Jin Zixun jerked back, eyes suddenly wide, and the murmurs in the hall picked up an edge. Everyone had seen him react. Pan Daiyu drew her sword and pointed it straight at him. “Draw your sword and answer me for your crime, or I will cut you down where you stand, coward!”

The murmurs became a roar and Jin Zixun leaped back, sword flying to his outstretched hand barely in time to block her lunge.

The two of them spun around each other, in the open center of the hall, steel flashing between them, but Meng Yao didn’t pay the duel much attention; there was nothing he could do any more, there. Instead, he watched the responses of the guests. Qin Cangye was angry and troubled, both, probably knowing Jin Guangshan well enough to know how likely the accusation was. Jiang Wanyin and Wei Wuxian shared a tense frown, eyes flicking now and then toward Jin Guangshan; beside them, their sister sat dangerously still. Across the way, Jin Zixuan stared at the fight, openly shocked. He Su and Nie Mingjue both looked sternly approving of the duel, while Yao Chenzhuo and Ouyang Qiang both looked stunned. Sun Jingfei and Yu Qingzhao whispered urgently together, frowning at Jin Guangshan, while Tang Guotin and Xu Jinhai looked like they might cheer Jin Zixun on.

Jin Guangshan himself sat almost as still as Jiang Yanli, and Meng Yao saw calculation in his eyes.

Jin Zixun forced Pan Daiyu back, and back again, and finally smashed her sword out of her grip entirely. He laughed again, breathless, yanking her in close with his sword poised beside her throat. “Try to strike me now, and you’ll kill yourself, too! Did you really think—”

Silver flashed and his words cut off with a choked sound.

Ignoring his arm still locked around her neck, Pan Daiyu made another tight summoning gesture, and the point of her sword emerged from his chest, sliding past her ribs without more than a hair’s breadth to spare. “Did you forget who I am?” she asked through bared teeth. “I can hit a bird flying above the clouds. It doesn’t matter how close I am to you.”

She wrenched away from him and he fell heavily to the floor, blood starting to stain his robes back and front.

And Jin Guangshan shot up to his feet, pointing a trembling hand at her. “Murderer! Right here in my own hall!”

Meng Yao’s focus sharpened as the fading roar turned into uproar. Wei Wuxian’s head was coming up with a darker look than Meng Yao had seen in months, and neither Jiang Wanyin nor Wangji looked inclined to stop him this time. Yu Qingzhao was scowling and He Su drawing breath to argue, but Qin Cangye was nodding, whatever doubts he might have set aside to support his ally—Qin-furen must have chosen not to speak. Ouyang Qiang was looking to Qin for his own cue, and several of the other small sects likewise. That was a dangerous rallying point. If enough of the minor sects gathered with Jin, against the other three major sects, Jin Guangshan could present himself once again as one who stood against the tyranny of brute force.

And Pan Daiyu said nothing, standing straight and still in the middle of the hall, apparently satisfied to give her life for her vengeance. Jin Guangshan’s eyes were gloating over his scowling mouth.

Meng Yao looked over at Xichen, finding Xichen’s eyes already on him, questioning, and he bit his lip. “She won’t speak on her own behalf, not in time, and before long it will be dangerous for the major sects to override the accord of the smaller ones forming around Qin,” he whispered. “Should I speak?” There were, after all, a number of other crimes by Jin that he could lay open for the other sects to see, though he didn’t look forward to the results if it wasn’t enough to take Jin Guangshan all the way down.

Xichen’s gaze turned inward for a breath, and then he shook his head. “No. There was righteousness in the path she chose, if not a very measured kind. I would not have us look away from that. This time, let me.” Gathering himself, he rose and stepped forward into the hall.

Just as when Xichen had faced down his uncle’s ire, his bearing became silently imposing, demanding attention without a word spoken. One head after another turned toward him, and voices fell in face of Xichen’s grave quiet. When there was finally silence, he bent to pick up the black sheath that had fallen beside his table when Pan Daiyu cast it aside, and paced slowly, gracefully forward to stand beside her. By now the silence was so deep that his soft words carried clearly, when he spoke.

“Jin Zixun still lives.” He held out the sheath to Pan Daiyu. “Pan-guniang, will you sheathe your sword again and stand down, so that he may be tended to?”

She hesitated, clearly not having expected this, but finally gave him a small, respectful bow. “I am satisfied. I will stand down, Lan-zongzhu.” She made a sharp circling gesture, summoning her sword with a little wrench to free it of Jin Zixun’s body, and stooped to wipe it, fastidiously, on the hem of his robes before sheathing it. Jin Zixun groaned faintly.

At that, Jin Guangshan, who had been caught in the same silence as everyone else, drew a quick breath and started to gesture sharply to the Jin attendants. “Seize—”

Xichen turned his head to look at him.

He made no other gesture, but the cool, distant look in his eyes cut off Jin Guangshan’s words like a garrote. Meng Yao shivered, feeling the weight of Xichen’s presence and power sweep the room like a ripple over water. He could see one sect master after another sit back under the force of it, either cowed or respectful, each one remembering exactly who stood before them.

The Master of Lan.

The Lord of Wild Brilliance.

The guiding hand of the Sunshot Campaign, and the one who was served by both Lan Wangji and Meng Yao himself.

Finally, Jin Guangshan sank back into his seat, jaw tight.

“Mingjue-xiong,” Xichen said at last, not looking away. “Will it please you to see Pan-guniang to safety so this matter may be discussed with all due consideration?”

“Yes, of course,” Nie Mingjue rumbled, pushing up to his feet. He gave Pan Daiyu a short bow and swept a hand toward the door. She returned it silently and walked ahead of him out of the hall, back straight, head held high. Meng Yao observed with some satisfaction that Nie Mingjue’s hard smile of approval made Tang Guotin flinch back as they swept past.

“Now perhaps Jin Zixun’s injury can be seen to.” The very mildness of Xichen’s words was cutting, and pointed up the fact that Jin Guangshan’s first action had not been to see to his injured nephew.

Jin Zixuan shot to his feet, face as white as the tile of the room’s floor. “I’ll take him.” He hurried to turn his cousin over, careless of the blood that soaked into the knees of his robes. One of the Jin cultivators came to help him lift Jin Zixun, not hesitating though her shoulders hunched a bit under Jin Guangshan’s glare. Meng Yao noticed that the carved jade of Jiang Yanli’s expression softened just a bit, watching. She still favored Jin Zixuan, then.

Xichen stepped aside for them to take Jin Xizun out of the hall and directed a brief, graceful bow at Jin Guangshan. “Jin-zongzhu. While the end may have been marred by these serious matters, this gathering has been a fine opportunity to meet in peace and renew our friendships. I thank you for hosting it.”

Meng Yao did not think it was his imagination that the quiet weight of authority Xichen had gathered around himself lent his words the air of a ruler thanking one of his nobles. He didn’t think Jin Guangshan missed that, either, given the way he was grinding his teeth when he returned Xichen’s bow. Meng Yao reached over to tap two fingers on Wangji’s table, drawing his attention, and both of them were on their feet when Xichen reached them, with the kind of attentive obedience that would solidify the sense of Xichen’s ascendency, among those watching.

“Let us take our leave for the evening,” Xichen said softly, and glanced down at Huaisang with a tiny smile. “Will you walk back to the guest quarter with us, Nie-gongzi?”

Huaisang looked up at him for a long moment before rising and bowing deeply to Xichen. “I would be pleased to; thank you Lan-zongzhu.”

Meng Yao bent his head to hide a smile of pleasure that Huaisang would support their move this way.

Wei Wuxian popped up to his feet, too, and offered Xichen a courteous bow, almost as deep as Huaisang’s. “What he said. Thank you.”

Xichen’s mouth quirked. “How should my sect make any claim to righteousness if I stood aside and let nothing more than hasty emotion decide this situation? I believe ‘uphold the value of justice’ is one of the few rules you and Wangji have not debated over, after all.”

Wei Wuxian’s serious look turned into a bright grin before he looked down at his brother and sister. “Shijie, do you want to…?”

Jiang Yanli rose, smoothing her robes around her. “Jin-gongzi must be very troubled by this.”

Meng Yao took a long, slow breath, impressed all over again and remembering exactly where his first lesson in immoveable poise had come from. If she meant to fan Jin Zixuan’s disquiet, she might be able to use this lever to separate Jin Zixuan from his father’s plans and policies. Possibly even to support Jin Zixuan to take control of the sect. “I believe he will be,” he agreed, meeting her eyes. “He’s never had occasion, before, to think about the uglier things his cousin does.” Or who might have ordered or permitted them.

She nodded faintly and held out a hand to Jiang Wanyin, who promptly took it on his arm. “A-Cheng, will you escort me to say good evening to Jin-furen?”

He agreed, glancing back and forth between them a bit warily. Meng Yao left it to his sister to explain the power base she intended to build in Jin. Wei Wuxian sighed heavily, apparently resigned to whatever part of that he’d caught, and trailed after them.

As they left the hall in the wake of the Jiangs, Huaisang strolled at Meng Yao’s side. “So,” he murmured, furled fan gesturing toward Xichen for just a moment. “Chief Cultivator?”

Meng Yao smiled. “I think so, yes.”

Huaisang flicked his fan open with a graceful turn of his wrist. “All right. I can support that.”

“Thank you,” Meng Yao said softly, letting himself relax into the knowledge of what powerful support he had these days. Once again, he gave silent thanks that he had come into Lan’s hands, rather than Jin’s.

Everything had followed from that.

Flipside

Wei Wuxian trailed Jiang Cheng back into their rooms, having dropped Shijie off for whatever discussion she was about to have with Jin-furen. Quite possibly about how she was going to take over the Jin sect, given the steely glint under her smile. Shijie was going to be occupied for a while, was the point. Which meant now was probably the time for Wei Wuxian to say something he’d been avoiding.

He didn’t want to. Everything was fine, now, why did he have to say anything? Even thinking that, though, immediately brought the memory of Qing-jie’s glare to the front of his mind. Even worse, these days it was joined by the memory of Lan Zhan’s troubled look. He didn’t push or nag, just looked quietly concerned, and that was worse. Wei Wuxian slid down cross-legged by the guest room table and flopped across it with a faint groan.

“Did you eat too much?” Jiang Cheng needled, over his head, and he huffed a soft laugh.

“Didn’t really have time to.” He pushed himself upright with a sigh. “Jiang Cheng. There’s something I need to tell you.”

The rustle of his brother getting out of his formal over-robes stopped abruptly. “Is this about Lan Wangji? Or about whatever Wen Qing has been working on?”

Wei Wuxian couldn’t help snorting. “I am never talking about Lan Zhan to you, don’t worry.”

Jiang Cheng came back to sit on the other side of the table, face tight with worry. “What is it, then? What happened? Why didn’t you say anything? I had to get some idea of how serious whatever-it-is was from Zewu-jun!”

Wei Wuxian winced a bit. “Sorry?” Jiang Cheng huffed at him.

“Just tell me now.”

Deep breath. Start at the easy end. “So, you saw me use my sword today. The reason I didn’t before is… I couldn’t.”

“You couldn’t? Why? Wait, but if that was the reason… all that…” He could see Jiang Cheng adding up time—more and more time, all the way back to their reunion over their mutual prey. As soon as he had that remembered thought, tinged with the darkness of ghostly rage, he pushed it away. It was getting easier, these days. “That was why?” Jiang Cheng’s voice had gone thin with horror, hands utterly still on the table before him. “All that time, you were… because you couldn’t…?”

“Mm.” Wei Wuxian looked down, stomach twisting tight as he came closer to the bit he really didn’t want to say. “In the Burial Mounds… They were drowning in resentful energy. I had to figure out some way to control it.” He smiled, so tilted it felt more like a snarl. “I figured out very quickly what talismans worked and what didn’t. But that still wasn’t enough.” He shrugged, examining the grain of the table’s wood, tracing it with a finger the way he’d traced the paths of life through himself, to redirect the rage of the Burial Mounds. “All energy needs a channel.” He looked up at the hissed intake of breath, and winced again at the shock and alarm on Jiang Cheng’s face. He shouldn’t have said that much. This was why he hadn’t wanted to start talking at all!

“The Burial Mounds,” Jiang Cheng repeated. “They really did cast you in there? But if it was then, was it…” He reached across the table to catch Wei Wuxian’s shoulder, hand tight with far-too-late panic. “Was it Wen Zhuliu? Ge!”

Wen Wuxian’s breath caught and his eyes went helplessly wide; Jiang Cheng hadn’t called him that in years. “I…” He swallowed hard. It would be so easy to say yes. It would answer all the questions; it would make sense, given what Jiang Cheng thought he knew.

He couldn’t do it. Not with that urgent, half terrified ge ringing in his ears.

He closed his eyes and took a deep breath and let it out, and at the bottom of it he said, very softly, “No. It was before that.”

Jiang Cheng eased back just a little, frowning. “Before…? But you weren’t injured while we hid. Were you?” The last words were low and uncertain, and Wei Wuxian reached up to take Jiang Cheng’s hand from his shoulder and fold it between his own hands.

“I’m okay, now,” he said firmly, squeezing the hand between his. “I need you to remember that. Okay?” Jiang Cheng nodded slowly. “Okay. So.” Another deep breath. “When you went up that mountain, it wasn’t Baoshan-sanren you met. It was Wen Qing. She transplanted my Golden Core into you.”

Jiang Cheng stared at him, shaking his head slowly as if the words didn’t make sense. “…what?”

“I found a theory in one of her medical texts. She worked out how to do it, in practice. And when Song Lan mentioned what had been done to restore his eyes, I thought… well, if I really did know where she was, Baoshan-sanren probably would have helped you.” Wei Wuxian tried a smile.

“You… She…” Jiang Cheng jerked his hand out of Wei Wuxian’s to press his palm just over the arch of his ribs. “That’s not possible.” White was showing all the way around his eyes, now, and Wei Wuxian patted at the air soothingly.

“Well having someone re-constitute your Golden Core in three days is pretty impossible too, isn’t it? And Wen Qing really is a genius at what she does. I mean, she healed me again, too.” Probably best if he kept that point at the front of their minds.

“But how… I mean, why… If she could do that, then why would you even think of doing something so…?” Jiang Cheng shoved his fingers through his hair, disordering it thoroughly, starting to look panicky again.

“Because your core was destroyed.” Wei Wuxian flatly recited the facts Wen Qing had explained, back then. “It was burned away, and your meridians were cauterized. She had to cut things away before the graft took, and she said it only worked in the end because my Golden Core was as strong as it is. She thinks maybe my willingness had something to do with it, too.”

“Willing?!” Jiang Cheng’s voice is rising. “Willing to be… to be mutilated? Why…?”

Wei Wuxian reached over to catch Jiang Cheng’s wrists, the way he used to do a lot once he’d realized how easily Jiang Cheng could hurt himself in a temper. “Anything to save you,” he said, low and steady, “even if it costs my life. Isn’t that what your mother said?”

“She shouldn’t have!” Jiang Cheng yelled, and both of them stopped still, maybe equally startled by the words. Jiang Cheng was shaking, in his hands. “She shouldn’t have,” he whispered, choked. “I heard that, in my head, when they were about to find you. It’s why I went, to try to draw them off. And look how that ended!” The last sentence was nearly a scream, and Wei Wuxian scrambled around the table, wide-eyed, to haul Jiang Cheng into his arms, holding him tight as Jiang Cheng broke into harsh sobs. Jiang Cheng’s hands fisted tight in his robes even as they pushed against him.

Wei Wuxian stared blindly at the wall, over Jiang Cheng’s bent head, remembering. He had almost been found, hadn’t he? Right before they ran off after someone else. And then he’d come back to their rooms and found Jiang Cheng gone. “A-Cheng,” he sighed softly, since Shijie wasn’t here to say it, and held him closer when another rough sob tore out of him. “Thank you,” he whispered against Jiang Cheng’s now very messy hair. “And see? She wasn’t that wrong. That’s just what families do for each other, isn’t it? So you saved me, and then I saved you, and Wen Qing probably saved both of us, so I guess you really do need to get it together and marry her, huh?” Jiang Cheng pummeled his shoulder with a wordless sound that was finally more embarrassed than wrecked. Wei Wuxian smiled. “I’m glad that my strength can serve you. It’s what I promised, isn’t it?”

Jiang Cheng scrubbed his sleeve roughly over his face and sat straighter, scowling at him. “That isn’t what you promised at all! You promised you’d be with me. So…” he poked Wei Wuxian roughly in the chest—or rather, just below the chest. “You’d better be recovering.”

Wei Wuxian laughed softy and took Jiang Cheng’s chin to wipe his face dry, a bit more gently. Jiang Cheng let him, worried eyes fixed on his. “I am. Promise.” And then he grinned. “But you do know, right, that if you really want me to be with you always, you’re going to have to get used to having Lan Zhan at Lotus Pier all the time?”

Jiang Cheng choked, looking completely horrified in a very different way this time, and when Shijie returned it was to find the two of them throwing pillows and blankets at each other.

And even though Jiang Cheng made him explain it all again, to Shijie, the warmth of knowing what Jiang Cheng had done for him, as family, burned deep and steady in his chest.

Becoming the Phoenix – Nine

“Xiongzhang.”

At the sound of Wangji’s voice, Meng Yao looked up from his writing table at one side of the sect master’s receiving room (which he still, months later, had to remind himself was now his receiving room as well). The columns of figures that told of the Lan sect’s once more increasing solvency—thanks in part to the very material gratitude of a handful of ex-Lanling merchants—were very pleasing, but Wangji was a rare visitor to his brother’s rooms. Xichen, at his own table, was giving his brother a welcoming smile. Wangji hesitated on noticing Meng Yao, but finally came all the way in.

“Xiaoxiong,” he added, nodding to Meng Yao, and turned promptly back to Xichen. “I would like to send an… invitation.”

Meng Yao didn’t even need the hesitation over the right term to know who this was about, though he did very privately think that ‘demand’ or possibly ‘kidnapping’ might be closer to what Wangji actually wanted to do. He had not been taking well to the slow pace of Wei Wuxian’s recovery, in Wen Qing’s hands, nor to his own restriction to the Cloud Recesses after his first visit to Lotus Pier had managed to last over two weeks.

“An invitation to Wei-gongzi?” Xichen asked, looking both indulgent and cautious. “We can ask, of course, though from what you described of Lotus Pier after your visit, they all seem quite busy with rebuilding.”

“I would still offer,” Wangji said, low, looking down in a way that Meng Yao was learning to read as stubbornness.

“All right,” Xichen said softly, and gave Wangji an encouraging smile when he looked up. “I’ll take him your invitation.”

Wangji gave him a tiny, relieved smile and left with a lighter step.

Meng Yao looked after him thoughtfully. “Why is your uncle so very set against Wei-gongzi? His method of cultivation during Sunshot was unorthodox, certainly, but if this is simply about pride in the orthodox method I would have expected him to encourage Wangji’s efforts to purify Wei-gongzi’s qi. Instead, he practically tears Wangji away at every opportunity.”

Xichen sighed. “It’s a bit of a long story.” When Meng Yao only raised his brows, expectant, his mouth quirked and he laid aside the accounts he was reading. “All right.” He stood and came to offer his hands to draw Meng Yao to his feet as well, leading the way into their sitting room. Meng Yao waited patiently while Xichen made tea and poured for them both.

“Partly, it’s simply that Wei Wuxian is the son of Cangse-sanren, and she always gave very short shrift to Uncle’s sense of propriety.” A corner of Xichen’s mouth tilted up as he contemplated the cup between his fingers. “Wei-gongzi seems to be truly the child of his mother’s spirit, from what I’ve heard of her. Very intent on the good of those around him, but with a far… broader concept of acceptable tactics to make that happen than Uncle is comfortable with.”

Meng Yao sipped his tea slowly, savoring the depth of the leaves’ virtue as he considered. “That isn’t all, though.” Distaste for a wild and disorderly manner would not, he thought, drive the utter inflexibility he’d seen Lan Qiren show Wangji, on this matter.

“No,” Xichen said softly. “It isn’t.” He took a slow breath and reached over to lay his hand on Meng Yao’s. Meng Yao turned his hand up to lace their fingers together and watched the way Xichen’s shoulders relaxed.

“Your mother,” he guessed. He’d heard nothing about her, in his time here. Not a word about the last sect master’s partner. So much silence surrounded her that it had drawn his attention.

Xichen looked up at him with a painfully tilted smile. “You see through these things so easily, my heart. I… can’t even say that I know that much with certainty. She died when Wangji and I were still very young. What I remember was that we were only allowed to see her once a month. That she lived apart from our father, though in seclusion just as he was. I remember that she never spoke to us about cultivation, about our studies or her own.”

“She was… imprisoned here?” Meng Yao asked, carefully. Because Xichen hadn’t said that, but it was hard to read what he had said in any other way.

Xichen nodded, looking down at the cup he was slowly turning in circles rather than drinking from. “She killed our father’s teacher. Rather than allow any of the clan to seek retribution, he decreed seclusion for them both.”

Meng Yao frowned. “How did she come to kill his teacher?”

“I don’t know.” Xichen looked up at his faint sound of disbelief, smiling wryly. “Some of the things Uncle has said make me think her primary method of cultivation lay in music. I do remember that she had many instruments in her rooms, and she could play all of them. So she may have come to Gusu in the first place as a scholar of musical methodology. There might have been a disagreement over the proper path of cultivation; there might even have been a formal duel. But I don’t know. Uncle has always refused to speak on the subject, and it isn’t recorded in any of the sect chronicles.”

“And now he sees Wangji falling in love with a man who also follows an alternate method of cultivation?” Meng Yao hadn’t thought Lan Qiren was quite that dogmatic, but he might have misjudged the strength of the man’s feelings.

“More than that,” Xichen said quietly. “The consensus of those who were there is that my father fell in love with her when they first met, but that she did not love him. When they first met, I thought Wei Wuxian was drawn to Wangji—at least as much as Wangji was to him. But since the campaign, it’s seemed different. I believe Uncle sees Wangji pursuing someone who does not love him, pursuing someone of unorthodox cultivation and trying to aid him, and remembers what our parents came to: separated and isolated, a source of grief to the clan.”

Meng Yao snorted, which at least made Xichen blink and look up, startled out of his melancholy. “At whose side did Wei Wuxian spend every engagement he fought in? Who did he protect, as fiercely as he protected his brother, during those battles? Who is the only person he accepted aid and healing of, at least until Wen Qing almost literally pinned him to his bed?”

Xichen’s expression had lightened as he spoke. “I suppose that would be Wangji, wouldn’t it?” Meng Yao looked pointedly at Xichen’s cup until Xichen smiled and took a sip.

“I won’t say that his time in the Burial Mounds, or wherever he was, didn’t strip Wei-gongzi’s concern for others down to bedrock,” Meng Yao allowed, remembering the starkness of the deal he and Wei Wuxian had made. “At the very first, perhaps it truly was only his brother and sister he could care for. But he re-learned quickly, from what I saw.” He tightened his hold on Xichen’s hand, still clasped with his. “If you trust in the clarity of my sight, trust in that.” More softly, still a little shy to say it out loud, he added, “Wangji is my own family, now. I would not abide a threat to him.”

Xichen reached out and gathered Meng Yao into his arms. “Thank you, my heart.” He hesitated and added, “Would you come with me, to speak to Wei-gongzi? I would value your insight.”

Meng Yao snuggled into his chest, warmed straight through by the knowledge of Xichen’s trust in him. “Of course.”


This was Meng Yao’s first visit to Lotus Pier, and he had no memory of what it had been like in the past to compare to, but he still thought the air of urgency about the place was probably new. Lotus Pier’s very construction contrasted that air, open and gracious, as free-flowing as the river it overlooked. That matched well with what he knew, second hand, of the previous sect master.

He had to wonder, watching Jiang Wanyin bark corrections as he stalked among the disciples drilling in their sword forms in the first courtyard, how at home in this place the current sect master really felt.

Xichen thanked the very junior disciple who had guided them, and smiled after the boy as he went skipping easily through his seniors to tug on Jiang Wanyin’s sleeve. “I’m glad some of the sect’s children escaped the slaughter,” Xichen said softly.

“I’ve heard that the merchants who favor the Jiang sect’s own pier for selling at took many of them and hid them, when the attack came,” Meng Yao murmured, “though no one survived who knows who first ordered them away.”

“Yunmeng Jiang has always attracted great talent to themselves,” Xichen said, just loud enough for the approaching Jiang Wanyin to hear. The young sect master’s rather hard expression softened into a pleased smile, and Meng Yao had to marvel all over again at how effortlessly Xichen could gentle any situation.

“You are kind to say so, Lan-zongzhu,” Jiang Wanyin said, exchanging bows with them. As he led them inward, Meng Yao kept a running count of people in his head, brows rising as it ticked higher.

“The speed at which Jiang is rebuilding is impressive,” he remarked once they were settled, not in the Jiang formal receiving room, but in a pavilion beside a large lotus pool, a gesture of friendship that had set Xichen smiling. “Of course, I would expect nothing else of an undertaking Jiang-guniang has set her hand to.”

Tightness flickered across Jiang Wanyin’s face, catching Meng Yao’s attention before Jiang Wanyin managed to smooth it away. “My sister has been a great help. I can only be thankful that she’s chosen to remain with us and aid this work.”

Xichen smiled. “And your brother as well, I’m sure, though I hope you will be willing to release him for just a little while.”

The tightness descended much more firmly this time, long enough for Meng Yao to identify it as anger. “Wei Wuxian spends much of his time with the Wen survivors under our protection.” The flat tone also said that this did not please Jiang Wanyin at all. Because of the tiny branch of Wen themselves? If anyone had a right to resent the whole clan, it was Yunmeng Jiang, but this lot were both non-combatants and also the people of Wen Qing, the one Wen who Jiang Wanyin was beholden to—possibly even had feelings for, if he’d been going around exchanging tokens with her. Was it because he felt Wei Wuxian wasn’t doing enough with the rest of the sect? Or perhaps because Wei Wuxian couldn’t yet do more, due to whatever stubborn injury Wen Qing had already spent over four months working on? Meng Yao could believe that; he’d had a nightmare or two about just what kind of wound Wei Wuxian might have received in the Burial Mounds that a physician of Wen Qing’s stature found such slow going to mend.

“Then perhaps this is a good time for our invitation, after all,” he essayed, hoping to find out whether he was right. “Some uninterrupted time in Wen Qing’s care could return him to you in better condition for more vigorous tasks.”

Yes, this time he thought he saw a flicker of hope tangled up with the anger. “That would be… desirable.” Jiang Wanyin’s hands eased and spread open against his knees again, slowly, as if he had to make them. Meng Yao recalled some of the things he’d heard about Yu Ziyuan and wondered if perhaps Jiang Wanyin had inherited her temper. That would not be an easy burden for a leader to bear. “Is it an invitation to the Cloud Recesses you bring, then?”

Xichen nodded, his whole bearing open and unpressing. “With your permission, yes.”

Jiang Wanyin let his breath out slowly, eyes distant for a long moment before he nodded decisively. “You have it.” When his mouth twisted, this time, it was more wry than angry. “If he’ll go.”

Xichen laughed under his breath. “Perhaps I shall say first that it’s Wangji’s invitation, and not mention Wen-guniang.”

Jiang Wanyin’s snort was clearly agreement. He led them back through the walkways until they came across another junior disciple, who was drafted to guide them. The girl perked up at the prospect, only to wilt when Jiang Wanyin said sternly, “And then back here. No playing with Wen Yuan until you’re done with practice.”

“Yes, Zongzhu,” she sighed, which made Jiang Wanyin roll his eyes and stalk off muttering under his breath.

“Thank you for guiding us,” Xichen told her, straight-faced, though it had taken him a minute to regain his composure.

She gave them a sunny smile. “Of course, Lan-zongzhu! Are you here to see Wen-xiong’s clan? Or to see Da-shixiong?”

She chatted happily about what sounded like a new settlement the Wen survivors were making at one inland corner of the Jiang lands, all the way out of the compound and across fields where marsh-grasses gave way to meadows and increasingly large groves of slim tree-trunks. When they emerged at last, past a line of willow trees, Meng Yao saw the beginnings, not of the auxiliary compound he’d been half expecting, but a small village. A handful of little houses were already raised, and the foundations of a few more laid. Two small fields were cleared out of the wild meadow around them, though he couldn’t for the life of him guess what the people in them were growing; he’d grown up as a city boy, before his entry into the cultivation world.

“Da-shixiong!” Their guide yelled, waving enthusiastically. To Meng Yao’s startlement, one of the people working in the fields straightened up and waved back.

Xichen folded his hands in his sleeves and watched as the First Disciple of Jiang, dirt smeared and with his sleeves rolled up, strolled through the tall grass to greet them. “Wei-gongzi. I hadn’t thought Wen-guniang’s restrictions on your cultivation activities were quite this comprehensive.” To Meng Yao’s ear, Xichen was both teasing and also truly disturbed.

Wei Wuxian smiled, and Meng Yao noted with a bit of alarm just how little of it reached his eyes. “It’s work that needs doing.”

Meng Yao drifted a step forward and in front of Xichen, with a surface smile of his own. “I beg your pardon for interrupting, then. Do you have time to speak now, or should we return later?”

Wei Wuxian stilled, looking hard at him, and then huffed out a breath, arms unfolding loosely. “Do you think I forgot our deal?” he demanded, far more genuinely exasperated, now, and Meng Yao relaxed in turn.

“Forgive me.” He offered a brief bow. “I wasn’t sure you would still consider it in force.”

“A-Yao?” When Meng Yao glanced up, his husband was looking down at him with both brows raised. He ducked his head a little, looking aside from those questioning eyes.

“Just a little… personal agreement,” he murmured, and heard Xichen sigh. The hand that came to rest on his shoulder was gentle, though, and he relaxed under it, knowing Xichen wouldn’t press.

A snort of laughter made him look up to see Wei Wuxian watching them with a crooked, rueful smile. “Come have a drink, then,” he said, and turned to lead them toward the largest of the completed houses. Inside, Wen Ning looked up with a bright smile from the pile of herbs he was carefully sorting.

“Wei-gongzi, are you done with the yellow hemp seedlings already?” He got considerably more flustered when he saw the two of them behind Wei Wuxian, and stood hastily, brushing away stems and dead leaves from the table. “Lan-zongzhu! And, um, Meng-gongzi? Won’t you please sit down?” He bustled over to the cabinets and took down a set of simple black cups and started to pour for everyone before hesitating. “Ah, I’m sorry; the Lan sect doesn’t drink wine, do you?”

Xichen smiled up at him, easy and reassuring. “It’s quite all right, Wen-gongzi. I’m grateful for your hospitality.” There was a sparkle of mischief in his eyes, as he lifted his cup in a courteous toast to his hosts, a sparkle Meng Yao recognized from nights when Xichen decided to surprise him. He buried his smirk in his own cup.

Wei Wuxian’s eyes widened as Xichen drained his cup and took another deep sip as soon as it was refilled. “Zewu-jun, you have a remarkable alcohol tolerance, considering Lan Zhan’s.” A ghost of the jesting Meng Yao remembered somewhat from the summer lectures they’d both attended played around Wei Wuxian’s smile. “Don’t tell me that you’re like me—sneaking alcohol into the Cloud Recesses?” No sooner had he said it, though, then he seemed to catch himself back, that dark distance shuttering his eyes again. “Excuse me. That was… inappropriate.”

Meng Yao paused halfway through his own swallow, shocked. He’d never heard Wei Wuxian speak so hesitantly, not before Sunshot and not during it.

“Not at all.” Xichen’s smile was as gentle as it had been when he spoke to the Jiang sect children. “I’m actually using my Golden Core to cleanse the effect of the alcohol immediately. Essentially, I’m drinking fruit juice.”

Wei Wuxian relaxed again, at least somewhat. Now Meng Yao was looking for it, he could see the persistent stiffness in how Wei Wuxian held himself, as if to keep from pulling at some deep scar. Wei Wuxian laughed softly, though, and even shook a finger at Xichen in mock scolding. “Truly astonishing, that Lan-zongzhu himself gets around the rules this way.”

Xichen set his cup down and folded his hands. “To be truthful,” he said quietly, “it was my hope that your friendship could help Wangji think more about which rules are truly important and which should should be minded in spirit rather than in precise word. I believe that has been the case, and I’m glad for it.” His voice was soft, almost coaxing. “Is it only my imagination that leads me to think Wangji’s friendship has also brought you some ease?”

Wei Wuxian leaned back from the table, fully present again and also starting to look flustered. “I… Zewu-jun, what do you you…” His gaze flickered toward Meng Yao, wide and questioning. Meng Yao only shrugged. He suspected Wei Wuxian had been braced for quizzing by a disapproving relative; given Lan Qiren’s behavior, Meng Yao couldn’t blame him. He was fairly sure, though, that Wei Wuxian’s unusual hesitance had actually set off Xichen’s urge to guide and protect, and he could testify from experience that when that happened, you were well advised to not fight it. “Yes?” Wei Wuxian finally said, as if he thought he might be getting himself into trouble by saying it.

Xichen’s smile had a satisfied curl to it, and Meng Yao couldn’t help being amused by how clearly Xichen favored that match, despite his worries. “I’m glad his regard for you is returned. Wangji has asked leave to invite you to stay for some time in the Cloud Recesses, since he is not currently permitted to journey to you. We would be pleased to have you.”

“There’s a great deal that needs to be done, here,” Wei Wuxian protested, though his eyes slid aside as he did. Meng Yao was starting to worry about the shape he was seeing in the things Wei Wuxian avoided, and that Jiang Wanyin was upset over.

“You should go.”

All three of them started a little and looked around to find Wen Ning watching Wei Wuxian with a serious look.

“Well, but then who’s going to look after all of you?” Wei Wuxian demanded, clearly teasing but with enough genuine protectiveness at the edges of his voice that Meng Yao would not have wished to cross him about it.

“I can look after our work, here, and Jiang-guniang will make sure we’re all right,” Wen Ning said earnestly. “Wei-gongzi. You should go.”

Meng Yao noted that Wen Ning probably knew what was wrong with Wei Wuxian. And, as Wei Wuxian chewed on his lip but finally nodded, slowly, that genuine concern for him seemed to be the weak point in Wei Wuxian’s general intransigence.

No wonder Wangji could get to him.

He also noted, as Wei Wuxian said temporary goodbyes all around, that he was clearly both liked and trusted by this little surviving branch of the Wen clan. When Meng Yao thought about just how much nonsense Wei Wuxian had had to put up with from the other sects, during Sunshot, even with Meng Yao managing the situation to keep everyone pointed in the same direction, he figured he had another piece to the puzzle of why the brilliant First Disciple of Jiang was hiding away here and planting medicinal herbs, regardless of how little his brother liked it.

“Wangji will be pleased to see you,” Xichen remarked as the three of them retraced the path through groves and fields to Lotus Pier proper.

“Seems like the Cloud Recesses is full of people who want to fix me, these days.” It wasn’t an entirely friendly comment.

Xichen gave Wei Wuxian a troubled glance, brows drawing in. “Do you not—”

Meng Yao caught as casually as he could at Xichen’s wrist and squeezed, hidden by their flowing sleeves. When Xichen fell silent he said, quickly enough to cover that silence, “Would you not like to have Suibian’s company again? Even when I’m working with Zaisheng, I find I like to have Hensheng near.” He smiled sidelong at Wei Wuxian, inviting him into the circle of people who had to deal with more than one spiritual tool. “Or is your Chenqing jealous?”

“I don’t know.”

Meng Yao stiffened at the alarming implications of a cultivator uncertain of his own weapon, but Wei Wuxian shrugged as if he could shake them off. “I’m sure Shijie’s seen that you have rooms ready. I’ll see you tomorrow.” The moment they set foot over the doorsill of Lotus Pier, he veered off, taking a long drink from the jar of wine that hadn’t left his hand except to be exchanged for another, all afternoon.

Meng Yao clung to Xichen’s sleeve, trying to breathe evenly, until Xichen wrapped an arm gently around him. “Let us find someone to guide us, hm?” he murmured, and Meng Yao nodded silently. He didn’t speak until they were settled in guest rooms, and Xichen took both his hands, peering at him with concern.

“A-Yao? What is it?”

He stepped closer, burrowing into Xichen’s chest until he was gathered in and tucked safe under Xichen’s chin. “He isn’t doing the things his brother thinks he should,” he whispered. “He doesn’t think he can do them. He can’t connect with his own spiritual tools. Months of treatments from Wen Qing, and he still can’t. Xichen, I think,” he swallowed hard, “I think he’s lost his spiritual strength. Almost all of it.”

He felt the shock of the thought run through Xichen. “But,” Xichen protested, voice as low as his, “all through the Sunshot campaign, all the things he did…”

“Without his sword,” Meng Yao said, low, increasingly sure he was right. “By music. By talisman. By the Yin Tiger Seal, and he collapsed for days after using that at strength.”

“All of that.” Xichen’s voice was a little wondering. “All of that without his—” Abruptly Xichen pulled in a harsh breath, arms tightening around Meng Yao, and finished, “his Golden Core. It was Wen Chao’s people who attacked Lotus Pier. And one of his retainers was…”

“Wen Zhuliu,” Meng Yao finished in a whisper. “Oh.” And then he frowned. “But then why keep this secret, even when it spurs fear in the other sects?”

“The Yunmeng Jiang sect was almost destroyed,” Xichen said gravely, one hand lifting to stroke Meng Yao’s hair, protective. “Wei Wuxian and Jiang Wanyin himself are the only two of great strength left. I can hardly fault them for wishing to keep this from the other sects until they are recovered.”

That was it. That was what had been nagging at Meng Yao’s thoughts all this time. “I don’t think Jiang Wanyin knows, himself,” he said, slowly. He felt Xichen draw breath and then let it out without speaking.

“Wei Wuxian,” Xichen finally sighed, with a thread of helpless fondness and a great deal of exasperation. Meng Yao had to agree. He leaned back to look up at Xichen.

“I think we need to say nothing of this, until we know why. Wei-gongzi is,” he hesitated, sorting words, and finally said delicately, “not inclined to permit any interference with his family.”

Xichen smiled, dry and one-sided. “I do remember the shadow of all those things Wangji didn’t say in his report on the death of Wen Chao and Wen Zhuliu. I agree.” He pressed a kiss to Meng Yao’s forehead. “Keep your eye on this for us.”

“I always keep my eye on my allies,” Meng Yao promised, leaning into him.

Xichen laughed softly and lifted a hand to take his chin, thumb stroking gently along the curve of his lower lip. “Because you are another who does not brook interference with what’s his?”

Already rather breathless from his touch, Meng Yao blushed hot.

“That was what your ‘little personal arrangement’ with Wei-gongzi was about, was it not?” Xichen leaned down and kissed him before he could quite formulate an answer, and Meng Yao surrendered with a sigh.

“Yes,” he admitted, against Xichen’s mouth.

“I don’t disapprove,” Xichen murmured, kissing him again, gently. “It relieves me to know my heart is such a capable guardian of our own.”

Meng Yao smiled up at him, helplessly bright and happy with how Xichen valued even this part of him, reaching up to link his hands behind Xichen’s neck. “Yes, Xichen-ge.”

Xichen stroked his hair back, fingers sliding through the loose length of it. “Come to bed, my own?”

The heat of being caught by Xichen, of being seen and known, flared up, and Meng Yao leaned more bonelessly into Xichen’s arms. “Yes, ge-ge,” he purred.

Xichen smiled slowly. “Hm.” He led Meng Yao to their sleeping room and began to undress him, so meticulously careful as he unwound each sash, undid each tie, lifted each layer of robes off Meng Yao’s shoulders that Meng Yao was breathless and blushing over the attention before long. When Xichen pressed him gently down to the bed, he realized Xichen was still almost fully clothed, only his sashes laid aside. His eyes widened as that sense of being laid bare to Xichen rushed back, even more visceral.

“Xichen-ge…” Xichen laid a finger against his lips, hushing him.

“Will you let me have all of you?” he asked softly.

There was only one answer to that. “Yes, ge-ge,” Meng Yao agreed, husky.

Xichen gathered him close, kissing him slow and sure as strong, warm hands stroked over his skin. Between kisses, he murmured to Meng Yao, “My dearest. My brilliant one. So fierce and so relentless. As dangerous with words in your mouth as I could ever be with a sword in my hand.”

Meng Yao clung to him, flushed and wide-eyed, feeling as though Xichen’s words were a hand caressing the very heart of him. “Xichen…!”

Xichen slid a hand into his hair, drawing his head back, and kissed down his bared throat. “Never doubt that I love that sharpness and passion in you,” he murmured against Meng Yao’s skin, and Meng Yao arched up against him with the sweet thrill the words sent through him, all the hotter for being caught in Xichen’s hands like this.

“Xichen,” he whispered, fingers wound tight in the soft silk of Xichen’s robes.

“Fear nothing, my heart,” Xichen said softly. “I know your nature, and I love it.”

“Xichen!” It only took feeling long fingers wrap around his cock for all the heat and need built up in him to break loose and rush through him in a flood wave, wild and unstoppable, shaking him apart in Xichen’s arms. Xichen held him close, fingers sliding gently through his hair as Meng Yao’s body and senses slowly quieted, and he lay against Xichen’s chest, a little stunned. Finally he whispered, “Truly?”

Xichen pressed a soft kiss to his forehead. “Truly.” He smiled down at Meng Yao. “You’ve shown more of yourself to me than I think you realize, sometimes.” His hand slid down the bare line of Meng Yao’s back, slow and gentle. “I wanted you to know it.”

Meng Yao couldn’t help laughing, burying his head in Xichen’s shoulder for a long moment. “I love it when you do this,” he admitted, at last. Xichen was so gentle in most things, so deliberately gentle, and yet he had a streak of implacability if pressed. Really, you only had to look at the man’s spiritual weapons to see it: the new moon and the cracked ice. Elegant and fine, yes, but also concealment and danger. Sometimes he didn’t know why more people didn’t notice.

But that was why they fit so well.

He snuggled down into Xichen’s arms and the drift of Xichen’s robes around them both, content to be known down to his heart by this man.


When the three of them took their leave, late the next morning, Meng Yao was interested to note that, at some point in the intervening time, Wei Wuxian and Jiang Wanyin seemed to have somewhat reconciled. They were standing close again, the almost constant touching that he remembered from before the campaign making an appearance again as Wei Wuxian admonished his brother to be good, and not to frown so much his face stuck that way, and to not make any of the senior disciples cry, at which point Jiang Wanyin lost his fresh sect master’s gravity and whacked Wei Wuxian in the arm. That seemed to be what Wei Wuxian’s goal was, from the way he grinned.

Even Meng Yao couldn’t tell how much of it was an act, which honestly impressed him.

Jiang Yanli approached him and held out a folded and sealed letter. “Meng-gongzi, may I trouble you to bring this to Wen-guniang, when you return?”

Wei Wuxian eyed them, immediately wary. “Shijie,” he coaxed, sidling up to his sister, “I can tell her, if you have a message.”

She turned a gentle but immoveable look on him, and he promptly wilted. Meng Yao took the letter and bowed to her. “I will see that Wen-guniang receives it,” he promised.

“Traitor,” Wei Wuxian muttered as he tossed his bag over his shoulder and joined them in the narrow river boat.

“I’m far more afraid of disappointing her than I am of disappointing you,” Meng Yao returned, just as low, and Wei Wuxian only held out for a moment before sighing and nodding.

Xichen seated himself as they pushed off, clearly stifling a laugh. “So. Wangji tells me that the two of you have been discussing the musical theory of Lu Liqin?”

“He is absolutely wrong about her use of the twenty-sixth harmonic,” Wei Wuxian declared, sliding down to sit crosslegged at the rear of the boat’s enclosure, one elbow propped on the seat beside him.

Meng Yao settled himself opposite Xichen and resigned himself to a trip full of debate. It was making him think that Wangji had his own version of Xichen’s rebellious streak, that he was apparently in love with someone so cheerfully contentious. Thinking about that, and about Lan Qiren’s bad habit of adding rules to the Wall whenever something irritated him enough, Meng Yao couldn’t help a quiet smirk.

Xichen met his eyes, across the boat, and for a single moment, his own smile turned just as pleased and sharp.

Flipside

Wen Qing sat back from her patient with a sigh of frank relief. “I think we did it. You’re going to have to start over as if you were a child, but your meridians are open again and there’s no new scarring. According to everything I know of qi, you should be capable of re-forming your Golden Core from here. As long,” she added, with a fierce glare, “as you don’t do anything outstandingly stupid, like using your own meridians to channel resentful energy!”

Wei Wuxian held up his hands. “I haven’t been! I won’t! Talismans only, I promise.” She positively glowered at the implicit assumption he was still going to be working with resentful energy at all, and he quailed back against the bed and amended, “And my sword. First of all. Of course.”

She eyed him narrowly for a long moment, because she knew that Wei Wuxian’s promises lasted only until someone else was in danger, but there wasn’t a great deal she could do about that. “You’d better not.” She started putting her needles away, movements sharp with irritation. Maybe she could get a-Ning’s help; if he knew it was for his favorite friend’s own good, he might at least give Wei Wuxian disappointed looks. She did not discount the effectiveness of those. “You know what this means, don’t you?”

“That you won’t be digging into my qi every other day?”

That was only worth an eye roll. “Yes, my most troublesome patient will finally be mostly off my hands. We should celebrate.” He only gave her a sunny smile, and she snorted, ignoring the answering smile that tugged at her mouth. “No, I mean that you need to start telling people.”

“No.” It came out like a spinal reflex, which she thought it might be, by now.

“People are going to start figuring it out,” she continued, as if he hadn’t spoken. “Your sister is getting close, judging from the questions she had in her last letter, and Lan Wangji may suspect already.”

He crossed his arms, whole face going shuttered. “Jiang Cheng can’t know.”

She looked at the stubbornness written all over him and did not mention any of the arguments based on reason. Nothing about Do you think he won’t notice you training at a child’s level. Nothing of He’s not actually an idiot. Not even Do you really think your sister will help you keep it from him. Instead, she said quietly, “I tried to keep what I was doing secret from a-Ning, too. And look how that ended.”

It was an argument from the heart, not the head, and it got through, just as she’d thought it would. Wei Wuxian, the man standing in her place now, taking care of her little brother while she was stuck in the Cloud Recesses, winced and lowered his head.

“I…” He bit his lip and finally said, softly, “I need to recover just as much as I can, before he knows. Otherwise it will be… bad for him.”

She tied her needle roll snugly and raised a brow at him. “So, is that you asking me to dig into your qi some more, after all?”

He looked up, eyes steady and serious on her. “Would it help?”

Wen Qing pursed her lips, considering. “Maybe. There are certainly techniques to help concentrate qi, and that’s what you need now.”

“Then yes.”

She nodded, unsurprised. “Many of the things Lan Wangji has been researching would also apply well to this.”

He groaned and flopped back across the bed. “Qing-jie hates me,” he complained, pouting outrageously, and she smacked him with the cloth roll in her hand.

“Try that on your own sister, brat. Or better yet on Lan Wangji, who for some forsaken reason seems to think it’s cute.”

Wei Wuxian laughed, bright and open again. “He does not.”

Wen Qing shook her head and gathered the last of her things to leave. Neither of them was actually her little brother, she reminded herself firmly, and it was not her job to manage Wei Wuxian’s love life or future prospects. Thank the Heavens.

Though she might just drop a word of warning, when she wrote back to Jiang Yanli. Someone responsible should probably be keeping an eye on the course of Wei Wuxian’s truly absurd courtship.

Becoming the Phoenix – Eight

When Xichen told him that there was to be a victory banquet, of all things, organized by Jin Guangshan of course, Meng Yao buried his head in Xichen’s chest and positively whimpered.

“Does there have to be a banquet?” he groaned, indulging in the luxury of complaining while he could. He could clearly forsee an evening-long political siege, in this.

Xichen huffed a rueful laugh and gathered him closer, stroking his hair. “I’m afraid so, my heart; I’m sorry. As you’ve said, though, better to know what he’s doing than have him start trying to work the smaller sects around behind our backs.”

Meng Yao grumbled under his breath and stretched out more comfortably against the length of Xichen’s body under the luxurious (and admittedly very comfortable) covers of their appropriated Wen bed. Xichen made a soft, pleased sound and settled Meng Yao snuggly against him. The simple security of being held so close, of being able to rest his head on Xichen’s bare shoulder, relaxed him. “Thank you,” he murmured. “For trusting my perception of this.”

Xichen dropped a kiss on top of his head. “I love you, among other things, for your brilliance,” he said softly. “Of course I trust in it.”

Meng Yao smiled, nestling closer and twining a leg around one of Xichen’s. “As I trust the dictates of your heart, above all things,” he offered back, softly. It was the one thing that truly guided him, these days.

Xichen turned, settling his weight over Meng Yao. “A heart that is wholly for you,” he murmured, eyes dark. “Shall I show you how much?”

Meng Yao’s whole body unwound under the shelter of Xichen’s, and he draped his arms over Xichen’s broad shoulders, smiling up at him. “Please do.” He gave himself up willingly to the slow heat of Xichen’s kiss, and left strategy for another time.


When Meng Yao entered the banquet hall at Xichen’s side and saw the arrangement of seats, and Nie Mingjue’s stiff shoulders ahead of them, he had to bite back a snarl. Nie Mingjue had done well by him, and just because the man had more moral rectitude than wits should not mean Jin Guangshan felt free to toy with him. Jin Guangshan had to have known exactly how Nie Mingjue would react to the prospect of being seated before the Wen throne. So now, of course, it would be Jin Guangshan seated there, and nothing to be done about it at this point.

Meng Yao pasted on a polite smile, bowed at Xichen’s side, and set himself to watch Jin Guangshan like a cat watching a grain warehouse for mice. When he found himself seated in front of Yao-zongzhu, for once he was grateful. The man’s gossiping ways would be a boon just at this moment, if Meng Yao could shape them in his favor. As they all milled around and started to settle, he stepped over to the old blow-hard and made his eyes just as wide and doe-like as possible. “Yao-zongzhu,” he said softly, clasping his hands before him as if nervous, “might you lend me the wisdom of your experience? I’m sure it’s only my own youth, but…” he hesitated artfully, nipping at his lower lip before finishing in a rush, “it’s Jin-zongzhu. To seat himself before Wen Ruohan’s throne, isn’t that a little…” He trailed off and cast an entreating look up at Yao Chenzhuo, brows delicately furrowed in concern.

Yao Chenzhuo paused, looking toward the head of the room as if he’d only just noticed, which Meng Yao didn’t doubt in the least. “Hm. Hmph. Well, now.” He was starting to frown, himself, and Meng Yao ducked his head.

“I’m sure it’s nothing. I beg your pardon for troubling you with it.” He brushed just a faint note of doubt over the words, and slanted a troubled, sidelong glance at where Jin Guangshan was seating himself and looking quite helpfully pleased with himself.

Yao Chenzhuo patted his shoulder and Meng Yao firmly restrained the urge to take his hand off at the wrist. “Ah, don’t worry your head about it. We sect masters will take care of matters.”

Meng Yao bobbed a deferential bow to him and slipped back to his seat at Xichen’s side. Xichen was watching him with brows faintly raised, probably at the frankly overdone acting. Meng Yao offered him a wry smile. “One uses the tools that fortune provides in the way their capacity demands,” he breathed, just between the two of them. Xichen glanced over at Nie Mingjue’s still-stiff shoulders, and his eyes darkened. He nodded quiet agreement.

So Meng Yao spent the first half of the banquet waiting for Jin Guangshan to make his move and listening to the increasingly disgruntled whispers behind him with a demure smile.

When the move came, though, even he was caught aback by its boldness, and he felt a surge of genuine moral outrage for once. How could the man broach betrothal when the entire Jiang sect had finally entered their mourning period for Jiang Fengmian and Yu Ziyuan? How did even Jin Guangshan have the nerve to usurp a father’s place while Jiang Yanli wore a white sash for her true father? Meng Yao darted a glance at Xichen, and found him exchanging a troubled look with Nie Mingjue. He could see why. Jiang Wanyin was hesitating, his inexperience obvious in his struggle to decide how to respond, but if anyone else intervened, it would only weaken him further.

At least up until Jiang’s very own black-clad lightning rod strolled in, wine jar dangling from his fingers, and threw the decision into his sister’s lap. At which point, Yao-zongzhu spoke loudly enough to be heard through the hall.

“Well said! Jiang-guniang is a capable lady as we all know from the campaign. Let her speak!”

Xichen cast Meng Yao a rueful smile, silent acknowledgement of the success of his tactic, and Meng Yao hid a smirk behind his wine cup. Finally, Yao Chenzhuo was being good for something.

Jiang Yanli stood, quiet and composed if you didn’t notice the fire snapping in her eyes. “I am of Jiang. My duty is to rebuild our sect. I thank you for your consideration,” if those polite words had been any sharper, they’d have drawn blood, “but now is not the time to think on such things.”

A murmur of approval went around the room, and Jin Guangshan yielded with a small toast toward her with his wine cup. Meng Yao took considerable pleasure in the gritted teeth he was pretty sure he could see behind the man’s smile.

Wei Wuxian, mission apparently accomplished, wandered back outside without another word to anyone. The whispers behind him turned disapproving, and Meng Yao sighed. He appreciated powerful allies, but this one was really quite troublesome at times. He composed himself and took care to peer after Wei Wuxian in a concerned manner as he murmured, just loud enough for the minor sect masters behind him to hear, “I wonder if his injuries still pain him very much…”

“Hm?” Yao Chenzhuo interjected, predictably. “Wei Wuxian was injured?”

Meng Yao turned, eyes wide. “You hadn’t heard?” He leaned toward them, as if just a bit excited to have a juicy piece of gossip to share. “It was Wei-gongzi who held back Wen Ruohan’s final, evil sorcery. He fell, after, and didn’t wake for three days! Even now, I hear the physicians refuse to let him resume his training.” Or, at least, Wen Qing did, and everyone else had sensibly refused to cross her word.

Yao-zongzhu and Ouyang-zongzhu exchanged a knowing look, which Meng Yao valiantly refrained from laughing at. Yao Chenzhuo sat back and nodded wisely. “Ah, that will be why he’s always with a wine jar in his hand. Trying to dull the pain, no doubt.”

Meng Yao gave silent thanks that none of the Jiang sect were close enough to hear and, no doubt, burst out laughing. Lan Wangji, sitting just behind Xichen, was having enough trouble keeping his face straight, brows twitching a little as he listened to the sect masters rapidly elaborating on Wei Wuxian’s heroism and injury. The look he turned on Meng Yao was disapproving. Meng Yao took a delicate sip from his cup and murmured, “Every word I said was true.”

Lan Wangji did not appear impressed with this fact, but Xichen was smiling, albeit a bit wryly. “Thank you for looking after him.”

“Mm.” Meng Yao listened to the tenor of the room’s various discussions and watched Jiang Wanyin chatting with He-zongzhu, awkwardness smoothing away as he relaxed. Jiang Yanli sat quietly beside him, straight as a sword, dark eyes moving over the room. Meng Yao watched Jin Guangshan glance at her, and then at Jin Zixuan, who hadn’t looked up from his food and drink for rather a while. Jin Guangshan’s gaze stayed on his son for a long moment before he seemed to snort a bit and settle back on his cushion, attention turning more covertly to Xichen and Nie Mingjue.

Meng Yao glanced back at Jiang Yanli and found her looking straight back at him, eyes hard. He gave her a tiny nod, and she returned it before lowering her gaze, drawing her poise around her like a shield. “I think I’m going to need to speak with them soon about more active measures to defend themselves,” he said softly.

Xichen’s hand rested at the small of his back with such sure and immediate support that Meng Yao couldn’t help leaning into him. “You have my trust, as always,” Xichen murmured, and Meng Yao smiled up at him, knowing his heart was probably on display to anyone looking and not caring. The knowledge of Xichen’s trust was sweet as honey on his tongue. To keep this, to be worthy of that trust, he knew he would do anything.

As the banquet drew on, and drink flowed freely, Meng Yao let himself relax in the curve of Xichen’s arm. Further political maneuvering could wait for tomorrow. For now, he would enjoy the place he had, here.


An invitation to consult with Jiang Yanli about organizing the withdrawal from the Nightless City arrived promptly the next morning, and Meng Yao thanked her messenger calmly, as if this were just another bit of campaign business. As he’d fully expected, both her brothers were waiting in her sitting room with her.

“Jin Guangshan’s target is the Yin Tiger Seal,” he said, once she’d set out tea all around. “So he’s been aiming to control Wei-gongzi, in case that thing is one of the spiritual tools that’s loyal to its master. I don’t think he’ll try to do it through Jiang-guniang again, but he will keep trying.”

Wei Wuxian’s eyes narrowed dangerously. Meng Yao thought he might have already reached that conclusion on his own.

Jiang Wanyin frowned. “Why would he imagine anyone would let him take custody of it? He only ever showed up in person to a single meeting during Sunshot!”

“Which is why he’s been trying to undermine you,” Meng Yao explained patiently. “If he could absorb Jiang into his own sect, then Wei-gongzi and the seal would both fall right into his control.”

Jiang Wanyin’s expression turned hard and cold, and Meng Yao nodded approvingly.

“He will not have Jiang,” Jiang Yanli said steadily, hands folded on the table before her. “But he could make trouble, couldn’t he? Would it be wiser for me to accept his son and seek to influence them in our favor from inside?”

Wei Wuxian promptly lost his brooding air and flailed upright. “Shijie!”

“You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to,” Jiang Wanyin agreed stoutly.

Meng Yao shared a brief, silent moment of agreement with Jiang Yanli—they were sweet, but so naive. He considered it, but shook his head after a moment’s thought. “If Jin Guangshan or his son were older it might be worth trying, but unless Jin Guangshan suffers a major loss of face, Jin Zixuan won’t be a significant influence within the sect for many years.” His voice turned harder without him quite meaning it to. “And Jin Guangshan is not known for accepting the influence of any woman.”

Jiang Yanli’s eyes widened in realization, and she reached out swiftly to lay her hand on his arm for a moment. “What would you recommend, then?” she asked, brisk tone setting the awkward moment firmly aside.

He accepted her redirection gratefully. “Nie-zongzhu and Lan-zongzhu will probably both be willing to disclaim concern about the Yin Tiger Seal as long as Wei-gongzi isn’t seen to be acting alone too very often. But they can’t support you directly too often without weakening your position at the same time.”

“Hmm.” Wei Wuxian had settled back and had his eyes on the flute he was spinning lightly through his fingers. Slowly he smiled, a fey and edged smile. “If it’s the power of yin metal that Jin Guangshan wants… why not give it to him? It can’t easily be destroyed, after all. So give each of the major sects a piece.”

Abruptly, Meng Yao remembered one of the first things he’d heard Wei Wuxian say about yin metal—that Wen Ruohan was in poor control of it because he tried to use his own spiritual energy to shape it directly. It was the natural approach for any cultivator. He laughed, delighted. “And let him find his own destruction, if he wants it so badly?”

Jiang Wanyin looked like he might approve but didn’t want to say so out loud. Possibly because Jiang Yanli immediately shook her head at them. “Meng-gongzi. A-Xian.”

Wei Wuxian’s smile softened a little. “Well, yes. But I was also thinking of all the sects being better balanced again, if everyone has a piece. I think that’s probably how it started out, after Xue Chonghai.”

“And that’s not a bad thought either. Actually,” Meng Yao turned the thought over and rather liked it, “that could be a very good excuse to keep a closer eye on what the Jin sect is up to.” More, if the rationale was to prevent another Wen Ruohan, it might prevent Jin Guangshan from too openly pursuing his apparent desire to be the next Wen Ruohan.

“Who could be a neutral enough inspector, though?” Jiang Wanyin wanted to know, understandably Meng Yao supposed, if he were thinking about who might wind up wandering around secret parts of his sect compound.

“Nie Huaisang,” he proposed. “He’s the best scholar of our generation, and he already looks after the fragment at the Unclean Realm.” Though that reminded him of something else, and he cocked his head at Wei Wuxian. “Will having a piece at Lotus Pier make things more difficult for you?” He’d seen how strongly Huaisang had had to reinforce the seal on the Nie piece before Wei Wuxian had been able to work on the fifth fragment.

“I’ll be fine,” Wei Wuxian said, so quickly and lightly that Meng Yao couldn’t help giving him an exasperated look.

“Would Wen-daifu agree with that?”

Wei Wuxian stopped looking dismissive and looked briefly hunted. Having been Wen Qing’s escort, a few times, to come and examine him—which always seemed to involve considerable ire on her part—Meng Yao was unsurprised. Jiang Yanli’s mouth crimped up as if she were trying not to laugh. “What about the Hundred Year Magnolia?” Wei Wuxian suggested hastily. “That could suppress a fragment. It’s yang-natured, and the water pool it grows in should disrupt the metal’s advantage in the destructive cycle.”

The subtle tension that had been in Jiang Wanyin’s shoulders and hands ever since Wei Wuxian suggested distribution of the fragments eased, and he finally nodded. “I’d be willing to try that.” He gave Wei Wuxian a sidelong look and elbowed him. “Especially if Nie Huaisang comes and checks your work, to be certain.”

“Hey!” Wei Wuxian elbowed back, grinning.

Jiang Yanli ignored them with ease that spoke of long practice and nodded judiciously. “We will welcome Nie-gongzi’s visit, then. It will be good to distribute more of these responsibilities among our generation, I think. These are the arrangements that will last as long as possible.” She took a sip of her tea, meeting Meng Yao’s eyes briefly over the rim, and he gave her a tiny bow.

“The Yunmeng Jiang sect is fortunate to have you to advise, Jiang-guniang.” Because, of course, that single, eminently reasonable sentence delicately cut Jin Guangshan out of the future of the cultivation world.

He did like having strong allies.


The Sunshot alliance was finally packing up to leave the Nightless City. Campaign friends were bidding each other farewell. Retainers of the larger sects were arguing over who was leaving first and who had to eat whose dust. Jiang Yanli was controlling the final distribution of supplies with a gentle smile and an iron hand. The recovered fragments of yin metal had been given into the keeping of Jin, Jiang, and Lan, and Jin Guangshan had carried his off with such open greed in his eyes that Meng Yao had a small bet with himself on how long it would take the sect master, or perhaps his proxies, to succumb to corruption from working with the stuff.

It was also, he thought, time for him to discuss some of the things he’d been keeping to himself with Xichen. He waited until Xichen had sent Lan Suyin off with instructions to go ahead of the main group and let Lan Qiren know they were coming, and closed the door of their quarters behind her.

“A-Yao?” Xichen asked, brows raised, though he also held out his hands as Meng Yao came to him.

“Xichen-ge, there are some things I need to tell you of.” He laid his hands in Xichen’s and settled beside him as Xichen drew him down at their sitting room table. “There are things I know about the Jin sect that I’ve held in reserve. We may need them still, but…” he hesitated, trying to put words to the growing feeling he’d had. “I think some of them, you would not wish me to wait on.”

Xichen smiled and stroked his thumbs over the backs of Meng Yao’s hands. “Tell me, then.”

Meng Yao laid it out for him, piece by piece: Jin Guangshan’s attack on the wife of an ally, Jin Zixun’s even more cowardly drugging and assault on the daughter of another, the debts that had somehow disappeared after the Lanling merchants who were owed suffered sudden misfortune, the disappearance of the Taishan Gao sect after a disagreement over jurisdiction. All of them traceable back to the Jin sect under Jin Guangshan. He watched Xichen’s eyes darken and bit his lip, wondering again whether he should have kept this to himself.

Xichen seemed to notice; at least he gathered Meng Yao into his arms and held him close. After a long, quiet moment, he spoke softly. “There are none of Taishan Gao left alive to require justice; that we may hold for a time, yet. The merchants of Lanling who have been harmed, I think we might seek new homes and markets for, at least to offer them. They may not wish to leave if they have clan in Lanling, but if they are willing then there may at least be succor for them while we wait. If Madam Qin has not told her husband, I believe we must seek a way to assure her of continued secrecy if that is her final will, after she knows that her cry for justice will be heard, should she choose to raise it.” He paused and looked down at Meng Yao, whose eyes had gotten wide listening to that deep, quiet voice so easily outlining the shape of compassion and ruthlessness, wound together like the fibers of silk thread, breathtakingly strong. “I know a little of Pan Daiyu from Lan Yunru, our best archer among the seniors.” The line of Xichen’s mouth was sober, almost sad, but his gaze was steady and sure. “I believe we may tell her of what was done, and know that she will demand justice in her own time.”

Meng Yao thought distantly that it was possibly a bit inappropriate to feel such a wave of visceral desire response to Xichen’s cool judgement. He didn’t care. “Yes, Zongzhu,” he murmured, a little husky.

The straight line of Xichen’s mouth eased into a smile and he pressed a kiss to Meng Yao’s forehead. “Thank you, my heart, for opening the way to righteousness for us.”

Meng Yao’s cheeks warmed. “It’s you who does that,” he said softly. “I only look for ways to keep us safe.”

“Then I thank you doubly.” Xichen tipped his chin up and took his mouth in another gentle kiss, and Meng Yao gave up arguing. Xichen cuddled him close with a small, satisfied sound.

After a few minutes of quiet, or as much quiet as could be had with several thousand people preparing to travel all around them, Xichen murmured against his hair, “There’s something I’ve been meaning to speak with you about, as well.”

Meng Yao tipped his head back to look up at Xichen. “What is it?”

“It was the Jiang sect that reminded me, when they took up their mourning.” Silent laughter danced in Xichen’s eyes. “Of course, my thoughts went in a very different direction than mourning. But now that the campaign is over, we have time for proper ceremony and observances.” He lifted a hand to cup Meng Yao’s cheek, thumb stroking along his cheekbone. “You will always be first in my heart, regardless, but it would please me greatly to declare that in ceremony and celebration, as well as in actions.”

Meng Yao’s hands tightened in Xichen’s robes, clinging to Xichen as a shock ran through him. “But…” His voice was husky. “But so many of the rituals… we couldn’t… I have no…” His thoughts spun in circles; he’d always known proper ritual would be out of his reach, with his mother dead and no other family that he knew of save his father, never acknowledged and now a political enemy in any case.

Xichen’s brows rose. “Well, if you like, I suppose I could always travel to claim you from the Unclean Realm. Shall I offer Mingjue-xiong betrothal gifts and see what dowry he might offer for you?” There was a tiny, teasing smile at the corners of his mouth, and Meng Yao laughed helplessly.

“Xichen-ge…”

“I’m sure Huaisang would be pleased to challenge my worthiness, on your behalf,” Xichen added, and Meng Yao buried his head in Xichen’s chest with a faint groan, because he could envision that all too easily.

Xichen-ge.” He could feel the vibration of Xichen’s quiet laughter.

“I’m sure Uncle would quite enjoy your tea brewing—” Xichen broke off, laughing out loud as Meng Yao whacked at his shoulder blindly, and gathered Meng Yao up tighter in his arms. “My heart,” he murmured, soft and intimate, “may I bring you to the Lan ancestral hall?”

Meng Yao thought his own heart might burst out of his chest with the swell of joy he felt, sweet and bright and overwhelming. “Yes,” he whispered. “Please.” He lifted his head to kiss Xichen, lips trembling a little against his. The gentleness of Xichen’s answering kiss promised him that it was all real, all his, and he smiled, breathless with happiness.

“Yes.”


Even a year after repairs had begun, the Cloud Recesses were not fully rebuilt. The core buildings and many of the personal rooms were complete if not as elegantly furnished as they once had been, but the pavilions that had been scattered in various curves of the river were now merely open areas waiting new timbers, and the guest houses were mostly skeletons.

One guest house had been fully restored, however, and Meng Yao had found himself installed in it when they returned. He was fairly certain this was Huaisang’s fault, because Huaisang had arrived only a few days after, to take up residence along with Meng Yao, and had promptly begun planning for just as much in the way of the more light-hearted marriage rituals as could be managed.

Which was why Meng Yao was currently waiting in the guest house’s receiving room, listening to Huaisang challenging Xichen to demonstrate his musical ability, just past the doors. Which Xichen would presumably do as soon as he stopped chuckling.

Really, Huaisang’s and Xichen’s senses of humor were far too alike.

By the time Huaisang finally consented to open the door for them, Meng Yao was smiling helplessly, not quite able to stop. Though he did lose track of exactly what his face might be doing when he stepped forth and saw Xichen. Pale blue robes fell around him like a sweep of moonlit mist, draping finely enough to show the true breadth of his shoulders and chest, flowing around the easy power of every movement. He was stunningly beautiful, but even that couldn’t distract Meng Yao too much from the warmth of his eyes, the tenderness of his smile, as he stepped forward and held out his hands. Meng Yao was distantly grateful for the excellent fit of his own robes, or he might have tripped over himself as he stepped forward under Huaisang’s grin and Lan Wangji’s look of quiet exasperation at the nonsense, to lay his hands in Xichen’s.

Lan Jianghui had all but pounced on both of them, when he’d heard of the upcoming ceremonies—decorously, to be sure, but also very firm in his insistence on befitting robes for the occasion of the sect master’s marriage. Silk whispered around Meng Yao like the wind over the river, white over deep blue, and silver wound through his hair, rising in sleek curves. For once he felt that he at least looked fine enough to be worthy of Xichen. That was a passing thought, though, more habit than true fear any longer, not under the weight of Xichen’s gaze and the possessiveness of Xichen’s hands as he gathered Meng Yao into the curve of his arm and guided him down the walkways toward the heart of Cloud Recesses.

The Lan ancestral hall stood at the foot of a tall peak, flanked on one side by one of the springs that fed the mountain’s river and on the other by a grove of ancient birch, stretching silvery branches over the hall. Inside were rank on rank of tablets, lit more gently than Meng Yao had quite been expecting by graceful blue and green ceramic lamps. Delicate, metal wind-bells hung under the eaves, chiming softly in the swirl of air between the flames of the lamps and the cool of the spring. In that quiet pool of sound and light, Meng Yao knelt beside Xichen to make their bows and, for the first time since his mother’s death, genuinely prayed that he might be welcomed here.

When he rose from his last bow and looked into Xichen’s eyes, he saw all the confirmation that he could ever want.

Xichen gathered him close, tipping his chin up with gentle fingers for a soft kiss. “Are you ready to go to the banquet, my heart?”

Meng Yao pressed close, burying his head in Xichen’s shoulder for a long moment to gather his composure. Xichen’s fingers combed slowly through his hair, perfectly patient, and after a deep breath Meng Yao raised his head again and nodded firmly. “Yes.”

Lan Qiren and Lan Wangji were there when Xichen guided him out of the hall, their only witnesses for the ceremony itself. Lan Wangji still looked very solemn about the whole thing, but he offered Meng Yao their brief bow and murmured, “Xiaoxiong.”1

Meng Yao had to bite his lip for a moment to keep from laughing, though it was, he supposed, a proper enough choice. “Wangji,” he returned, when he could keep his voice steady.

Lan Qiren was smiling faintly, looking a bit more openly approving. He greeted Meng Yao with his new courtesy name, the one that Lan Qiren had chosen for him after a certain amount of grumbling about propriety and the negligence of jumped up, would-be-noble sects who didn’t take their responsibilities seriously enough. “Ruyan.”2

Meng Yao ducked his head and took a breath for courage. “Uncle.” At least he managed not to squeak, saying it. Xichen’s hand squeezed his shoulder, encouragingly.

The banquet was in the largest hall, the one normally used for lessons. Tonight it was filled with white, with a scattering of darker colors showing where the outside guests sat. Meng Yao looked around, once he was settled beside Xichen, realizing how many of these people he knew, now. Nie Mingjue offered a tiny, private toast to Xichen, and Huaisang, beside him, offered the same to Meng Yao. Lan Suyin, the youngest of the senior disciples, rolled her eyes a little over the giggling group of juniors she was supervising. Lan Jianghui exchanged satisfied looks with his wife, Chen Jinghua. Lan Zhengli, who had led the attacks that cleared Wen occupation out of Suzhou while Wangji retook the Cloud Recesses, was smiling faintly as he ate. Lan Mingxia, the sect’s foremost apothecary, sat with her head together with Wen Qing, obviously talking shop. On Wen Qing’s other side, her brother looked both relieved and excited, and beyond him was Wei Wuxian, both representing Jiang and bringing Wen Ning to see with his own eyes that his sister was safe and well. Lan Meiling was one of the clan elders but still active in searching out new texts for the Lan library, often taking her grandson along on her trips; he sat beside her now.

Face after face, Meng Yao knew now, could put names and lives to. They were his, now.

Xichen’s arm slid around him, and when he looked up Xichen was smiling down at him as if he could hear the thought. “I could not possibly have chosen better, for our sect as well as for myself,” Xichen said under the soft talk and quiet laughter that filled the hall. Meng Yao couldn’t help leaning closer in the curve of his arm, though he blushed at the little coo that ran around the room, especially among the juniors.

At least that caused Lan Qiren to leave off glaring at Wei Wuxian in order to clear his throat meaningfully and make the juniors all straighten up and try to look decorous. During this distraction, Wei Wuxian tossed a wine jar over to Huaisang, who caught it and swept it into his sleeve without a flicker in his mild smile. The look Wangji gave Wei Wuxian was more exasperated than disapproving, even as several juniors broke down into scandalized giggles again. Meng Yao leaned against Xichen’s shoulder, trying not to join in.

His, now. Heavens help him.

It was full night by the time they left the banquet, Xichen’s arm around him guiding him up to the rooms he’d been in only a few times before. Xichen paused in the broad receiving room, looking down at him with a soft smile. “Welcome home, my heart.”

“Thank you, husband,” Meng Yao murmured, rising up on his toes so he could catch Xichen’s mouth and kiss him, open and warm with his certainty of Xichen’s welcome. Xichen’s arms closed tight around him, catching him up almost completely off his feet, and Meng Yao made a satisfied sound.

His, now.

Flipside

Wen Qing was intensely annoyed.

She’d been able to pin Wei Wuxian down for another treatment of his meridians, when he’d visited for the wedding banquet, and while they’d been working Lan Wangji had apologized that he hadn’t been able to finish his research into more efficacious music to help. Wei Wuxian had looked very startled at the idea of Lan Wangji doing such demanding work for the sake of his healing, which had made her roll her eyes. She had no idea what he’d thought Lan Wangji’s solicitous attentions since he’d returned from the Burial Mounds had been about, and didn’t really want to know. She already had a little brother to look out for; she didn’t need to take on another. She was happy to leave that be.

What she couldn’t leave be was anyone interfering in her healing. Through all the madness Wen Ruohan had led their whole sect into, through all the terrifying and abhorrent and plain idiotic things she’d had to do to keep her brother and clan safe, this one thing she’d held fast to: she was a physician. She would let no one stand in the way of her work.

As she stalked through the Cloud Recesses, disciples in white gave way before her as courteously as they did the physicians of their own sect. This was not, she supposed, a terrible place to live. A little damp, but she was a mountain girl, herself; she liked the clear air up here. If she’d had her brother under her eye, she thought she might have been reasonably happy here, wholly free of arrogant asses debauching themselves on cruelty. And at least she did know that Wei Wuxian was looking after her family, which was not a small assurance.

But for that assurance, she needed him healthy!

Wen Qing swept in through the open doors of Lan Qiren’s rooms and seated herself neatly before his writing table. “Lan-xiansheng.1 We must speak.”

Lan Qiren lifted his brows. “Must we?” He did set down his brush, though. Wen Qing fixed him with the stern look she’d perfected on an active and sometimes mischievous younger brother.

“What’s this I hear about you forbidding Lan Wangji from research to assist with one of my patients?”

Lan Qiren’s face immediately darkened. “Patient?” he snorted. “You are a renown physician, Wen-guniang, but even you can’t heal the darkness of mind that causes that boy to choose a crooked path.”

Long experience with unreasonable sect elders kept her from arguing over Wei Wuxian’s cultivational choices. It was an argument she wouldn’t win, not head-on. Instead she recited flatly, “Wei Wuxian was severely wounded during the attack on Lotus Pier. By the time they left Yiling, I had managed to save his life, but little more than that. He was cast into the Burial Mounds with the paths of his qi still injured, and no sooner did he escape them than he cast himself into the war and stressed the flow of his life almost to the point of destruction. At no point in the past year has he been allowed, or allowed himself, to heal. Until now.” She folded her hands and watched Lan Qiren levelly, waiting for his response to that string of facts.

His expression was still hard and suspicious, but at least he seemed to be thinking about it. “How was he injured?”

“That is his to reveal, not mine,” she said inflexibly, and waited some more. He narrowed his eyes and sat back a little, one hand slowly unclenching to spread against his table.

“If it’s an injury to his meridians that you treat, how does Wangji’s music help?”

“It helps keep the injury from worsening,” she answered promptly, concealing a breath of relief that he seemed to be on the track she wanted. “Without that, I have to spend far more of my own spiritual power before I can even start actual healing.”

And she still had no idea whether she would be able to do more than calm the disorder in the flow of Wei Wuxian’s life, staunch the hemorrhage of his qi out of its proper paths. No one had ever re-generated a Golden Core, that either of them knew of. But his qi was strengthening, now he wasn’t tearing at his meridians with resentful energy every day, and the fact that no one else had ever done it hadn’t stopped her before. One stubborn elder certainly wasn’t going to stop her now.

An elder who was starting to look a little more shrewd than stubborn, finally. “Wen Zhuliu was at the attack on Lotus Pier, wasn’t he?”

Wen Qing kept her face still. “He was Wen Chao’s favorite enforcer.”

“And you think you can heal Wei Wuxian?” Lan Qiren murmured, sharp-eyed and interested, now.

She lifted her chin. “The extent of healing possible is still uncertain. But some has already been accomplished. The more assistance I have, the more I will be able to attempt.”

“Hmm.” His finger tapped a few times against the papers spread over his table. When it stopped, Wen Qing tensed just a little, knowing a decision had been reached. “Very well. Wangji may assist you. Only here in Cloud Recesses, however.”

Only under Lan Qiren’s eye and the influence of maximum possible propriety, she translated that to herself, dryly. “Very well.” She rose and bowed to him, and strode back out. On her way back to Lan Wangji’s rooms, she made a mental note to write to Jiang Yanli and make sure she knew the treatment schedule, so Wei Wuxian couldn’t weasel out of it.

She was going to make this work.

 

1. Riffing off the very formal "Xiongzhang" that Lan Wangji uses for Lan Xichen, and taking into account Lan Wangji’s covert troll streak, I figured the most likely thing for him to call Meng Yao at this point is "Xiaoxiong" or "little elder brother". back

2. The courtesy name chosen for Meng Yao is 儒烟, Ruyan, "scholar" and "mist". It seemed suitable for the spymaster of Cloud Recesses, and the kind of name Lan Qiren would consider welcoming. Bonus, it’s a homophone of pretty/nice to look at. back

3. "Xiansheng" 先生, all-purpose polite title indicating someone of wisdom or skill, and what most of Lan seems to use for Lan Qiren. back

Becoming the Phoenix – Seven

Coordinating an aggressive campaign was extremely wearing. Time to prepare or double check decreased, the Wen commanders became more close-mouthed the worse things went for them, and Wen Ruohan was becoming both less predictable and more isolated, neither of which were conducive to getting information on his plans. On top of that, no one could predict when the appalling new corpse puppets might appear. Meng Yao might be the only one who took the uncertainty as a personal affront, but it was wearing on everyone.

When Jiang Yanli, of all people, arrived at his tent to go over his projected numbers and her supply lists looking downright frazzled, Meng Yao tied his tent doors firmly shut and made them tea. He was absolutely not letting one of the campaign’s pillars of calm snap.

One explanation later, he was sitting with his hand over his eyes, tea gone cold. “So Jin Zixuan accused you, the woman in charge of this encampment, of lying about who brought his food. Allegedly to try to get his attention. And Wei-gongzi punched him.”

“Yes,” Jiang Yanli sighed.

Meng Yao dragged his hand down his face, mentally taking back all his thoughts about Jin Zixuan being less of a fool than his cousin. “Well, at least he deserved it.”

“Meng-gongzi, that’s not the point,” she scolded, though he could see a tiny quirk upward at the corner of her mouth. That was better.

“No, I suppose not.” He folded his hands and added this to the growing pattern of Wei Wuxian’s current temper. “It isn’t actually much of a change, you know. Remember the incident after the lantern-painting, at the lectures two summers ago?”

Jiang Yanli’s eyes darkened again, troubled. “It’s harder for him to restrain himself, now, though. I can see it. His temper is… heavier.”

Meng Yao couldn’t argue with that; it was his own conclusion, too. “It is,” he agreed quietly, “but his reasons have not changed. If you trusted his heart before, I believe you can trust it now.” Which was as close as he thought it safe to come to telling Jiang Yanli that the only thing stopping her little brother from burning down the world to keep her safe was the fact that she wouldn’t like it if he did.

Meng Yao had recognized that weight in the way Wei Wuxian looked at her, with no trouble at all.

Jiang Yanli’s smile softened again, though it also turned a bit rueful as she cradled her cup between light fingers. “I’ve always trusted a-Xian’s heart, to do everything except look after himself.”

“He is one of my allies, here,” Meng Yao offered, and ducked his head at the warm smile she gave him.

“I know you take care of your people.” She patted his arm. “Thank you.”

Not for the first time, Meng Yao reflected that, while he’d learned the politics of the cultivation world from Xichen, it was Jiang Yanli who’d shown him the most about how to turn them to his advantage.

On this point, Meng Yao had to agree with Wei Wuxian: Jin Zixuan really didn’t deserve her.


“Nie and Jin will draw off as many as possible with an attack on the Nightless City from the east. Jiang and Lan will come from the south and make directly for Wen Ruohan’s hall.” Nie Mingjue looked around the table at the gathered leaders of the Sunshot campaign. “This will be our final push.”

Meng Yao felt nothing but a weightless sort of emptiness, hearing it. He was finally done. All the desperate pressure and rush of maintaining communication with his network, balancing who was willing to say what with who worked where, making strategic guesses based on every bit of other information he collected to fill in the blanks before someone was ambushed… it was done.

Except for one thing.

As people started to leave the tent in ones and twos, he turned to look up at Xichen with as much calm as he could muster. “I will be coming with you.”

Xichen took in a sharp breath. “A-Yao…”

“Xichen-xiong,” Meng Yao said softly. “One of the greatest cultivators and one of the best teachers of our age has spent two and more years tutoring me in the sword. I am not defenseless. I’ll stay to the back, if you wish it, but I will not remain behind when you go into such danger.”

“You most certainly will not stay to the back; you’ll stay beside me,” Xichen said, as close to sharp as he’d ever gotten with Meng Yao. Meng Yao smiled up at him and agreed demurely, “Yes, Xichen-xiong.” Xichen sighed and gave him the rueful look of a man who knew perfectly well he was being maneuvered around. “Promise me you’ll keep yourself safe,” he demanded, laying both hands on Meng Yao’s shoulders.

Meng Yao rested a hand on his chest, in turn. “I promise.”

It was a reasonable request. After all, if he wasn’t safe himself, how was he to destroy anything that dared threaten Xichen? He’d collected a good deal of information on Jin Guangshan, by now, and was confident that the threat he would present would appear very soon after the final battle.


As a child, Meng Yao had been used to the often brutal violence that ran underneath the commerce and politics of brothels. He’d liked night-hunts better, once he’d been taken in by the Nie sect, with their element of tracking and deduction, even of trapping. He’d fully expected a battlefield to be a return to the brutality that human conflict seemed inevitably to involve, and he’d been right.

The part that he hadn’t expected was to find beauty here.

The sweep of Xichen’s sword was so clean, so driven by perfect awareness of every movement around him, that even Xichen’s speed seemed unhurried, never pressed despite the multiple attackers that hemmed them in. It was as if he drew a circle around them in white and blue, traced out by the fall of his sword and the flow of his sleeves following after every blow, and within that circle was calm.

In that calm it felt easy to move with Xichen, to find the rhythm Meng Yao knew from their lessons and sparring, and turn his own sword outward without the slightest concern that an attacker’s would find his back.

The relative calm didn’t entirely prevent his attention from catching on odd things, bits of disjointed observation to keep his thoughts busy while his body got on with surviving, and he was momentarily amused to note that he wasn’t the only one encircled by a white wall of defense. Wei Wuxian moved so effortlessly with Lan Wangji, through and inside Lan Wangji’s strokes as Wei Wuxian turned away blow after blow on his flute, that Meng Yao thought they’d probably been doing this for the entire second half of the campaign.

Meng Yao stepped through another half circle at Xichen’s back, aware that the core of this attack—Xichen, Lan Wangji, Jiang Cheng—were moving ever closer to the stairs up to Wen Ruohan’s own hall. The pace was starting to accelerate with each red-clothed cultivator that fell, and Meng Yao thought he could see the end approaching.

Until a wave of palpable, burning darkness rushed out from the hall and swept over the field.

A breathless moment of hush followed, as every person still alive and standing paused, wondering, waiting to see what would come next. Meng Yao resettled his feet and took a breath, feeling the steadiness of Xichen behind him.

What came was the slow rustle of many, many footsteps, as what looked like three times their number of corpse puppets emerged from the south gates and spilled around the sides of Wen Ruohan’s hall. Maybe more than that—they were still coming when Meng Yao had to tear his attention away and do something about the sword coming at him. The battlefield dissolved back into a whirl of bodies pressing in on them, and Meng Yao’s focus narrowed and narrowed again, down to nothing but the angle of his sword, the next exhale, the sharpness of Xichen’s movements. And under it all, as far down as he could push it, the thought that they might not make it out of this courtyard alive.

The piercing note of a flute cut every thought short.

Meng Yao had never before been on a battlefield with Wei Wuxian. Listening to that music, he thought he understood why the people who had been whispered of magic that pried into the soul. The eternal core of rage that lay beneath his daytime thoughts resonated to those notes. To cultivators who thought they were beyond the influence of the blind, bottomless rage of ghosts, Meng Yao had no doubt it felt inexplicable. Perhaps even like possession. But that wasn’t it. It was only Wei Wuxian’s song calling to the malice and fury that living minds tried to bind down or weed out, if they weren’t already mad with it.

Fortunately, Meng Yao had known for some time that he was probably a bit mad, by most people’s standards. He breathed through it, let the rage surge up and channeled it through his next breath.

Except that there was no next attack coming.

The most advanced corpse puppets, the ones that seemed to be able to spread their corruption, turned on their fellows with a roar, leaving the Jiang and Lan cultivators in slowly widening spaces with nothing to fight. Meng Yao backed up to Xichen’s shoulder, looking around, and spotted Wei Wuxian, standing above the battlefield on one of the stone beasts that flanked the stairs. That position, careflly separated from any other combatant, yanked at his attention, and he took in a quick, harsh breath, groping for Xichen’s arm.

“Xichen-xiong. I need to move; don’t follow yet, please. I swear I’ll be all right.”

“A-Yao…!”

Meng Yao thought he would be in for a scolding, later, for ignoring Xichen to dart up the steps on the far side from Wei Wuxian. Xichen waited as he asked, though, so he set all that away in his mind for later. One flight, two, and he dropped his sword and flung himself down to his knees as if struck and perhaps struggling to rise. Just in time, as Wen Ruohan burst out of his doors and glared around.

And, exactly as Wei Wuxian had probably intended, the Wen sect master focused only on him. On him and on the seal Wei Wuxian had forged from the fifth piece of yin metal.

Meng Yao breathed slow and even, as Wei Wuxian baited Wen Ruohan, shifting his focus from his sword to his knife and concentrating his spiritual energy into Hensheng. Breath by breath, he deepened that flow, as Wen Ruohan seized hold of Wei Wuxian and Wei Wuxian let him, smiling as he releasing all the force he had gathered through the Yin Tiger Seal. As every corpse puppet on the field fell, exactly like dropped puppets, in the moment when Wen Ruohan’s attention was split between Wei Wuxian’s taunting smile and the glint of Lan Wangji’s sword coming at him like a bolt of lightning from the steps, Meng Yao cast Hensheng free. He brought it sweeping around from directly behind Wen Ruohan, with all the force he’d been able to concentrate, and drove it into Wen Ruohan’s spine. He almost thought he could hear the meaty thunk and brittle snap of Hensheng stabbing in. For one instant, all was still.

And then Wen Ruohan fell.

Lan Wangji was just in time to catch Wei Wuxian, as he too collapsed.

Which was when Nie Mingjue and Jin Zixuan stormed through the east gates and ground to a halt at the spectacle laid out before them. After a dumbfounded moment, though, the Jin contingent set up a victory cry.

Meng Yao dropped back down to the stairs and buried his head in the crook of his arm, trying to stifle the unstrung giggles that swept him as all the tension in him released in a rush.

“A-Yao?” Xichen’s hand on his shoulder was warm and steady, and Meng Yao took a few deep breaths to master himself.

“I’m fine. I’m fine. Just…” he raised his head and looked up at Xichen with a rueful smile. “Help me stand up?” He wasn’t at all sure he could, on his own.

Xichen helped him up and pressed a kiss to his forehead. “Try not to scare me like that too often?” he asked, and his voice was soft but the grip of his hands around Meng Yao’s shoulders was tight.

Meng Yao lowered his eyes, contrite even if there hadn’t really been time to explain. “Yes, Xichen-ge,” he murmured. “I’ll try.”

Xichen’s mouth quirked, probably at the qualified agreement. “All right, then.” He kept a hand under Meng Yao’s elbow as they climbed the last flight of stairs to the three at the top. Wen Ruohan was very clearly dead, but Wei Wuxian didn’t seem too far behind him. Lan Wangji cradled Wei Wuxian close as he looked up at his brother with open entreaty. “Xiongzhang.”

Xichen brushed gentle fingers over his brother’s head. “Let’s get all of the injured down to the Wen guest quarter. That’s where the physicians should be setting up.”

Lan Wangji nodded and gathered Wei Wuxian up in his arms as he rose, turning down the steps. Meng Yao thought the physicians might have to pry them apart to do any treatment, and firmly stifled another fit of helpless giggles. Instead, he knelt and yanked his knife out of the back of Wen Ruohan’s neck, cleaning it on the dead man’s robes. When he stood, Xichen was smiling at him, soft and satisfied.

“I see you’ve found your balance between Hensheng and Zaisheng, just as I thought you would.”

Meng Yao stared up at him, eyes wide, breath suddenly shaking in his chest. At the reminder of Xichen’s faith in him. At the reminder of how clearly Xichen sometimes saw him. At the reminder of how much of him seemed to truly be welcome in the shelter of Xichen’s arms. “Because of you,” he whispered. “Only because of you.”

Xichen touched his cheek, tender as another kiss, and let his hand fall lightly down Meng Yao’s back, sweeping him along as Xichen went down the steps to meet Nie Mingjue. Meng Yao walked quietly beside him, letting the end of this campaign settle into his thoughts, a steady weight of this is accomplished.

Now would come the less obvious campaign.


It took Jin Guangshan three days to show up at the Nightless City, about as fast as one could make the trip from Lanling to Qishan by sword. Meng Yao frankly suspected he’d been much closer, and had only arrived by sword to remind people he still had one. Xichen and Nie Mingjue had gone to meet him, and Meng Yao attached himself quietly and firmly to Xichen’s elbow.

He remembered the coldness of Jin Guangshan’s eyes moving over the gathered alliance, as if tallying up how much he could get for each one of them at market.

Jin Guangshan also tried immediately to insert himself into the circle of the campaign commanders. “No need to trouble yourselves with sweeping up the Wen remnants that escaped,” he declared. “I’ll have Jin Zixun take care of that.”

Nie Mingjue looked absently approving, and even Xichen only a little troubled. Meng Yao’s mouth tightened briefly before he smoothed his expression. This man was good at what he did.

“I hope Jin Zixun will not have made any hasty moves,” Meng Yao interjected. “I will need to speak with the captives to locate my informants. They served us well; the least we can do in return is keep them safe, if they survived the fighting.”

Xichen’s chin lifted at the reminder of just how hasty Jin Zixun tended to be. “Very true.”

Jin Guangshan clearly saw it too, and waved a hand. “Of course, of course.” He gave Meng Yao a tolerant and yet dismissive glance. “But now is the time for deciding policy, not the little details.”

Meng Yao made his eyes wide and earnest. “I do apologize, Jin-zongzhu. If I’d known that was your purpose, I’d have sent someone for Jiang-zongzhu at once, when you arrived.” He felt more than saw Xichen and Nie Mingjue react to that: half a blink, a tiny shift back onto heels. They hadn’t been thinking about the fourth sect master, even after Jin Guangshan mentioned policy decisions.

The image of Jin Zixuan clicked into place, in Meng Yao’s mind. Jin Zixuan commanding Jin forces and taking part in the leadership councils, even though he was still only heir. Still young. The same age as Jiang Wanyin.

That hadn’t been a choice made only out of cowardice or an attempt to assert the superiority of Jin, though Meng Yao thought both of those things still entered in to it. It had also been an attempt to make the more seasoned leaders discount Jiang Wanyin, to forget a little that he wasn’t still heir to Jiang but rather the sect’s master, now. Meng Yao poised himself and waited for his opening. Neither his need to protect Xichen and Lan nor his deal with Wei Wuxian could let this bit of maneuvering stand.

Sure enough, Jin Guangshan chuckled at the mention of Jiang Wanyin, avuncular and dismissive. “Ah, Jiang Wanyin is still very young for all the responsibilities he’s taken on…”

Meng Yao inserted himself neatly into the pause for breath as if it had been a full stop, smiling happily. “I hadn’t imagined that such an experienced leader as Jin-zongzhu would admire Jiang-zongzhu’s staunch sense of responsibility as I do! Truly, it’s astonishing how firmly he’s taken up his duties.” He kept his breath light and even, and his smile impenetrable, as Jin Guangshan’s eyes narrowed, now intent on him.

As the pause drew out, while Jin Guangshan tried to find a way around the block Meng Yao had created without taking back his own words, Meng Yao pounced on the opportunity and turned to look up at Xichen. “Xichen-xiong, shall I go and find Jiang-zongzhu for you, so all the sect masters may discuss policy?”

Xichen’s faintly raised brows quirked up another hair at the delicate emphasis Meng Yao put on ‘all’, and he nodded slowly. “Yes, a-Yao. Please do.” His smile was a little wry but still warm. “What would we do without you to think of these things?”

Meng Yao bent his head, graceful and obedient, and felt with satisfaction how the current of power in the room shifted around his gesture, settled more firmly on Xichen.

He felt, too, the weight of Jin Guangshan’s eyes on his back as he left. That was fine. Let the man wonder whether that had all been deliberate or not.

He found Jiang Wanyin with his wounded sect-members and stifled a sigh. If he was right about Jin Guangshan’s intent to either break or absorb Jiang, they’d need to work on Jiang Wanyin’s political awareness. “Jiang-zongzhu,” he said, with a brief, polite bow, “the sect masters are meeting to consider what’s to be done with the remnants of Wen. Will you attend?”

At least it didn’t take long for Jiang Wanyin to re-focus. “Yes, of course.” He nodded to one of his only surviving senior disciples and stood to follow Meng Yao.

“You need to delegate more,” Meng Yao murmured, as they made their way back to Wen Ruohan’s hall. “You’re about to start having to spend more time with the other sect masters. Jin Guangshan is trying to dismiss and downplay your capability as Master of Jiang.”

Jiang Wanyin’s sharp look turned hot and furious. “He’s what?”

“Be calm,” Meng Yao ordered, just as sharply, not looking around. “Don’t try to engage with him. Leave that to me. What you need to do is defend yourself; demonstrate to Lan and to Nie that you are a responsible leader who can take measured thought on larger matters. Such as,” he added, pointedly, “what should be done with the surviving Wen servants, dependents, and elders. Will you argue for their deaths? Or for mercy? And if mercy, who shall have control of these people, who will have use of any skills they possess?”

Now Jiang Wanyin was looking a little overwhelmed, and Meng Yao couldn’t entirely blame him. It was obvious, to him at least, that Jiang Fengmian had been educating his son gradually, and had put cultivation and character ahead of sect politics. It was really no wonder Wei Wuxian was so fierce in protecting him. Meng Yao thought for a moment, as they started to climb the stairs, and finally asked, “What direction do you wish to lead Jiang in? What is the guiding principle of your sect?” Perhaps that would help Jiang Wanyin focus.

And, indeed, after one halting, almost stumbling step, Jiang Wanyin straightened, head lifting as he looked up the last steps. After one long, uncertain moment, his mouth firmed to a hard line. “To protect.”

Meng Yao paused at the top of the steps and looked back at him. “Then perhaps you have your answers.” He swept a hand toward the open doors, bowing Jiang Wanyin inside.

Jin Guangshan had been busy in his absence, he noted. Apparently he’d called Jin Zixun to come, as well, and bring whatever prisoners he’d rounded up so far along with him. Jin Zixun didn’t stay, though; rather he left his huddled prisoners under a handful of guards and strode off with a smirk on his face. Jin Guangshan welcomed Jiang Wanyin jovially enough, and turned at once to Meng Yao. “You said you will need to review all Wen prisoners to identify your informants, yes?” He waved a permissive hand toward the twenty or so men and women in the middle of the hall. "Go ahead, then."

Meng Yao blinked at him, and turned an innocently confused look on Xichen, making sure to speak to him rather than let Jin Guangshan continue to act as if he directed things here. “I thought the sect masters wished to decide on a general policy of disposition for the prisoners, first?” He didn’t react in the slightest as Jin Guangshan stirred, as if he were so focused on Xichen he hadn’t seen.

“I believe we are agreed that we will all be more settled in mind if we are sure our decisions will catch no allies by mistake,” Xichen said quietly.

Agreed for very different reasons, Meng Yao had no doubt, but so be it. Let Jin Guangshan glean what he could of Meng Yao’s methods, from this. It wouldn’t help him with the network Meng Yao had created within the Jin sect.

He moved out into the hall, to stand near the prisoners and recited, “The high tower is a hundred feet tall.”

Two heads jerked up, both women in the clothing of lower servants. Their voices tangled with each other as they responded over top of each other.

“I raise my head and look at the bright moon.”

“The River Chu cuts through the middle of heaven’s gate.”

The women both stumbled to a halt, blinking at each other in clear confusion. Meng Yao smiled and held up a finger. “From here one’s hand could pluck the stars,” he said to the first, and turned to the second to finish, “You ask for what reason I stay on the green mountain.”

The older woman sagged in clear relief, and the younger pressed her clasped hands to her trembling mouth. Meng Yao nodded and held out his hand. “Come. All will be well.” A cool look at the Jin guards cleared their way. “Go to the Hall of Embers, in the guest quarter,” he told them quietly. “Wait for me there. You will be safe.”

They both bowed to him and made haste out, the younger woman helping the elder along.

“Poetry, eh?” Jin Guangshan’s mouth smiled under cold, cold eyes. “Not something that comes naturally to the lower classes.”

Meng Yao breathed out the surge of rage that wanted to break free, smile smooth and unbroken. “You might be surprised, Jin-zongzhu.”

“Maybe, maybe,” Jin Guangshan chuckled, and beckoned to the Jin guards. “Carry on, then.”

The first knot of prisoners was led off, into the interior of the hall, and another lot prodded inside. Meng Yao let his smile curl just a little wider, perfectly serene. If Jin Guangshan thought he would be able to break Meng Yao’s code, he was very mistaken. Because, of course, there was no code to break—it all depended on Meng Yao’s own memory of lines cut from dozens of poems and matched at random for each new informant he added.

One little group of prisoners after another were brought through the hall, and Meng Yao ran through his individual recognition signals and culled out his informers in ones and twos. Twice, over the course of the afternoon, someone he was fairly sure did recognize the first line of his signal refused to give the counter. He marked them in his mind to check on later, out from under the very public eyes in this hall. Perhaps they had family they would not leave. He would see.

The more knots of ragged, fearful prisoners came through the hall, though, the more he wondered. Xichen’s mouth was getting very tight, and Nie Mingjue had outright pity on his face, by now. They were only settling deeper into the conviction that these people were no threat. There must be something Jin Guangshan hoped to gain that was worth such a risk.

When Jin Zixun returned in person with the last group of prisoners, Meng Yao realized exactly what that thing was with abrupt clarity. Because the woman at the head of this group was no servant. Her cloak was ragged and dirty, and the robes under it torn in places, but they were still a fine, deep red. He recognized her at once from the Lan summer lectures, two and more years behind them: Wen Qing, adopted by the main branch of the clan, Wen Ruohan’s personal physician, a powerful cultivator even without a sword in her hands. Exactly the kind of person who would be the greatest threat to leave alive and the most valuable to control. The parade of other prisoners had been little more than a delaying tactic so that she could be brought.

Jin Guangshan intended to base their prisoner disposition on her example, and based on her, it would be easy for him to argue against leniency, against the compassion that Meng Yao knew Xichen would wish for.

“And were any of your informants from among these?” Jin Guangshan inquired silkily.

Meng Yao did have one piece of information that might serve Xichen’s wishes, here, but he needed an opening to bring it forth. So for now he said only, “There were not,” and spread a welcoming hand toward the little group, as if it were his permission that let Jin Guangshan go forward. Cannily, Jin Guangshan did not step forward to answer it, but turned to Xichen and Nie Mingjue.

“The servants, perhaps, can be released or taken in by other sects,” he declared, obviously having tracked Xichen’s and Nie Mingjue’s thoughts on the previous groups, “but there remain far more dangerous prisoners. Wen Qing was said to be high in Wen Ruohan’s favor! Who is to say what rebellion she might not raise, if left free?” He shook his head, brows drawn together in a concerned frown. “We must take responsible thought, here. The yin metal is recovered, but it is an element of nature and cannot be destroyed. What, then, if someone like her were to lay hands on a piece? We have only just finished subduing Wen, and she might raise it anew!”

Listening carefully for what might be implied, Meng Yao tried not to have a heart attack on the spot. Taken in by other sects, yes, he’d suspected Jin Guangshan might want to snatch up any cultivators still alive to make his own use of, but he hadn’t realized the man might also be aiming for the yin metal!

…and possibly even for Wei Wuxian and the Yin Tiger Seal, if that emphasis on responsible thought meant what he thought it did.

Thankfully, Jiang Wanyin, who had been staring at Wen Qing the entire time, looking pale and shocked, finally stepped forward. “I do not believe she would. After the attack on Lotus Pier, it was Wen Qing and her brother who hid us, in defiance of the orders of her clan.”

Seizing on the opening, Meng Yao nodded soberly. “Indeed. My informant in Wen Chao’s household did say it was on suspicion of not fulfilling Wen Ruohan’s own orders that Wen Chao imprisoned her.”

Nie Mingjue only grunted, eyeing her narrowly, but Xichen smiled. “To withhold your hand from unjust actions, even when it is your own clan that demands them, is not the mark of a small heart.” Nie Mingjue eyed him for a long moment, at that, but finally sighed and nodded his agreement, the straight line of his shoulders softening a touch. Meng Yao gave silent thanks that Xichen knew how to handle his friend, and had also picked up on Meng Yao’s push away from the language of defiance. If he was right, that would only feed into a play to control Wei Wuxian.

He was starting to feel very frazzled, trying to keep track of all this at once.

Jin Guangshan pulled a thoughtful expression. “It is as you say, Lan-zongzhu, but such conviction does not make her, or others who may be equally defiant, less of a danger to leave at our backs.”

Meng Yao was reciting some of the filthiest curses he knew behind a bland smile, and trying to think of some way to cut off Jin Guangshan’s momentum before he really did reach Wei Wuxian, when Wen Qing tossed her cloak back with a sharp gesture and stepped forward herself.

“Enough!” She ignored the reflex jerk of the guards’ swords, head high as her eyes raked over the equally startled sect masters before her. “If the lives of my clan are to be a bargaining chip once again, then I will bargain myself.” She reached into her robes and pulled out a small, scarf-wrapped package, and held it out to Jiang Wanyin with an imperious look. “Jiang-zongzhu. I call on you to honor your word. The lot of you may do what you like with me. But my brother and my clan—them you will protect.” She ignored the immediate protests from behind her and held Jiang Wanyin’s eyes steadily.

He stared back at her, very still, and Meng Yao wondered if her demand—to protect her own, the every thing Jiang Wanyin had just declared a guiding principle of his—was resonating in his heart the way Xichen’s words sometimes did in Meng Yao’s. Jin Guangshan stirred as if to step forward, and perhaps try once again to override Jiang Wanyin, and this time Meng Yao thought Jiang Wanyin caught it. His eyes flickered aside at the other sect masters, and the line of his mouth firmed. In the end, it was he who stepped forward to take the silk packet from Wen Qing’s hand.

“Wen Ning and his immediate clan are under the protection of Jiang,” he declared.

The currents of the room shifted again around that flat declaration, the tight, exclusive circle of attention between Xichen, Nie Mingjue, and Jin Guangshan finally breaking open. Meng Yao almost felt he could reach out and touch the shards of it falling to the floor.

“They will be your responsibility, then,” Nie Mingjue said, as much an acceptance as a warning.

“Perhaps that will be the best approach after all,” Jin Guangshan was quick to agree, calculation flickering in his eyes before being hidden under a judicious expression. “With her brother in the keeping of one of our sects, perhaps she could be trusted in the custody of another.”

That turned out to be a miscalculation (finally!), now that whatever uncertainty had held Jiang Wanyin quiet seemed to have broken, because he rounded on the other sect masters. “Did we fight Wen only to try to take their place? These people are under Jiang’s protection, not hostages!” There was entreaty as well as anger in his voice, but perhaps that was just as well, because Xichen stepped forward to answer it.

“We did not defeat them only to become them.” For all that Xichen didn’t raise his voice, that was a declaration too, and Meng Yao saw Nie Mingjue settle under it and Jin Guangshan ease back, retreating from potential confrontation. “Nevertheless, some form of oversight is needed.” The smile he turned on Jiang Wanyin was kind and understanding, but also held a momentary flicker of warning. Jiang Wanyin’s given word could shield Wen Qing’s brother and clan, but not her, not directly, not when she’d disclaimed it herself.

That gave Meng Yao an idea, though.

“Let the Lan sect take her in, then,” he said, and spread his hands, smiling in his best self-deprecating manner, when everyone’s attention shifted to him. “Jiang has a personal debt to Wen Qing, it seems. In turn, I bear a person debt to Jiang.” Or, at least, to Wei Wuxian and his transparent attempt to keep Lan Wangji out of his confrontation with Wen Ruohan, thoroughly unappreciated as it had been by Lan Wangji himself. Close enough to ring true. “Let her reside with Lan, in an environment with strict oversight that will not encourage any sort of rash action.”

He did not miss Jin Guangshan’s quick, narrow glance at Xichen, or the way his mouth flattened into a hard line when Xichen nodded.

“Lan will undertake to look after her, yes.” His eyes were warm on Meng Yao, and it wasn’t difficult at all to return a soft, grateful smile—perfectly genuine but also another opportunity to emphasize Xichen’s power, here.

“That will be quite acceptable,” Nie Mingjue agreed, and Jiang Wanyin was swift to follow. Meng Yao carefully refrained from gloating at the bow Jiang-zongzhu offered Xichen. It was the perfect touch to cement Xichen’s authority over this matter.

It had been a very close thing, but he thought Jin Guangshan had lost the footing to make a try for the Yin Tiger Seal, at least for now. He was grateful for that, because he hasn’t wanted to use the information his network in Lanling had uncovered, not yet. That was a move he’d only be able to make once, and he would either have to destroy Jin Guangshan in one blow or spend the rest of his life watching his back for a knife. Better, if more stressful, to counter the man by maneuver for as long as he could.

It was very stressful, though, and he was nearly stumbling with weariness when they finally all departed, Jiang Wanyin with his new people in tow, Jin Guangshan speaking tight and quiet words to Jin Zixun, Nie Mingjue toward the inner rooms of the hall after exchanging a firm nod with Xichen. Probably to see to freeing the prisoners who were neither valuable targets nor beholden to Meng Yao.

Xichen beckoned Wen Qing to come along with them. “Wen-guniang, I know you must be in need of rest and some time to recover, but when you have, I wonder if I might impose on your medical knowledge.”

She pulled her attention away from the retreating form of her brother, following after Jiang Wanyin but glancing back at her often, and straightened up with a deep breath. “Yes, I’m sure there are still injured to care for.” She walked steadily behind Xichen’s shoulder, pulling her cloak tighter around her as they reached the guest quarter and came under the eyes of cultivators of the Sunshot alliance.

“In particular, I am concerned for Wei-gongzi,” Xichen said, guiding them both toward the halls that Lan had taken over. “He invoked a great deal of malicious energy, in the final battle, and he hasn’t woken for the past three days.”

Wen Qing stopped short and whirled to stare up at Xichen. “He what?! Malicious…” She pressed a hand to her forehead and made a wordless, furious sound. “That idiot! Take me to him at once.”

Meng Yao couldn’t hold back an exhausted laugh, and Xichen stopped blinking down at Wen Qing to give him a concerned look, one hand coming up under his elbow. Meng Yao shook his head. “I need to see to my informants. Please, go ahead.” He snickered again. “Wen-guniang will surely be welcome aid to Jiang-guniang.” Who had expressed very similar sentiments, albeit in less forceful terms.

The quirk of Xichen’s mouth said he agreed. “Very well. I’ll see you in a little while.”

Mind still half submerged in reading the currents of the sect masters’ conversation, Meng Yao had no trouble decoding that as an order to rest soon. He smiled up at Xichen and agreed obediently, “Yes, Xichen-xiong.”

Xichen stroked his hair back with a gentle hand, and waited until he was at the doors of the Hall of Embers before turning away to guide Wen Qing toward the halls Jiang had claimed. Meng Yao held tight to the warmth of that touch, using it to steady himself as he stepped into the hall and over a score of anxious eyes turned to him at once.

“Be at ease,” he said, with calm he hardly felt himself at the moment. “The campaign is over and you are safe.” He stepped forward and held out his hand toward the open seats in the hall’s wide receiving room. “Come. Tell me what you wish to do, now. If you wish to work for another sect, that can very likely be arranged, as can work in any of the cities of Gusu or Qinghe.”

He set himself to listen to the people who had trusted him with their lives and, in many cases, their revenge, pushing aside his weariness.

He hoped countering Jin Guangshan’s next move would be less wearing, but he wasn’t counting on it.

Flipside

Wei Wuxian was just about to see Lan Zhan out of his rooms, and possibly put on some more clothes, when the door nearly slammed open and Wen Qing, of all people, stalked through it, trailed by Lan Xichen. Her head swiveled, eyes pinning him as if she were sighting down an arrow.

You.”

Wei Wuxian promptly hid behind Lan Zhan, and was not ashamed in the slightest for doing so. Wen Qing bore down on him, undeterred.

“Is this right, what I’m hearing? Have you been channeling resentful energy? Do you have the slightest idea what that has to be doing to the paths of your qi? What possessed you to do such a stupid thing?”

“It’s not like I had a lot of choice,” he protested from behind Lan Zhan’s shoulder. Lan Zhan gave him a sidelong look, heavily weighted with satisfaction at having an ally, and stepped out of her way, the traitor.

“I did not make sure you would live just so you could kill yourself a different way!” She pointed imperiously at the bed. “Sit.”

Wei Wuxian edged back from her glare. “I really don’t need…” The glare intensified, cutting him off.

Sit.”

He sat.

She poked and prodded him, listened to his pulse points, and dug mercilessly into his major meridians to gauge the sluggish flow of his qi, ignoring all his winces. Finally, she sat back, glare slightly less fierce. “Well. You’re not as badly disrupted as I was expecting. Quite.” She turned to eye Lan Zhan, who still had his guqin out, thoughtfully. “Have you been trying to rebalance him while he was sleeping?”

Lan Zhan nodded, looking hopeful for the first time since Wei Wuxian had woken up. “I have.”

“I believe it did help. Continue please.” Lan Zhan gave her a respectful bow of acknowledgement, and she returned it with a firm nod.

Wei Wuxian wilted. He’d never escape, not with both of them determined on this. He did protest, though, when she produced several silvery needles from inside her sleeve, because he recognized those. “Oh, come on!”

“Do you want me to get your brother down here to make it an order?” she asked, brows arched in challenge.

All humor dropped away and he gave back a fierce glare of his own.

“I didn’t think so.” She turned to the Lans still hanging in the doorway. “Lan-zongzhu. Lan er-gongzi. I must ask for some privacy during actual treatments, please.” The courtesy was so obviously in form alone that Wei Wuxian rolled his eyes.

Lan Xichen was equally obviously stifling a laugh. “I believe we can do that, Wen-daifu.1 We will be outside, when you’re done.”

Lan Zhan bowed deeply to her, gratitude so obvious that Wei Wuxian had to huff over it, and followed his brother.

Wen Qing rolled up his sleeve briskly, and said, much lower, eyes fixed on his arm, “My brother is under Jiang’s protection, now. I will be in the care of the Lan sect.”

The remains of Wei Wuxian’s anger collapsed. He didn’t think he’d be a quarter as calm as she was, threatened with separation from his family. “Then he’ll be under my protection,” he promised softly. “I won’t let any harm come to him.”

She looked up at him, mouth tight but eyes soft and sad, and nodded silently.

He sat still and bore the prickle of needles and the uncomfortable yank on the reluctant flow of his qi without complaint. When she was finally done, he ignored the nasty tremble in his limbs to lay a hand on her wrist. “I’ll bring him to visit, whenever I can.”

She blinked back sudden brightness in her eyes and jerked a nod before re-gathering herself and making her way to the doors to meet her… new sect? Or new overseers?

Wei Wuxian slumped back on the bed with a sigh. They had fought tyranny and won. Couldn’t they make something better than all the same mistakes again?

 

1. Daifu 大夫: doctor or physician. back

Becoming the Phoenix – Six

Meng Yao was glad that Jin Guangshan had declined to remain in the Unclean Realm or, indeed, to take the field himself. He was very glad he didn’t have to deal with the man’s cold avarice while they were all fighting Wen for their lives, one way or another.

He just really wished that Jin Zixun hadn’t been the one left behind as deputy. Jin Zixun was a nasty little scavenger of the sort he was far too familiar with from his childhood, the kind that followed after a stronger predator and snarled self-importantly at whatever the predator took interest in. Meng Yao didn’t doubt that Jin Guangshan found his nephew a useful tool and distraction. Meng Yao found him a huge annoyance.

“We have information from inside Wen Chao’s household,” he said quietly. “He’s planning to begin a tour of Yunmeng, starting here.” He reached down to tap northern Yunmeng, on the map they were all gathered around, trying to ignore the way both Jiang Wanyin and Lan Wangji came to sharp attention. The increasing bloodthirst both of them showed whenever Wen Chao’s name was spoken was getting a bit alarming. “Apparently he hasn’t said which way he plans to go from there, but if he intends to end back at Lotus Pier he’ll most likely turn west.”

Jin Zixun crossed his arms and glared at Meng Yao. “You really expect us to commit people on such vague information?”

Fortunately, Jin Zixun was also a bit of a fool. Meng Yao gave him a bright smile. “Was Jin planning to take part in this arm of the campaign after all? How generous!”

Jin Zixun opened and closed his mouth, looking less arrogant and more like an indignant fish. Out of the corner of his eye, Meng Yao saw that Xichen was suppressing a smile, and tried not to preen too obviously.

“Very generous,” Nie Mingjue said dryly, “but I’d prefer we keep all of Jin’s cultivators focused on Wen Xu’s advance, at the moment.”

Meng Yao gave him a brief bow of acknowledgment, still smiling. “Of course, Nie-zongzhu.” Jin Zixun subsided into a sulk, across the table, and Meng Yao hoped that would be today’s only annoying outburst.

They settled fairly quickly, after that, on the path Jiang Wanyin and Lan Wangji would take into Yunmeng and how far the other arm of the campaign would let Wen Xu come into Qinghe.

“Hejian,” Nie Mingjue declared with finality. “It’s the most advantageous ground for us.” Even Jin Zixun didn’t protest.

As they were leaving, Xichen laid a gentle hand at the small of Meng Yao’s back. “Is all well, a-Yao?” he asked, soft enough to be just between the two of them. All of Meng Yao’s annoyance over the obstruction they found themselves burdened with and his growing concern over Lan Wangji eased in the warmth of Xichen’s protectiveness, and his whole body softened from the deliberate neutrality he usually clung to during these meetings.

“Yes, Xichen-xiong,” he answered, just as soft, smiling up at Xichen.

Xichen smiled and stroked a thumb down his spine, a discreet caress. “Good.”

Meng Yao carried the calm of knowing his place in Xichen’s heart, and at Xichen’s side, into the rest of his day. It wasn’t until evening, the time he made to work through his sword forms, that he found his calm ruffled again. By Jin Zixun. Of course.

He was working through the slowest of his forms, the one Xichen had taught him to refine his control of his blade, when he became aware of Jin Zixun’s presence at the edge of the courtyard, watching him. His mouth tightened, but he held firmly to his breath control, keeping the shift of qi and muscle together the way Xichen had shown him last summer, and flowed into the next step, sword sweeping up to the side.

Meng Yao had observed that Jin Zixun hated being ignored more than almost anything else, so he wasn’t surprised to hear a scoff from the side of the courtyard. “I guess it’s true about how much your education is lacking,” Jin Zixun called, sauntering forward a few steps. “Is that the fastest you can do those basic steps?”

Meng Yao didn’t bother responding to such an obvious taunt. Jin Zixun wasn’t actually a complete idiot, despite appearances at times; he knew what this kind of exercise was for. That didn’t mean Meng Yao didn’t have to concentrate harder, to keep his movement smooth despite the sharpening prickle of irritation.

“I guess we can’t expect better from a guttersnipe like you,” Jin Zixun continued, propping himself against one of the pillars that edged the courtyard. “What’s the matter? Can’t answer back when your client isn’t here to protect you?” It wasn’t the first reference Jin Zixun had made to his mother’s trade, or even (quite) the most blatant one. Meng Yao still had to breathe out against a flash of rage, and maybe Jin Zixun saw it in how sharply he stepped into the next turn. He kept pushing, at least. “I never would have thought a Lan cultivator would have such low tastes, but maybe that’s what he secretly likes. Someone who never learned any refinement. Someone he can rough up, even. I wonder what the other sects would think, to know Zewu-jun isn’t as pure as everyone believes?”

Meng Yao could hear the glee in Jin Zixun’s voice growing as he spoke, could hear the shadow of the whispering campaign such words might turn into, the kind of thing that was almost impossible to fight, because who didn’t love juicy gossip that wouldn’t have the slightest impact on their lives? It probably wouldn’t live very long in face of Xichen’s reputation, but probably wasn’t certainly, and it was another, another, threat against Xichen. Meng Yao weighed that danger, danger to his sect, to his partner, to his place, and felt the balance finally tip.

He took a cold, steady grip on his gathered qi, whirled on his next step, cast free his spiritual weapon, and lashed forward with it. Jin Zixun had clearly expected it. He was laughing as he drew his sword and swept it up to catch the blow.

He missed.

Because, of course, it wasn’t Meng Yao’s sword that he’d struck with.

It had been at the end of Meng Yao’s first sword lesson with Xichen, that Xichen had found out. He still remembered the sharp bite of fear he’d felt when he’d sheathed his sword and Xichen had tilted his head with a quizzical look.

“Do you carry another spiritual tool?” Lan Xichen asked, brows lifted. “I had thought it was your sword’s presence I felt, but it didn’t change at all, just now.”

Meng Yao froze, hands closed tight around his sword’s sheath, groping for an explanation or excuse. “I… it isn’t…”

Lan Xichen’s surprise gentled, and he laid a hand on Meng Yao’s shoulder. “If it’s a private matter, don’t concern yourself. I was only curious.”

Meng Yao bit down on his lip, thoughts spinning. He hadn’t known the presence of a spiritual weapon could be detected, even when it was quiescent, or he’d never have dared keep it so close. It was a violation of several Lan rules, after all. Lan Xichen had been very indulgent, though, treating Meng Yao’s many weaknesses as an occasion to teach and help. Perhaps he would for this, too? It seemed worth the risk. Meng Yao took a deep breath and bowed his head.

“I’m sorry, Lan-zongzhu,” he said, softly. “I know it’s against the rules. I just…” He reached into his robe and drew out the knife he always carried there, holding it out on his palms, head still bent. “It was from my mother,” he finished, low.

After a long, silent moment in which Meng Yao got tenser, Lan Xichen squeezed his shoulder gently. “If this is your inheritance from her, and your primary spiritual weapon, I can hardly fault you for keeping it close.”

Meng Yao dared a glance up at him and found Lan Xichen looking down at him with a faint, wry quirk to his mouth that caught Meng Yao’s attention at once. Did Lan Xichen, the Master of Lan himself, perhaps not agree with all of his own sect’s rules?

But perhaps he should be wondering, instead, if it was possible for anyone to fully approve and agree with all of them. He’d noted plenty of contradictions on his own read through them. The thought made him relax a little, and he essayed a small, hopeful smile. Lan Xichen smiled back, so kindly that relief made Meng Yao a little light-headed. “May I?” Lan Xichen asked, gesturing toward the sheathed knife Meng Yao still held out. At Meng Yao’s hesitant nod, he lifted it with light fingers and turned it over to see the characters burned carefully into the sheath: Hensheng. After another long moment, Lan Xichen nodded and handed the knife back to him, folding Meng Yao’s fingers gently around it.

“If the blade’s spirit is a loyal servant to you, then keep it near,” he said quietly, eyes holding Meng Yao’s, dark and steady. “As your sword also awakens, let them balance each other. Let them be partners rather than rivals.”

Meng Yao had to swallow hard, wondering at such faith in his cultivation, that Lan Xichen expected Meng Yao to bear two spiritual tools, in time. Just as Lan Xichen did. “I will,” Meng Yao promised, in a whisper.

It had taken more hours of meditation than he really wished to recall, but Zaisheng’s spirit1 had begun to deepen, and Meng Yao didn’t think it was entirely his imagination that Hensheng’s bitter edge had gained a protective bite in response. That edge sang to him with desire to bite into flesh and blood, now, as he kept it tight under Jin Zixun’s chin, and Meng Yao smiled in answer, slow and cold.

Jin Zixun, backed up against the pillar and holding very carefully still, swallowed. “You wouldn’t dare,” he started, only to break off with white showing all the way around his eyes as Meng Yao turned his outstretched hand a little and Hensheng pressed tighter against Jin Zixun’s throat.

“Wouldn’t I?” Meng Yao murmured, keeping the knife right where it was as he strolled closer. “Ah, but you just said yourself that I had a far rougher upbringing that you did, little flower. Imagine all the things I must be perfectly ready to do to you.” Meng Yao picked up Jin Zixun’s fallen sword and plucked the sheath from his lax grip, sliding the sword home and propping it neatly against the pillar beside him—just as neatly as he chose the right words to trace the outline of Jin Zixun’s fears. “Imagine all the things I must have seen done to pretty flower boys, in my time. Imagine how easy it would be to do them to you, the errand boy with no power of his own.” Just as Jin Zixun stiffened, turning a bit green, Meng Yao straightened up and patted his cheek. “Don’t worry, though. I’ve left all that behind me, and given my heart and hands to Lan. So I wouldn’t do any of that.” He stood back and spread his hands, as if scattering favors from them, all the while keeping Jin Zixun pinned to the pillar by the knife a breath away from opening his throat. “No, the only thing I would do now is let Pan Daiyu know exactly when and where you’ll be on the battlefield, in this campaign.” He smiled brightly as Jin Zixun stopped breathing completely. “Since the Feicheng Pan sect have benefitted so from being your neighbors, they would surely come to watch over you.”

At least for long enough to put an arrow in Jin Zixun’s back while the opportunity presented, if Pan Daiyu ever learned exactly what had happened during the “fever” she’d had while visiting the Golden Unicorn Tower with her father. Meng Yao’s informant had noted, with a certain vicious pleasure, that she was known to be a superb archer.

“How…?” Jin Zixun rasped, and Meng Yao chuckled.

“Did you really think Zewu-jun himself chose me just because I’m pretty? Don’t be foolish.” He paused, considering. “Well, no more than you can help. So let me make this clearer for you.” He stalked back to stand close enough for their robes to brush and spoke each word softly and precisely. “You will not attempt to harm or insult or discredit any member of Lan. You will do nothing that might interfere in the harmony of this alliance, or the success of this campaign. Should you attempt to, I will destroy you.” He reached up to grasp Hensheng’s hilt and scraped the blade’s edge over Jin Zixun’s throat before drawing it back. “Do remember,” he added with a sweet, promising smile, “I always have more than one weapon.”

He turned his back and walked away, satisfied to hear the rustling thump that was probably Jin Zixun’s knees giving way. Personally, he’d have been more than happy to slit Jin Zixun’s throat, dump the body in the mountains, and mention that he’d heard Jin Zixun boast of how little he feared Wen and how ridiculous it was to cower behind fortress walls. But Xichen wouldn’t like that, so he’d just have to content himself with sufficient leverage to make Jin Zixun behave himself, insofar as he was capable.

Really, the more he learned about the Jin sect, the happier he was to be part of Lan instead.


“Meng-gongzi?”

A tap on the open screens of his workroom made Meng Yao look up to see Jiang Yanli in his door. He offered her a smile that was probably just as tired as her own. “Jiang-guniang. Good afternoon.” He started to gather reports to the side, opening a hand toward the cushion beside his writing table.

She shook her head. “Thank you, but I need to get back. The medical supplies finally came in from Jin, and that changes my calculations for how many wounded we can take in here. Again.” She made a face, and Meng Yao couldn’t help a soft snort of rueful agreement. Neither of them were impressed with Jin’s apparent inability to keep a schedule when cooperating with their allies. The only reason it hadn’t caused deaths already was Jiang Yanli’s devout belief in having back-up plans, as she managed the campaign’s supplies, and Jin Zixuan’s equally devout belief in doing whatever it took to defeat Wen cultivators in battle, even if that was cooperating with other sects.

“I just wanted to let you know that my brother and Lan Wangji are back.” She hesitated, hands clasping tight together, and added, more softly, “Still no word about a-Xian?”

Meng Yao shook his head, even as he stood. “Only rumors. Whatever Wen Chao may have done, neither he nor Wang Lingjiao are talking about it.” The whiteness of her knuckles and the darkness in her eyes drove him to offer, “That is what I would expect if he escaped them somehow.”

She gave him a tiny, scraped-together smile, clearly more out of kindness than any comfort in his words. “Thank you.” She took a breath and added, more lightly. “So go on and make sure Lan er-gongzi isn’t being too foolish.”

His own smile tilted wryly. “I shall try.”

Once the Cloud Recesses had been cleared, the Lan elders and children had returned there, guarded by the junior disciples. That included Lan Qiren, which meant that, when Xichen was away, there was no one left in the Unclean Realm who could order Lan Wangji to rest or eat or otherwise not drive himself recklessly. Meng Yao did the best he could in their absence.

As he’d more than half expected, Lan Wangji was not resting or eating or any of the things a sensible person might do on return from the kind of pitched battles that were slowly driving the Wen out of their watchposts and stations across Jiangsu, and now Hubei. Instead, he was in the courtyard outside his rooms, running through his sword forms. Just as if he weren’t rapidly becoming one of the best swordsmen currently living by virtue of the battles he’d burned through like a flame, he and Xichen both.

Meng Yao sighed and leaned against one of the flanking pillars, settling himself in to wait. Once he’d made it clear he wasn’t going anywhere, despite the cold drizzle starting to sift down from the clouds above, Lan Wangji came back to opening stance. He sheathed his sword, and turned to give Meng Yao the shallow bow he’d eventually settled on as the proper response to an age-mate who was also the partner of his brother and sect master. Meng Yao smiled a bit wryly and returned it. “I’m going to find someone to bring food and wash water to your rooms,” he said. “Please don’t let them get cold.”

Lan Wangji just looked at him for a long, blank moment; not as if he didn’t agree, but as if he wasn’t sure of the words he’d heard. Eventually, though he nodded. Meng Yao nodded back firmly and went to go see about that food.

He was starting to agree with Xichen very much about Lan Qiren having mishandled Lan Wangji, and also the depth of Lan Wangji’s fascination with Wei Wuxian.

When he stopped in later that evening, to make sure Lan Wangji actually had stopped and eaten, he was pleased to find Lan Wangji looking dried off, with some mostly empty dishes set aside. He was sitting with his guqin before him, but not playing. Only fingering one slow note at a time. It was a melody, Meng Yao could tell that, but not one he’d heard before.

Before he could withdraw, Lan Wangji stilled his strings and asked, low, “Is there any word?”

“Only rumors, still,” Meng Yao said, as he’d said it to Jiang Yanli earlier, trying to be gentle.

Lan Wangji’s eyes didn’t lift from his strings. “Do you love my brother?”

Meng Yao reared back a little, startled by such an abrupt conversational shift. The question wasn’t sharp, though. It sounded… a bit lost. “I do,” he answered finally, wanting to know where Lan Wangji’s thoughts were right now. “With all my heart.”

Lan Wangji looked up, and there was definitely uncertainty in the pinch of his brows, the no-longer-firm line of his mouth. “Why?”

Meng Yao sighed. All right, perhaps he did know where this was coming from. He contemplated just what he might do for suitable revenge on Lan Qiren, for making him be the one to have such a conversation with his not-perfectly-official brother-in-law. “We match,” he said, at last. “I need things he wishes very much to be able to give. In his own way, he needs what I can give. We fit together.”

Lan Wangji tilted his head, looking thoughtful. He didn’t answer in words, but he did reach out to his strings again, striking a quiet chord.

“Different sounds, and yet they harmonize,” Meng Yao agreed.

“Harmony.” Lan Wangji stilled the strings with an open palm, again. “Thank you.”

Meng Yao gave him their shallow bow, in parting, and made his way back to his own rooms, shaking his head. Xichen had been exactly right about what would come of Lan Wangji’s fascination, though given Wei Wuxian’s disappearance it might have been kinder if Lan Wangji had never realized it.

All those thoughts flew out of his mind, though, when he slid open the door of his rooms and found that Xichen had also returned. “Xichen-xiong!”

Xichen turned with a smile for him, though it looked exhausted. “A-Yao.”

Meng Yao was moving before he even thought, both hands held out, and Xichen caught him up off his feet and held him tight, rain-water soaking from his robes into Meng Yao’s. Meng Yao didn’t care. The feeling of Xichen’s arms around him, having the solid strength of Xichen’s body to lean against, those were what mattered right now.

“A-Yao.” Xichen’s fingers wove into his hair and tipped his head back, and Xichen’s mouth covered his as though Xichen would drink him in. Meng Yao made a breathless sound at the heat of the kiss and relaxed, bonelessly pliant against Xichen.

“I’m here,” he whispered, when Xichen let him, and Xichen smiled down at him, easing his grip enough for Meng Yao to slip down to his own feet again. Meng Yao reached up to lay his palm along Xichen’s cheek and asked, “What do you need?”

Xichen covered Meng Yao’s hand with his own, eyes soft. “I would like very much to think about things that have only to do with life and warmth, for a while. I…” he hesitated for a sliver of a moment that held echos of death in it, “I want my hands to bring only pleasure, tonight.”

That tiny break in Xichen’s voice sent Meng Yao pressing close, rising up on his toes to kiss Xichen. “You know how much I like it when you pay attention to me,” he murmured against Xichen’s lips, gently teasing, trying to coax him out of dark thoughts. He gave Xichen a deliberately flirtatious look from under his lashes and added, “Take care of me tonight, ge-ge?”

Xichen caught him up tight again, laughing softly, just as he’d hoped for. “I will, then.” He only let Meng Yao go, reluctantly, to undress, and promptly drew Meng Yao down into his lap the moment he was seated on their bed. Meng Yao pressed close, straddling Xichen’s crossed legs, and purred at the feel of broad hands moving over his bare skin. Xichen kissed him again and again, slow and gentle, and Meng Yao relaxed into it, arms draped over Xichen’s shoulders, and let Xichen set their pace. Xichen slid his hands up Meng Yao’s back, pressing him closer, and kissed down his throat.

“You’re so beautiful, a-Yao, so very fine,” Xichen murmured against his skin, and Meng Yao tipped his head back with a soft, breathless sound. There was nothing better than knowing he was cherished like this. Xichen’s palms stroked down his ribs, slow and caressing, and large hands settled around his hips.

And lifted him up.

Meng Yao gasped, clutching at Xichen’s shoulders, eyes wide. Xichen just held him up, steady and effortless, a little higher than if he’d knelt upright. A tiny whimper caught in Meng Yao’s throat. He knew Xichen’s strength, but he didn’t often feel it this viscerally.

It felt good.

“I have you,” Xichen said, quiet and reassuring, looking up at him, and understanding settled into Meng Yao’s thoughts. This was what Xichen needed from him.

“You do.” He let himself relax into Xichen’s hold, making no effort at all to support himself, balance shifting as he settled entirely into Xichen’s hands. He watched Xichen’s eyes soften and warm, as he did. “You always hold me safe.”

“You’re so amazing, a-Yao,” Xichen said softly, and bent his head the little bit necessary to take Meng Yao’s cock in his mouth.

“Xichen-ge!” The sudden heat of Xichen’s mouth, the soft rush of pleasure, jolted Meng Yao’s whole body without moving him at all in Xichen’s hold. Xichen held him up, held him still, and sucked on him slowly, and Meng Yao gave himself up to it, shaking in Xichen’s hold as pleasure wound tighter. “Xichen-ge… ge-ge, yes, please!” Xichen’s mouth stayed slow, on him, but the heat of being lifted and held so easily grew, swift and heavy, until it burst down Meng Yao’s nerves like fireworks, sweet and brilliant.

He was panting, whole body limp and wrung out, when Xichen lowered him back down, cuddling Meng Yao into his lap. “Thank you, my own,” he murmured against Meng Yao’s hair.

Meng Yao draped himself against Xichen’s chest with a small, pleased sound. “I like feeling the strength that protects me.” He felt another bit of the tension Xichen carried so often, these days, unwinding, and smiled with satisfaction. Later, he would try to find out if any particular event had upset Xichen. For now, he was content to feel Xichen relax under his hands and know they were together.


When Wei Wuxian was found alive, Meng Yao noticed two things. One was Jiang Yanli’s incandescent joy that seemed to light up the entire fortress until everyone she spoke to went away smiling just from seeing it.

The other was Lan Wangji’s disquiet. Meng Yao wasn’t nearly as good at reading Lan Wangji as Xichen was, but he would almost say that Lan Wangji was alarmed by Wei Wuxian.

Huaisang gave him his first clue why.

“I’m worried about him.” Huaisang paced back and forth through Meng Yao’s workroom, chewing on his lip. “He flinched from me, Meng Yao, from me! Or, no,” he paused, eyes turning distant, “he didn’t flinch. That was the worst part. I reached out, and he shifted—shifted on his center, like we were sparring, like I had a sword in my hand. And if I had, I’d have been past him and down with just that one movement.”

“Wei-gongzi is known to be an excellent swordsman, after all,” Meng Yao murmured, and then smiled wryly at the dire look Huaisang gave him. “No, I know that wasn’t what you meant.” He laid aside his brush with a sigh and laced his fingers together. “You think wherever he was was that dangerous?”

Huaisang sank down onto the cushion beside his writing table, clasping his own hands tight. “I think he’s been fighting all this time. Maybe even fighting spirits all this time. I know I’m not as sensitive to the movement of qi as most everyone else is, but I’ve watched Zewu-jun spar with my brother. The way Wei-xiong moved… it was like that.”

Meng Yao sat back at that, startled. Xichen’s movement, with a sword in his hands, was a perfect flow of absolute mastery, not only of himself but of every element around him. If Huaisang was seeing such a fierce degree of control in Wei Wuxian, now… yes, that spoke of three months of unremitting need for such control. “I see.” He sighed and reached out to pat Huaisang’s shoulder. “I’ll keep an eye out.”

What for, he wasn’t sure yet, but he appreciated the forewarning all the same.

By the end of the welcome-back banquet that evening, he still appreciated it; he just wasn’t sure any amount of forewarning would have been sufficient. Not only had Jin Zixun obviously decided that Wei Wuxian was his next target to needle, not only had Yao-zongzhu immediately started to gossip, but Huaisang had clearly been right. Wei Wuxian looked like a ghost dragged out of hell. He stared around at them all as if he wasn’t sure what they were, let alone who. His thoughts seemed to regularly drown out the voices of everyone around him, including his siblings. When he walked out, it was as if they’d all faded into phantoms around him and he thought himself alone. Set against the kind of cutting and complete awareness of his surroundings that Huaisang had described, it slid a finger of ice down Meng Yao’s spine. He remembered again the rumor of guards’ gossip, that Wei Wuxian had been cast into the Burial Mounds, and mentally moved it out of the ‘barely possible’ column and into ‘very possible’.

The next day was not a noticeable improvement, despite Xichen being back again. The meeting of campaign leaders was tense, with Jiang Wanyin obviously on edge and Jin Zixun apparently believing that he was safe to pick at such easy prey just because his slightly more tolerable cousin was present. Meng Yao rubbed at the headache growing between his brows, and let Jiang Wanyin slap the idiot down. They had barely returned to the actual issue, how to deal with the frankly terrifying revenant creatures Wen Ruohan created and controlled with his three pieces of yin metal, when Wei Wuxian stepped through the doors.

The wind that blew in with him curled around hands and arms, enticing as a courtesan’s touch, whipped smoke off the candles and held it drifting in the air, acrid and stinging. Meng Yao stepped back against Xichen and was glad of the warm hand that closed on his shoulder.

Wei Wuxian’s confident assertion that he would be able to curb the yin metal’s influence in a month sent Meng Yao’s thoughts racing again. A month. It made him think about the circles and seals of containment that Huaisang maintained around the fourth piece of yin metal, all of them carefully adjusted, week by week, to take strength from the cycles of the heavens.

Jin Zixun’s scoffing brought him back to the requirements of the moment, and he cut across rude words with a sharp, “Jin Zixun.”

Jin Zixun started to round on him, only to start back a step at the glare Meng Yao leveled at him. He was out of patience for subtlety, today. Jin Zixun snapped his mouth shut and edged back a little further, to the obvious startlement of his cousin.

Xichen touched his arm. “A-Yao?” Meng Yao took hold of himself and looked up at Xichen with a soft smile, trying to reassure the concern in Xichen’s eyes.

“I think I may have some idea of what Wei-gongzi intends. I need to look a few things up, though. Perhaps, then, I may approach him with informed questions.” He cut his eyes briefly at the very tense Lan Wangji, still looking after Wei Wuxian, and a corner of Xichen’s mouth quirked up. He nodded silent agreement to find out what Lan Wangji might know, and Meng Yao relaxed a little. Having a plan made him feel better.

“Do so,” Nie Mingjue ordered. “Tell us what you find. If we have to delay a full month before moving our base forward, there are a few more potential trouble spots in Heibei and Jiangsu I’d like to see to before we turn our backs on them.”

Meng Yao bowed to him. “Of course.”

Instead of his books or reports, though, he made for Huaisang’s rooms and waited for him there. Now it was Meng Yao’s turn to pace.

“Huaisang, you’re the only one I can trust not to immediately jump to conclusions, and you’re more deeply learned in alternative methods of cultivation than I am. Could Wei-gongzi be planning to summon something, or use a moon cycle to power the creation of something?”

Huaisang ran his closed fan between his fingers, eyes dark and serious. “Create something, I think. A moon cycle… that’s a beginning and an ending, the shift from the life of one earthly branch to the life of another another. Create something… or re-create it.” He chewed on his lip and glanced downward. “Meng Yao, you don’t think…”

Meng Yao stood still as all his thoughts crystalized around the memory of the yin metal under their feet—though probably not in the pattern Huaisang feared. “No,” he said, voice distant in his own ears. “Not that, I don’t think.” He took a slow breath and let it go. “Thank you, Huaisang. I think I know what to look for, now.”

“Will Wei-xiong be all right?” Huaisang’s voice was small, and Meng Yao shook off the thought hovering at the edges of his mind and came to lay his hands on Huaisang’s shoulders.

“We’ll do our best to make sure of it.”

Huaisang relaxed and gave him a quick nod, smile a bit tremulous but trusting. Meng Yao nodded back firmly, and took his leave.

He found the report he’d thought he remembered, nearly at the very beginning of the network he’d created among the Wen servants, the tale of how Wen Chao had claimed credit for slaying the legendary Xuanwu of Slaughter. Wen Ruohan had questioned his son about the creature’s body repeatedly before apparently losing interest. That loss of interest would have been, Meng Yao calculated, just about the time news of Xue Yang’s execution might have arrived—the moment that Wen Ruohan thought he knew where the fourth fragment of yin metal had gone. Before that, Wen Ruohan had thought it might have been found with the Xuanwu of Slaughter. Because what, after all, could slay a creature like that? The one Xue Chonghai was said to have controlled?

Perhaps it was only that Meng Yao hadn’t grown up with the tales of Xue Chonghai’s defeat and the founding of the current great sects. That he hadn’t learned the tale of the yin metal being scattered ‘to the four corners of the earth’ young enough to take it literally. But the thought ringing through his mind with the clarity of bells was:

Who said there were only four fragments of yin metal?


The next morning he went to find Wei Wuxian in the rooms Jiang Yanli had so firmly requested be set aside for him months ago. Thinking of her reminded him to keep hold of his poise, which he expected to need. “Wei-gongzi?” he called, tapping on the doors.

It was still a bit of a shock to have the doors open on the Wei Wuxian who had returned, so different from the one of two years past. “Meng-gongzi.” His smile was distant and ironic for a long moment before he shook himself a little and stood aside with a half-sketched gesture of welcome.

Meng Yao took a seat across the sitting room’s table from Wei Wuxian and rested both hands carefully on the surface. “One month,” he said quietly. “One month to forge something new from a fifth fragment?” Wei Wuxian’s eyes narrowed, and for one breath the air had a heavy tang in it—one he recognized from the underground workroom, now he was thinking along those lines. Meng Yao lifted his hands, palm out. “I don’t intend to interfere.”

“Did Lan Zhan say something to his brother?” Wei Wuxian’s voice was low, too, but sharp. Meng Yao still couldn’t help a soft snort, remembering Xichen’s frustration over how little he’d been able to learn from his brother.

“Lan Wangji says very little about you, to anyone. No, it was Huaisang who thought a month was the right cycle for the re-creation of something. I don’t think anyone but me has put the other half of this together, yet.”

Wei Wuxian sat back a little, still watching him closely. “If you don’t intend to interfere, then why are you here?”

Meng Yao thought about the sharp edges that kept slicing through Wei Wuxian’s distance from everything around him, about how close he seemed to be staying to his brother and sister now, and decided that, for once, cold honesty would serve him best. “Because Xichen-xiong cares about Lan Wangji, and it seems Wangji will not leave you. And because whatever you do will be in proximity to Xichen.” Wei Wuxian’s brows rose, and Meng Yao smiled tightly. “I don’t actually care about many people. But Xichen does.”

After a long, measuring look, it was Wei Wuxian’s turn to snort with laughter. “Well. I suppose I can understand that, now.” His eyes burned dark as they locked with Meng Yao’s. “I will protect my family.”

Meng Yao didn’t look away, because he recognized that fire very well indeed. “Then I will make a deal with you. You protect my family, and I’ll protect yours.”

Wei Wuxian blinked, apparently startled out of that moment of ferocity, but then he tilted his head, focus returning, now lighter, more curious. “Exactly what is it you do for the campaign?” he asked.

Meng Yao folded his hands and smiled. “I run the network of informants and gather the information that directs it toward success.”

Wei Wuxian smiled, slow and crooked. “And who do you count your family?”

“Lan Xichen. Lan Wangji.” Softer, because the last thing he’d expected to get out of the summer lectures was anything even resembling a brother, he added, “Nie Huaisang.”

Wei Wuxian nodded, and said just as softly, “Jiang Cheng. Shijie.” He hesitated for a long moment before shrugging silently. Lan Wangji’s name nearly echoed in the air between them, and Meng Yao refrained from rolling his eyes. He didn’t need it said to know it.

“Agreed,” he said, instead.

“Agreed,” Wei Wuxian repeated, and leaned back on his hands with a sigh. “A fifth piece, yeah,” he finally admitted.

Meng Yao tried not to shiver, thinking about the devouring aura the fourth piece had. “If you’ve been carrying it all this while, I imagine you know more about it than anyone else. Except Wen Ruohan, I suppose.”

A laugh cracked out of Wei Wuxian, and his eyes were suddenly distant again. “Oh, more than him. He’s trying to control the yin metal directly, using his own spiritual energy on it.”

Meng Yao remembered the exceedingly abbreviated reports he’d gotten on what happened in Yiling, the mention of altered seals and strange music, and his eyes flicked down to the flute Wei Wuxian seemed to carry in place of his sword these days. “Which you have avoided. I see.” And if it was true that Wei Wuxian had learned such indirect control by way of the Burial Mounds… Meng Yao had to push away another shiver. “Would you be able to complete the process on the move?”

Wei Wuxian made an extremely dubious face, and Meng Yao huffed a faint laugh despite the direness of the topic. “All right, then. Supposing you work here, will it give you any trouble to have the fourth fragment contained so nearby?”

Wei Wuxian froze, eyes fixed on him, wide and dark. “It’s here?”

Meng Yao nodded cautiously, and felt his caution was fully borne out when Wei Wuxian abruptly burst out laughing, a harsh, stifled laughter that left him bent over and shaking. “That explains…” The breath he took sounded like it scraped his lungs raw, even before he lost it on another rough laugh. Finally, he scrubbed both hands over his face and raised his head again, looking unutterably weary. “I should look at how it’s contained, to see if I can work around it or not.”

“Huaisang is the one who’s been managing and adjusting that. How much are you willing to tell him?”

“You said he already guessed some of it,” Wei Wuxian said slowly, fingers sliding along the line of his flute. “And you said he’s family to you. So, some of the truth: say that I’m re-forging an artifact I brought out of the Burial Mounds.” He glanced at Meng Yao, eyes hard. “My family doesn’t know where I was, for sure, and I want to keep it that way.”

“Huaisang can keep secrets. And,” Meng Yao added rather dryly, “he already knows perfectly well that you were somewhere… very harsh.”

Wei Wuxian’s mouth tightened, and he looked down again. “You can tell Lan-zongzhu that much, too. Not the flower peacock or his cousin.”

“I wouldn’t tell Jin Zixun if his robes were on fire,” Meng Yao said calmly. “And Jin Zixuan has no need to know. What of Nie-zongzhu?”

Wei Wuxian was screwing up his mouth dubiously again. Meng Yao was really starting to wonder if some Lan Wangji’s fascination with this man wasn’t simply watching how expressive he was. “Nie-zongzhu seems very… absolute in his morality.”

“To say the least,” Meng Yao agreed. “Will you let Xichen-xiong decide what to tell him, then? Nie Mingjue is his oldest friend, after all.”

Wei Wuxian hesitated, and Meng Yao thought about three months not daring to even rely on his own spiritual strength, and waited patiently. “You believe he’ll weigh it carefully? Even if Nie-zongzhu is his oldest friend?”

“Nie Mingjue is the general of this campaign.” Meng Yao smiled. “Lan Xichen is its ruler. He understands that not everything should be said to everyone.”

Pale fingers clenched and loosened around the black lacquer line of the flute. “All right.”

Meng Yao released a slow breath, feeling the shape of this settle into his mind, their deal and their stories and the strategy they would move forward with. “Very well, then.”

When he left, he went back to their rooms and walked straight into Xichen’s arms. Xichen gathered him up at once, and for a long moment Meng Yao let go of the constant tension of awareness and calculation, of being the one to watch their backs, and let himself sink into the warmth of being sheltered and cherished. “This isn’t going to be easy,” he mumbled into Xichen’s chest.

Long fingers slid gently through his hair. “Tell me,” Xichen said.

So he took a deep breath and told Xichen everything he could.

Flipside

Nie Huaisang stood at the side of the work room that contained the fourth fragment of yin metal and watched Wei Wuxian prowl around it. And it was a prowl; that slow, careful movement couldn’t be called anything else. Wei Wuxian moved like a stalking tiger.

A wounded one.

That was the other thing he’d noticed over the last couple days. Wei Wuxian’s movement, whenever he wasn’t paying attention or didn’t have his siblings around to think about reassuring, was predatory. But it was also halting, disrupted at odd moments by flinches from things no one else saw or heard. It reminded Huaisang very unpleasantly of some of the older chronicles he’d read, the ones that spoke of Xue clan cultivators, under Xue Chonghai, and how their own power, or perhaps the spirits they’d bound, had driven them to mad rages and slaughter.

He hated the thought of such a thing happening to Wei Wuxian, who’d been so willing to play with him, at the last Lan summer lectures, who’d been so much like a touch of sunlight—bright and generous and warm. So willing to reach out and spill across all those around him. So willing to take care of people.

And also beautiful. Huaisang appreciated that, too. But most of what he remembered was the little curl of mischief at the corners of Wei Wuxian’s mouth, and the companionable weight of an arm around his shoulders, and the complete willingness to debate the merits of classical poets long into the night.

So Huaisang stood quiet, now, off to the side, determined not to leave Wei Wuxian alone with this fragment, or with whatever other burden he was carrying.

Finally, Wei Wuxian stopped circling the seal. “This is impressive.” It was almost his poetry-debating tone, which Huaisang took some hope from. “If I do my re-working in range of this, though, there’s going to be a surge in Autumn influence. Can you counteract that?”

Autumn, metal, gathering, ran through his mind, sound and sense and emotion and celestial bodies, associations building one on the next and outward. “The seasonal progression won’t help,” he murmured, tapping his fan against his chin, “but the major stars will; the Fire Star is in the sky the longest, right now. With that… if I add Fire Over Lake to the outer seal…” He nodded decisively. “Yes, I think so.” And then the network of symbols and influences he held in his mind sank in, connected to the context of here and now, yin metal to (almost certainly) yin metal, and his eyes widened. “Wei-xiong!”

Wei Wuxian was watching him, eyes hooded in turn, chin tipped down. “When I saw those seals I wondered if you’d figure it out. They really are very impressive.”

Huaisang crossed to him in a rush and seized his arms. “Wei-xiong, are you…!” Even in the midst of some panic, the back of his mind noted that Wei Wuxian was standing still and letting Huaisang shake him, and Huaisang finished, much softer, “Are you going to be all right?”

Slowly, as if it were a stream breaking out of winter ice, Wei Wuxian’s tilted, ironic smile softened. “I’ll be fine.” He patted Huaisang’s hand on his arm gently.

Huaisang swallowed back tightness in his throat. “All right, then. I’ll hold this, while you work. Just…” he gave Wei Wuxian the scolding frown he used on his brother, when Da-ge trained too long or stayed up too late, “you’d better take care of yourself, Xian-ge!”

Wei Wuxian blinked at him, and finally broke out in a laugh, rusty and brief, but a laugh. “I will.” A tiny shadow of the impish grin Huaisang remembered flickered at the corners of his mouth. “A-Sang.”

Huaisang drew himself up with great dignity and gave Wei Wuxian a firm nod, as if sealing a formal bargain. “Good.” This would work. He would make it work. If there was one thing he knew how to do, it was be an importunate little brother.

Look how well it had worked on Meng Yao, after all.

 

1. I’ve juggled names and weapons a bit, since the drama makes so little of Hensheng. In this timeline, Hensheng is a knife that Meng Yao’s mother gifted him with, to defend himself, which he names 恨生 "to hate" and "life/birth/to be born". This can, in Meng Yao’s case, easily be interpreted as hatred of his birth or the rank/world he was born to. His sword, not a soft-sword this time but a relatively standard jian, is named Zaisheng 再生 "again" and "life/birth/to be born", or "to be reborn". back

Becoming the Phoenix – Five

Meng Yao laid his brush aside and sat back from his writing table, scrubbing his hands over his face. Plans to get the hostages out of Wen hands were going slowly. He was developing a remarkable information network among the lower servants; apparently the Wen were nearly as brutal to their own menials as they were to the other sects. But the very brutality that made people so willing to pass on information also made people fear taking action to cross their masters.

And, of course, even the major sects were cautious of appearing to contemplate alliance, let alone action, while their children and siblings were vulnerable.

He frowned at his growing stack of timeline notes, mouth tight. He might be wrong, still, but he didn’t think he was. And if he wasn’t, then delaying was the worst thing the major sects could do. Every day that passed increased the chance that something would—

“Meng-gongzi!” One of the youngest Lan disciples popped through his door in a whirl of excited white. “They’re back!” The girl disappeared again before he could ask who, but ‘back’ could only really mean one thing. Meng Yao scrambled up and strode for the front gates.

Sure enough, both Huaisang and Lan Wangji were in the first courtyard. Xichen was already there, holding his brother by the shoulders, relief bright on his face. Nie Mingjue arrived on Meng Yao’s heels and nearly knocked Huaisang over in his rush to check for injuries. Meng Yao watched the brothers for a long moment, smiling, before he turned to herd the rush of onlookers back out of the courtyard with assurances that everyone was fine, they’d see everyone later, go make sure the rest of the returning disciples were settled.

Then he went to go check Huaisang himself.

“I’m fine, I’m fine! I promised to keep my head down, and I did.” Huaisang’s eyes darkened with his rare, deep anger, the slow, cold rage he almost never showed. “Not that it would have made much difference.”

Meng Yao sighed. “So it’s true? Wei-gongzi was drawing Wen Chao away from Jiang-gongzi and Lan er-gongzi?”

Both Huaisang and Lan Wangji looked at him at that, equally startled each in his own way. Xichen chuckled, one arm still around his brother’s shoulders. “A-Yao gets word of much that goes on in the Nightless City, these days.”

Meng Yao ducked his head at the warm look Xichen gave him. “Only what happened inside personal quarters, or what the guards boasted of, first hand. So I wasn’t entirely sure. That’s what it sounded like, though.”

“It was foolishness,” Lan Wangji huffed, with such open (for him) upset in the way he looked aside, brows pinched, that Meng Yao put another tally mark in his mental column labeled ‘Lan Wangji cares for Wei Wuxian’. Xichen shared a speaking look with Nie Mingjue, and Nie-zongzhu gestured them all further inside.

“Both of you wash the dust of that place off you, and then we’ll speak of it.”

When they re-gathered in the Nie receiving hall, Meng Yao observed that Lan Wangji was moving far more easily than he had been in the courtyard, and took a slow breath to suppress his snarl. Lan Wangji wasn’t his the way Xichen was, but all of Lan was becoming his through Xichen, and Wen would regret laying hands on them.

Though he supposed, if his growing suspicions were right, he might be willing to let Wei Wuxian go first in this particular case.

The more Huaisang and Lan Wangji told of Wen Chao’s actions, though, the more troubled he became. He hadn’t been wrong at all, and that did not make him happy.

“Jin-gongzi, at least, seems prepared to take action,” Xichen mused, when the tale was done.

“Mm.” Huaisang looked down at his clasped hands. “His father seemed… less so.”

Meng Yao’s mouth tightened. “That’s not good.”

Xichen tipped his head, inquiring. “Why not? A little more time to prepare won’t do us any harm.”

“It’s getting worse, though. According to their own servants, Wen Xu was always harsh and Wen Chao was always arrogant. But now Wen Xu is little better than a rabid animal and Wen Chao is attacking other sect’s holdings on a whim.” Meng Yao gestured at Huaisang and Lan Wangji. “And now, abandoning all the heirs of the major sects, unarmed, to what he obviously thought would be the death of many of them?”

Xichen and Nie Mingjue exchanged an uneasy glance.

“Five years ago,” Meng Yao pressed. “This started five years ago, and it’s been getting worse. It’s been worsening most quickly for those closest to Wen Ruohan. If we’re right about when he found the first fragment, and if he has another two now,” Meng Yao looked the question at Lan Wangji, who nodded tightly, “then it’s likely to accelerate again. There’s something coming, and coming soon. Something even worse than what happened to the Cloud Recesses.”

Nie Mingjue’s face hardened. “Then we will start readying to attack. With or without Jin.”

Xichen bent his head with a sigh. “If that’s what you think best.” And then he smiled faintly. “Actually, that may be just what it takes to get Jin Guangshan to move.”

Nie Mingjue snorted. “You could always offer to give him custody of the fourth fragment. If Meng Yao is right, I’d be just as happy to have the thing out of here. Let Jin Guangshan’s own greed make him a target, and he’ll have to move.”

“Mingjue,” Xichen scolded, though he also looked a bit tempted by the idea.

“It’s here?” Huaisang squeaked, eyes huge.

“Don’t worry, it’s sealed. Actually,” Meng Yao eyed Huaisang thoughtfully. This might be a good opportunity to advance his side project of raising Huaisang’s credit with his own sect. He turned to give Nie Mingjue a short bow. “Nie-zongzhu. I have heard from some of your most trusted men that Huaisang is the Nie sect member most skilled in the celestially sourced seals. If you permit, perhaps he could make the fragment’s containment more secure.”

Nie Mingjue grunted and waved a hand at them. “True enough. See to it, then. Xichen, is there any way we can get Jiang Fengmian to a meeting without setting a spark to the fuse?”

Huaisang looked torn between pride and alarm as Meng Yao led him toward the below-ground work rooms. “We’re keeping the fourth piece here?” he hissed. “Really?”

“Wei-gongzi was right,” Meng Yao said, making a note to remind Huaisang of how much trust his brother was showing in his cultivation, once Huaisang was calmer. “Xue Yang had it. And the Lan sect obviously accumulated a very deep knowledge of the resonance properties of yin metal, over the years they kept a fragment sealed. Xichen-xiong only played for a minute or two, and the fragment dropped right out of Xue Yang’s sleeve. Where,” he added, unlocking the work room door, “four different searches didn’t find it, before.”

“Well, the Twin Jades of Lan, after all,” Huaisang pointed out, and then stopped short, staring at the low-glowing circles that enclosed the innocuous looking piece of metal in the middle of the room.

Innocuous looking, but not, by any stretch of thought or perception, innocent. The very air of the work room was heavier, made the lungs labor if one stayed inside too long. Huaisang pressed his sleeve over his mouth, eyes narrowing. Meng Yao smiled, a bit wryly. After what he’d seen over the summer, he’d thought that a palpable threat to Huaisang’s people, and especially his brother, would bring this side of Huaisang out again. And Huaisang might not care much for the sword, but according to everything Meng Yao had seen and more that he’d heard while Huaisang was hostage, his more scholarly skills were very advanced.

Sure enough, Huaisang paced a slow circuit of the room, eyes flickering over the carved stone anchors on the floor and the paper seals ringing the walls. And when he was done, he planted his hands on his hips and looked downright exasperated.

“Huaisang?” Meng Yao asked, trying not to laugh despite the dire atmosphere of the room. Huaisang looked like someone had tried to make him wear clashing colors of robes.

“Honestly,” Huaisang huffed, “am I the only one in the whole sect who actually bothers to calculate exact angles?” He paced to the east side of the room and settled into a relaxed stance, closing his eyes. “Don’t speak until I’m done,” he murmured.

Meng Yao closed his mouth and held still. After all his recent months of sword training under Xichen, of working to build the correct base techniques to focus his qi, he could feel it a little when Huaisang drew his in, a deep internally focused shift that barely stirred his robes. At least until Huaisang’s whole stance shifted, and visible lines of force connected him to the four stone anchors. They slid and shifted, one after the other, a ripple of change running around the circle. For one breath, the strange, harsh scent of the yin metal’s presence bit into his sinuses, and Meng Yao had to swallow down sharp words of alarm.

Huaisang’s stance shifted again, one hand sweeping up, and the paper seals fluttered as if caught in a sudden wind. Another wave of movement rippled around the room, and when it reached Huaisang again he breathed out hard, driving both hands down.

Abruptly, the heaviness in the air vanished.

“Whew!” Huaisang stepped back, shaking out his arms. “That should hold a little better, now, but I can see why Da-ge wouldn’t want this thing around.”

Meng Yao was impressed. Obviously, Nie Zonghui was correct that Huaisang could bring considerable strength to bear, using talisman arrays. He had an entire summer of teasing to pay back, though, so he observed, “I notice you didn’t actually calculate the angles, either.”

Huaisang shrugged. “I can see where they are. Most people can’t seem to, so I suppose it’s just the eye I have.” And then he snatched at Meng Yao’s sleeve with a grin. “Speaking of which, these are new robes, aren’t they? White over blue, hm? Much lighter texture than usual.”

Meng Yao swatted at him with the sleeve in question. “Oh, hush. It was a gift.” And if he was privately amused by how very firmly some of the older Lan disciples seemed to feel about making sure their sect master’s partner was dressed like a Lan, well that was his business.

Huaisang smirked, but left off and followed him out of the work room. More seriously, as they climbed back upward, he asked, “Do you really think something will happen that’s even worse than burning the Cloud Recesses?”

Meng Yao thought about the terror and disgust that ran underneath even brief reports that came from his informants who were closest to the main branch Wen family. “I’m very afraid so,” he said quietly.


Meng Yao would have given a great deal to have been wrong. Or even a little less right. He sat in the Nie receiving hall beside Xichen and listened to the halting words of Jiang Wanyin, describing atrocity and slaughter, watched his frozen face and lost eyes, and offered silent thanks to the gods he barely believed in that Xichen had escaped the Wen net at Cloud Recesses, that even Wen Xu hadn’t quite been so bold (then) as to seek the wholesale death of Lan’s leaders.

“This atrocity will not go unpunished,” Nie Mingjue declared tightly. “All the sects will join together, for this,” he hesitated and finished, almost gently, “Jiang-zongzhu.”

Jiang Wanyin jerked like he’d just taken an arrow, but mastered himself after a breath and gave Nie Mingjue a bow that only wavered a little further down than another sect master’s should. “Thank you, Nie-zongzhu.”

“A-Yao,” Xichen said softly, under the sound of Nie Mingjue calling for Nie Zonghui, who had taken up most of Meng Yao’s old duties, to arrange rooms for the bare handful of surviving Jiang sect members, “will you please see to Jiang Yanli?”

Meng Yao couldn’t help giving him a rather narrow look, because Huaisang’s teasing about the Lan sect finally having a ‘Lan-furen’ had caught on annoyingly well. Xichen’s mouth quirked in wry acknowledgment, but he added, still very soft, “I think you may be the best suited here to provide what she needs right now.”

Meng Yao cast a measuring look over Jiang Yanli. She’d walked in at her brother’s side and stood with him, quiet and contained. And… rather blank. Meng Yao’s mouth tightened. It was true, he’d seen that kind of blankness before; he hoped very much that hers didn’t have quite the same causes behind it. “All right,” he agreed, and darted out a hand to catch Huaisang’s sleeve before he could sneak away. “You’re coming with me, in case I need anything commanded quickly.”

Huaisang, who had looked extremely pale by the end of Jiang Wanyin’s story, winced, but followed along behind him without complaint. Meng Yao approached slowly and kept his motions clear and simple as he bowed to her from just beyond arm’s length away. “Jiang-guniang?” he asked, quietly.

She blinked and turned slowly to face him. It took a long moment before recognition registered in her eyes, and Meng Yao cursed silently to himself. He’d only been the one who had to handle somebody in this condition once or twice before. “Meng-gongzi,” she finally answered and, after another long moment, added, “Nie-gongzi.”

“There are rooms here for you and your people.” Meng Yao stood aside and slowly swept his arm out in invitation, choosing the least populated path out of the receiving hall. “May I take you there?”

“Oh. Yes, of course…” She hesitated, though, glancing over at her brother. He was currently conferring with Nie Zonghui, and looked drawn so tight he might ring if you tapped on him.

“Your rooms will be beside your brother’s.” Meng Yao would have Huaisang make sure of it, if Nie Zonghui hadn’t already. He gave her a tiny, encouraging bow, arm still held out. If she refused to leave her brother, well, he’d try to herd them both and hope they made it before she started thinking again and (most likely) broke down. Jiang Yanli nodded, though, slow and stiff, and started to walk. Meng Yao stayed beside her, matching his steps to hers and glaring at anyone who looked like they might get in the way. He wasn’t sure she’d start again, if she stopped.

It wasn’t until they approached the smaller western courtyard that she did stop, sudden enough that she swayed. “My brothers,” she said abruptly, “a-Xian.” She looked up at Meng Yao. “There should be a room for our brother, Wei Wuxian. When he’s found.”

Despite her disjointed manner, that reassured Meng Yao. It was family she was focused on, not the security of the rooms. This was the shock of death and loss, he thought, not of an attack on her person. “It will be arranged,” he assured her. “Huaisang?”

“Yes of course,” Huaisang said, and made off hastily. Jiang Yanli blinked after him for a moment, and then at Meng Yao, before finally seeming to understand.

“Oh. Oh yes, of course.” She summoned up a faint smile. “I meant to congratulate you, Meng-gongzi.”

Meng Yao laughed softly, mostly with relief that she was still capable of that much. “My thanks, Jiang-guniang.” He hesitated, old uncertainty nipping at him, but finally added, “The surviving Lan sect also shelters here, off the larger western courtyard. May I call on you, when you’ve rested?”

“I think,” she drew a long breath and let it go, and looked just a bit less as though her very bones ached, “I would like that. Yes.”

Perhaps, Meng Yao allowed in the privacy of his own mind, Xichen had known what he was doing, asking him to do this. He might be reminding Jiang-guniang of her brother, also raised up from the gutter, but right now that might not be a bad thing.


Over the next few days, Meng Yao made time each afternoon to visit Jiang-guniang, and was relieved to see her beginning to return to the steady calm he remembered from the summer lectures. She still had frequent moments of distraction, of staring into space silently, followed by immediately seeking out Jiang Wanyin wherever he was, but Meng Yao thought she was recovering as well as anyone could, from the slaughter of her entire clan. It was only the intensity in her eyes, when she mentioned her missing brother that made him a little nervous.

“Xichen-xiong,” he asked one evening, “is there anything Jiang-guniang can do, in the preparations or the search for Wei-gongzi? I didn’t get to know her well, this past year, but she seemed capable.”

“Is she stable enough?” Xichen asked as he settled behind Meng Yao and reached up to take his hair down, something he seemed to have acquired a liking for. Or possibly he just liked the way it made Meng Yao blush hot every time.

“I think it will help keep her stable to have something to do.” Meng Yao shivered as Xichen’s fingers brushed his neck, but clung to his topic for once; this was important. “Can you really imagine what Jiang Wanyin would be like, right now, if he weren’t concentrating on plans to destroy the Wen sect and find their brother?”

Xichen huffed softly, not quite a laugh. “I’m afraid I can; you make a good point.” After a quiet moment, he asked, “Do you think she would be suited to the kind of work you’re doing? Or does she need more… direct work?”

Blood for her vengeance, Meng Yao translated that. He considered it. “She’s kept her sword drill up, but not with the enthusiasm I’d expect in someone longing for a fight. And she was interested, when I described a little of my network, but I think that was only because there was chance of word about Wei-gongzi, through it.” Which he had promised to search for, and not only because he’d been a little afraid of the intensity with which she’d asked. “What she’s focused on the most, these last few days, is organizing the surviving Jiang disciples, ensuring everyone has the resources and care they need.”

Xichen made a thoughtful sound, drawing a comb gently through Meng Yao’s loose hair. “Logistics, then, perhaps. Or charge of our central encampment, when we need to move forward from Qinghe. I will speak with Mingjue-xiong about it.” And then he drew Meng Yao’s hair aside and brushed a kiss over his nape.

A breathless shiver ran through Meng Yao. “Xichen-ge,” he gasped.

Xichen’s arms folded around him, gathering him back against Xichen’s chest. “Will you come to bed, and leave planning for the morning?” Xichen murmured against his ear.

Meng Yao rested his head back against Xichen’s shoulder, and let his eyes drift closed as the warmth of this belonging settled into him. “Yes, Xichen-ge.”


Jin Guangshan had finally arrived in the Unclean Realm to speak with the other sects about putting Wen down.

Meng Yao was not impressed.

He was more than happy to admit that Lan Xichen was a bit of an impossible standard to hold anyone else to, but after a year at Xichen’s side, a year of watching the quiet, thoughtful grace with which Xichen moved through the world, and now these months of watching the way Xichen and Nie Mingjue worked together, each filling in where the other hesitated, of watching Jiang Wanyin, no older than Meng Yao himself, doing his best to hold together the ravaged remnants of his sect… well, after all that, Jin Guangshan’s cold-eyed pretense of camaraderie as he greeted his peers grated. Meng Yao was more grateful than ever to the chance of fate that had brought him to Xichen’s attention, brought him into Lan.

That didn’t keep him from having to stifle a flinch at Jin Zixuan’s sidelong look, to say nothing of Jin Zixun’s open sneer.

A hand brushed his and he glanced at Jiang Yanli, who stood beside him with Huaisang on her other side. She gave him a brief look and patted his hand again before she faced forward, drew in a slow breath, and straightened, whole body shifting into perfectly poised neutrality. Meng Yao’s eyes widened. In the space of a few breaths, her presence became deeper, her bearing reserved but stately. Her faint smile was still kind, but also very quietly immoveable. Meng Yao, personally, would not have wished to cross her. And it suddenly occurred to him that he’d seen Xichen look a bit like this. Often, in fact. He’d just never observed Xichen becoming this. Meng Yao watched, a little awed, as Jin Guangshan’s gaze veered off from her while Jin Zixuan’s fixed on her as if nailed in place.

When she glanced at him again, there was a tiny sparkle in her eyes, as if inviting him in on a joke, and she nodded encouragingly. Abruptly, Meng Yao remembered his own observation that Jiang-guniang was coping by organizing and taking care of people, and he had to duck his head to hide a laugh. She tapped a toe, and he straightened up obediently, shifting his body and qi to seek a neutral stance while still standing firmly upright and rooted. It took a few breaths, but when he finally slid into it, he felt the flow of his own energies smooth and expand into a sense of readiness and poise that calmed him at once.

“Oh,” he breathed softly.

Her faint smile widened a touch. “There you go. Hold on to that. It helps.”

Nie Mingjue turned to conduct the assembled sect masters into the receiving hall, and Xichen glanced over at Meng Yao, beckoning. Meng Yao took a slow, steady breath. “Thank you, Jiang-guniang,” he murmured. “Your timing was perfect, it seems.” She gave him a steady nod and he walked forward to enter the hall at Xichen’s side.

The balanced, stable feeling, and the still expression that radiated out from it, worked on the younger Jins; he could see that. Jin Zixun, especially, cast him several hooded glances, leaning just a little forward each time, and each time he settled back without speaking. Jin Zixuan merely stopped noticing him in particular. Jin Guangshan, though, raised his brows at Xichen, as if at something improper, and Meng Yao had to concentrate very hard on the sense of his own center to keep rage from knocking him out of this covert stance.

“Lan-zongzhu, your…” Jin Guangshan trailed off on the faintest of dubious notes.

Xichen’s eyes turned opaque and hard, but he smiled as graciously as if he’d been asked for an introduction, effortlessly deflecting Jin Guangshan’s hinting. “My cultivation partner is the one who has created, and maintains, our network of agents within the Nightless City.” Meng Yao inclined his head, silent, spine straight. For all Huaisang was teasing when he called Meng Yao ‘Lan-furen’, he could almost feel the honor of Lan settled over his shoulders like an over-robe, or perhaps a shield. Xichen’s honor. He would not allow this man to disregard it, blood father or not.

Jin Guangshan burst into a smile, such that anyone not on their guard, or not watching those cold eyes, might think they’d never heard that note of doubt. “Of course, of course!”

“Meng Yao is the only reason we’re as ready as we are. Nie and Lan senior disciples are all prepared to move immediately, and I know Jiang-zongzhu,” Nie Mingjue nodded to Jiang Wanyin, “has already started word moving through Yunmeng that Jiang is re-building.” He spread his hands flat against his table, gaze focused intensely on Jin Guangshan. “How many are you prepared to commit to this campaign?”

“Senior disciples, hm? Wise of you to choose only the experienced, I’m sure.” Jin Guangshan smiled like a wei qi player who’d just laid down the final enclosing stone. “Jin can field four hundred.”

Meng Yao saw the lightning-quick glance between Xichen and Nie Mingjue, and the hair on the back of his neck rose.

“That will improve our chances somewhat.” Nie Mingjue smiled a bit tightly.

Meng Yao resolved immediately to extend his network into Lanling, and the Jin sect. If he was right, and Jin Guangshan was committing less than the full strength of Jin’s seniors, then he almost certainly meant to let the other sects bleed themselves dry and come along in the wake of this campaign to sweep up any power and influence the other, exhausted sects might let fall from their hands.

He felt Jin Guangshan’s attention sweep over him like the cold dash of a rain front, and locked his mental hands on the memory of Jiang-guniang’s seamless poise. He lifted his head to look back at the Master of Jin out of the stillness of perfect neutrality, and after a moment, Jin Guangshan’s gaze passed on.

Yes. Meng Yao would see about extending his network immediately.

Flipside

Lan Qiren unrolled the scroll he was reading another turn and sipped his tea before setting it down with a slightly wistful sigh at the heavy taste. He was grateful to the Nie sect for sheltering Lan while they all dealt with the Wen sect, but he did miss his own teas. He entertained a brief, sneaking thought of mentioning this to young Meng Yao, who did seem to have a remarkable network of resources to draw on, now they were all put to it, but he put the thought aside as unworthy. Rebuilding must come first, for Lan; they would re-establish the Cloud Recesses once Wangji had cleared out the interlopers, and provide a proper example of righteousness for the cultivation world once again.

Wangji. He frowned absently down at his scroll. His nephew had flung himself into the campaign to evict the Wen from Yunmeng with a grimness that Qiren couldn’t help worrying over. Dedication to the safety of the sect was only right, but he couldn’t help but wonder whether it was that alone or something more personal that drove Wangji.

Something like finding Wei Wuxian.

Qiren sighed, one hand rising to rub his forehead. He still couldn’t imagine what about that wild, thoughtless boy could have caught his careful and upright young nephew’s attention. He found himself hoping a little that the most likely answer to Wei Wuxian’s absence was the correct one—that Wei Wuxian had been killed in the first rush of the Wen attacks. It wasn’t that he wished the boy harm, but a man had the right to put his own blood first, surely. It would make life easier for Wangji if the likeliest answer turned out to be correct. There might be pain, yes, but a briefer, simpler pain than that of years on end struggling to stay on the right path against the constant influence of someone taking the wrong one.

He’d watched that once, watched his older brother hide himself away, heart and soul wrung out by just such a conflict, and in the end it had been a mere handful of years before he’d followed that woman into the darkness of death. Qiren would not stand by and watch such a thing happen to his family twice.

Resolved to that once again, he turned back to his scroll and let the astringent taste of the black tea wash away pointless speculation.


Wei Wuxian sat in the center of an array. Not a repelling array—there was no point when the very soil that he wrote in was screaming with the voice of the furious dead. No, what he had inscribed was a channeling array.

It was directed outward.

He couldn’t close out the maelstrom of rage around him, not when it was so concentrated, not when his own rage burned so high and wild. That one simple fact had seared into his mind, inescapable, from the moment he’d hit the ground. That being so, the only way to stay whole was to let it flow through him, out of him.

The problem, of course, was that resentful energy didn’t flow. It clung. It dug in to his flesh and spirit like claws. So he couldn’t just let it do anything. He had to direct it.

And the only channel he had for doing that was the path of his own life.

Breath by breath, he pushed with the faint flow of qi left to him, turned his spirit and mind to slide those claws past him, through him, redirecting the wild force outward.

The talismans and arrays helped. They buttressed his redirection, lent more precision and force, but they weren’t enough. Soon he was going to have to find something else, some lever, some tool that would give him at least a moment’s respite from this constant push. He kept thinking he knew something that would work, if only he could have one moment without the dead screaming through his thoughts. Just one moment.

He had to find a way to rest.

Soon.

Becoming the Phoenix – Four

Meng Yao had been having quite a nice day. A nice season, even.

He’d kept Huaisang out of the very worst of the trouble he’d tried to find by running about with Wei Wuxian, and Nie-zongzhu hadn’t held it against Meng Yao that Huaisang had slipped out of the Cloud Recesses a day or two before him and promptly vanished on some jaunt of his own.

“He’ll be all right,” Nie-zongzhu had said gruffly, drumming his fingers on his writing table with an agitation Meng Yao refrained from pointing out. “More importantly, next time a member of my sect is acting like some Wen hooligan, boy, tell me about it! I won’t have that kind of thing in the Nie sect!”

“Yes, Zongzhu,” Meng Yao had answered politely, eyes lowered. As always, this deflected Nie-zongzhu, and after a moment more of glowering he had laughed, low and rough.

“Not that for much longer, hm?” He’d raked his glance over the, admittedly, very pale white and gray robes Meng Yao had been wearing, smiling behind his mustache. “A good thing. It’s as well that one of us managed to settle on someone.” He’d sat back with a sigh. “All right, take some of the men and go find Huaisang. Make sure he’s all right.”

Meng Yao had stifled his laughter until he’d been out of the receiving hall.

And it hadn’t been much trouble to track down Huaisang, given that he’d apparently fallen in with Lan Wangji’s search for the yin metal fragments, which Wei Wuxian had invited himself along on. Meng Yao was honestly starting to come around to Xichen’s belief that those two were becoming friends, if only because Wei Wuxian clearly had no intention of letting it be otherwise and Lan Wangji was apparently very bad at saying no to him. Huaisang had rolled his eyes mightily over the two of them the whole time he was chivvying Meng Yao and the escort he’d brought to follow after them to the Chang sect’s compound.

They’d stumbled in on the end of an alarming combination of wanton slaughter and cultivation politics, but Meng Yao’s offer of Nie justice to answer Xue Yang’s identifiable crimes had brought the whole thing around in favor of the Nie sect, which gave him some satisfaction. The criminal was duly packed away into a cell and Meng Yao had been a little impressed by Wei Wuxian’s political awareness, when he actually bothered to exercise it. Best of all, Lan Wangji had given him a long, measuring look and a faint nod before turning away, which was progress for them.

It had been such a nice day. And then Wen Chao had shown up.

The man’s strutting and posing and bullying arrogance were bad enough, but the implications hovering around his words were worse. The Wen sect knew that the other sects were seeking to keep the yin metal fragments from them, knew that the beginning of an alliance against them was already forming.

And they were targeting Lan.

He was almost grateful when Wen Chao lost his patience and threat turned into melee. It gave him something to do with his growing fear and rage, let the complex net of politics and plans narrow down to a blazing now of iron control over his breath, of feeling the movements around him and driving his sword through the spaces created by the broad strokes and long lunges of the Wen form. He lost track of Huaisang early and hoped that meant Huaisang had found somewhere to shelter. One Wen fighter fell back from him with a deep slash in his side, but the one that replaced him drove Meng Yao back along the inner passageway, and almost onto Nie Mingjue’s sword before the sect master swore and hauled his cut short.

“Meng Yao—!” The shout ended on a harsh sound that wrenched Meng Yao’s focus wider again, and shock raked through him as Nie Mingjue stumbled into him.

“Zongzhu!” He caught Nie Mingjue’s arm and looked over his shoulder into the hard, detached gaze of Wen Zhuliu.

Wen Chao laughed from behind his retainer and called a halt to the attack. “Nie-zongzhu,” he taunted as Nie Mingjue tried to straighten up, “Just as Qinghe lies at the foot of Qishan, now you are under my foot.”

Meng Yao’s breath felt frozen in his chest, but calculation flashed through his thoughts. Wen Chao was no renown fighter; even Meng Yao might be able to stand him off for a while. Wen Zhuliu, though, was another matter, and the only one here who might match him was injured, to what extent Meng Yao didn’t know. Wen Chao was toying with them, though. He wasn’t yet quite ready to declare open war all on his own. There was a chance, if Meng Yao could remind Wen Chao of that fact, but how could he speak of it confidently when it was obvious he was the only thing currently keeping the Master of Nie on his feet!?

He’d rarely been as grateful as he was then to hear Huaisang’s voice behind him, and the exclamations from Wei Wuxian and Jiang Wanyin as they hurried up also. Indeed, Wei Wuxian promptly squared himself up in front of Nie Mingjue and reminded Wen Chao of the exact political trespass Meng Yao had had in mind. He breathed out a slow breath of relief and helped Huaisang get Nie-zongzhu more upright. His dignity as the Master of Nie was an important part of carrying this off.

And then Wen Chao taunted Wei Wuxian, in turn, with the information that Wen Xu, known for his volatility and brutality, had already attacked the Cloud Recesses.

Meng Yao lost the rest of Wen Chao’s words to the ringing in his ears. The only word echoing through his mind was Xichen. Slowly, his fingers closed around the little packet he kept in the breast of his robes, the hair ornament Xichen had given him, the promise that the next time he came to Cloud Recesses it would be for good. The solidity of metal pressing against his palm brought the rest of the world back in time for him to hear Wen Chao gloat over how the direct disciples of the major sects would be gathered in to Qishan soon. Hostages, obviously, and the thought broke the helpless echo of Xichen’s name, set the spark to a quick-crackling line of other thoughts.

Three days travel by sword, to reach Gusu.

Survivors.

Shelter, where would be the most impregnable now?

Qinghe Nie, the clan hold that was a fortress.

The land path back, possibly with wounded, possibly evading pursuit; fifteen days, most likely.

Meng Yao took a slow, controlled breath, as the echo of Wen Chao’s mocking laughter faded off the stone walls. “Huaisang,” he said, very calmly, “I won’t be able to look after you in Qishan. Please take care of yourself. Do what you have to, for the time being.”

Huaisang’s mouth was tight as he looked across at Meng Yao, and he nodded sharply. “I will. I promise.” He ducked further under his brother’s arm, taking all of his weight.

Meng Yao turned to give Nie-zongzhu a precise bow, feeling like he was hanging on to his composure with clenched teeth. “Nie-zongzhu. Forgive me, but I must take my leave of the sect now. I will return within twenty days, with Xichen-xiong and any other survivors.”

Nie Mingjue’s mouth tilted, but his eyes were burning almost as hot as Meng Yao’s heart felt, and he nodded as sharply as Huaisang had. “Go. Bring them here.” His voice dropped, turning gravelly. “And then we’ll begin.”

Meng Yao smiled, hard and tight. “Yes,” he agreed. “We will.” He turned and strode for his rooms, ignoring what sounded like an argument that started between Jiang Wanyin and Wei Wuxian, behind him. If Wei Wuxian won it and caught up to him, well and good. If not, well, Meng Yao wasn’t going to wait.


Meng Yao stood in the middle of the Cloud Recesses’ largest courtyard, in the middle of white stone blackened with streaks of ash, of graceful, austere buildings burned down to shells, screens seared away to gaping holes, and concentrated fiercely on his breathing.

If he didn’t, he was going to scream.

The bones of the mountain remained. Even most of the trees and greenery had survived, saved by the constant flow of water and mist. But the pavilions and walkways were in ruins, and several halls had sagging roofs where load bearing pillars had burned and cracked. The refuge that Xichen had made this place into for him was in tattered pieces.

Lan Qiren sat on one of the courtyard’s remaining benches, leaning heavily on one hand. “They’re both gone,” he said, voice rough with smoke or grief or both. “Wangji gave himself up to save the last of our disciples, and I made Xichen take our books and flee. We haven’t been able to find him. I think he must have left the mountain already.”

Meng Yao’s mind locked around those details, cold and hard. “If Wen Xu took Lan er-gongzi with him, then he’ll be one of the hostages. They will not be kind, but the value of a hostage only lasts as long as they live. The Wen will not kill him. I will seek for Lan-zongzhu.” He turned, examining Lan Qiren closely. “Will you be able to travel as far as Qinghe? Nie-zongzhu has offered the shelter of the Unclean Realm.”

Lan Qiren studied him for a long moment and finally nodded, slowly. “I can travel, with our disciples’ help. You truly believe you can find Xichen?”

Meng Yao took another slow, controlled breath, pushing down the fear trying to claw its way up his throat. “Yes,” he answered, flat and sure. He would not allow it to be otherwise.

Lan Qiren sighed, slumping more heavily on his supporting hand. “Well. You were a diligent and well-spoken student this summer. I imagine you’ll do. Find him, then.”

Meng Yao brushed aside his bafflement over what being a diligent and well-spoken student had to do with finding Xichen, and took his leave with a quick bow. He was most of the way to the distant clearing he’d used for sword practice, the one no one but Xichen had ever found, before the image of Wei Wuxian floated up from the back of his brain—the image of Wei Wuxian and Lan Wangji sharing a silent thought together. He couldn’t help then imagining the face Lan Qiren would likely make, if he saw that.

He was snorting with helpless laughter when he walked into the clearing, scrubbing his hands over his face, and so it was Xichen who saw him first.

“A-Yao!”

His head jerked up, and for one moment he just stared at the vision of Xichen, safe and whole if also smudged with ash and streaks of green sap here and there. “Xichen-xiong,” he breathed, taking one step forward, and then another, and then with a rush he was in Xichen’s arms, holding fiercely tight to him. “You’re all right,” he gasped, shaking now that he was sure it was true. And then he pushed back just far enough to look up, hands sliding over Xichen’s shoulders, down his chest, patting gently. “You are all right? They didn’t hurt you?”

“They never caught me,” Xichen confirmed, stroking Meng Yao’s hair back. “Uncle insisted that I take the library and go, when they started breaking the barrier. They left a small troop in the town, who have kept on searching, but they don’t know the mountain. I’ve kept ahead of them, but haven’t quite dared return to the Cloud Recesses, yet.” He closed his hands around Meng Yao’s face, just looking at him for a long moment, smiling even through the worry so clear in his eyes. “How did you hear so quickly?”

Meng Yao tamped down the snarl that wanted to escape. “Wen Chao boasted of his brother attacking the Cloud Recesses, when he took a little band of his own to the Unclean Realm. Fortunately, there were a few too many witnesses for his comfort, and he broke off quickly. I think I was only a day behind Lan er-gongzi, all the way here.”

Xichen stilled. “Wangji returned?”

Meng Yao bit his lip and reached up to rest his hands on Xichen’s shoulders. “Yes,” he said, softly. “He seems to have arrived just after the barrier broke. He… he gave himself up to protect the rest, and Wen Xu took him.”

For one long moment, he saw the mirror of his own rage turn Xichen’s eyes dark and hard. And then those eyes closed and Xichen drew a deep, slow breath. When they opened again, they were clear. Meng Yao tucked his chin down and tried to bank his fury in turn; clearly, Xichen was not going to cut his way through the Wen troop in Gusu immediately.

A shame, that.

“They took him?” Xichen asked quietly. “As a prisoner?”

“As a hostage, most likely. Wen Chao mentioned that an ‘invitation’ will be coming, demanding all the major sects send disciples to Wen for ‘schooling’, including at least one direct disciple.” Because it seemed like the thing Xichen most needed to hear right now, he added softly, “Hostage taking only works if they stay alive. They won’t kill him.”

“Which complicates any move against them,” Xichen murmured in a considering sort of tone, and Meng Yao smiled.

“Then the first step must be an opportunity for them to escape. Not such a difficult thing, considering how many servants a place like the Nightless City must require.”

Xichen’s brows arched up, and he slowly smiled back. “I see I’ll need to ensure you’re included in our councils.”

Meng Yao felt like he might be glowing, lit up with the pride and pleasure of hearing that. “Nie-zongzhu invited all of you to shelter with him, for now. Shall we return to the rest of the sect, or…?”

“Better not, if the Wen are still searching for me but not bothering with anyone else.” Xichen stroked the backs of his fingers down Meng Yao’s cheek. “Once we’re out of Gusu, it will be my turn to rely on you, I think, to get us there unseen.”

Despite the grim situation, Meng Yao felt he might nearly float down the mountain, as they set out, buoyed up by Xichen’s trust.


The surviving Lan sect, in the care of Lan Qiren, had made it back to the Unclean Realm before Meng Yao. He wasn’t surprised. He and Xichen had had to make their way cross-country for the most part, staying away from roads of any size to avoid the little squads of Wen disciples that were cropping up everywhere. The times they’d had to pass through larger towns or cities, to break their trail or to pick up supplies, Meng Yao had taken them through the poorest districts and markets, trusting that the people who made their living there would still recognize his own knowledge of the ins and outs, and failing that, his absolute willingness to kill in defense of what was his.

Only one arrogant little gang in Zibo had challenged that willingness, demanding money to let such obvious fugitives pass through unharmed. Fortunately, it had been no great delay in his errands to leave their leader bleeding out on the threshhold of the Anbo gambling hall before returning to Xichen with the fish and buns that he’d gone out to get. His sleeve had gotten fairly well bloodied, though, and he’d had to give up on the sneaking temptation to not mention it to Xichen.

He needn’t have worried. Xichen had only gathered him in and pressed a gentle kiss to his forehead, leaving him both flustered and soothed in the wake of that descent back into familiar violence. He’d felt less concern over what he might have to do, after that.

The indirect journey had made slow going, though, and he felt a good deal of tension unwind from his spine at the sound of the heavy gate of the Unclean Realm closing behind them.

He followed quietly along beside Xichen as the surviving Lan disciples came to greet their sect master—fewer than he’d thought there were, and he worried over what other bad news might find Xichen until Lan Qiren mentioned that they’d left a thin network of the senior disciples behind in Gusu, dispersed among the villages and smaller cities. Finally, Nie Mingjue showed Xichen to the rooms set aside for him, already thoughtfully draped with some surviving hangings from the Cloud Recesses.

“They are yours for as long as you require,” he said firmly over Xichen’s attempt to thank him, and Xichen gave way with a wry smile that said he was used to Nie Mingjue’s bluntness.

And then Nie Mingjue gave Meng Yao a rather sly sidelong glance, and added far more lightly, “You need a little extra room, now, don’t you?” Meng Yao choked down what was absolutely not a squeak and Nie Mingjue added, “Or there are rooms beside these for Meng Yao, if the two of you prefer to be formal.”

Xichen was laughing as he waved Nie Mingjue out. “Thank you Mingjue-xiong, I’m sure we’ll be fine.” His smile turned gentle and rueful as he gathered a furiously blushing Meng Yao into his arms. “I’m afraid the bit about teasing is a family trait, if you’re close enough with them.”

“I…” Meng Yao couldn’t quite look up, but he did manage to say, against Xichen’s shoulder, “I do wish it. To stay with you.”

Xichen’s arms tightened around him. “That pleases me more than I can say.” And then he huffed softly. “I wanted a more public declaration and celebration, for you. But it seems that will be difficult for some time.”

Meng Yao felt like he might melt against Xichen with the warmth of hearing such a thing, and he finally dared to look up. “Then perhaps…” He reached into the breast of his robes for the small package that had been a talisman to him lately, and held it out rather shyly to Xichen. “Would you help me with this?”

Xichen’s gaze on him turned heavy and intent. “I would be very pleased to.” He led Meng Yao to the table and pressed him down onto one of the cushions, stepping into the sleeping room to rummage briefly through the things set out there before returning with a comb. Meng Yao wet his lips, pulse speeding as Xichen settled behind him and delicately undid his pewter hair ornament, laying it aside on the table. Long fingers slowly unwound his coiled braids and carefully unravelled them, one after the other.

Meng Yao had had other people help him with his hair before, especially with the dressed braids that the Nie sect favored. But never like this, never to undo the claim of another and replace it, and every time Xichen’s fingers brushed his neck, his breath caught, until he had to put out a hand and hold on to the table, lightheaded.

Xichen gathered his hair back and ran the comb through it, broad, powerful hands so very gentle that it made Meng Yao shiver. Xichen took his time about it, strokes slow and soothing. When he finally sectioned the front strands and drew them back, it was into a simple fold and snug twist, wrapping it with the black ribbon Meng Yao had used to bind the ends of the braids under. Meng Yao held out the silver, Lan-styled hair ornament, fingers trembling around it a little, and Xichen took it only to lace his fingers with Meng Yao’s and lift his hand, pressing a kiss to his knuckles. “Almost done,” Xichen promised softly.

Meng Yao nodded and folded his hands in tight his lap, feeling as though he were about to step through some great gate or doorway into a new place. There was nothing ritual about what they were doing, and yet it felt as irrevocable as making their bows with an entire clan looking on.

Xichen slid the silver hair ornament into place, running the pin so carefully through Meng Yao’s topknot that he didn’t feel a single hair pull. “There,” Xichen said quietly, hands resting on Meng Yao’s shoulders. “Let me look at you.”

Meng Yao turned on his knees to look up at Xichen, breath still coming rather fast. “Is it…?”

Xichen smiled slowly, more heated than Meng Yao had ever seen. “It becomes you very well, my own.”

Meng Yao made a breathless sound as the certainty of Xichen’s claim wrapped around him, and leaned pliantly into Xichen’s arms as Xichen gathered him close. “Xichen-ge,” he said, soft and wanting. He could feel the hard breath Xichen took in, at that, and smiled up at him, bright and giddy that he had this effect on Lan Xichen.

It was only fair, after all.

Xichen laughed softly. “I see.” He leaned down and pressed slow kisses, not to Meng Yao’s parted lips but to the line of his neck. Meng Yao jolted against him, eyes wide and shocked at the way the heat of Xichen’s mouth on his skin ran through him, sweet and liquid.

“Xichen-ge!”

“Will you let me, a-Yao?” Xichen murmured against his throat. “It is not yet the place I most wish to give you, but will you let me undress you here in our rooms, and lay you down, and know that no one else will ever see you undone as I have?”

Meng Yao shuddered, feeling the words as if they were a caressing hand reaching deep inside him. “Yes. Please.” He wanted everything he could have of Xichen, the edge of long desire whetted by still-immediate fear that he might lose it all. Finally, Xichen raised his head and took Meng Yao’s mouth, kissing him slow and deep and thorough enough that Meng Yao almost thought he might come undone just from this.

“Thank you.” And then Xichen scooped Meng Yao into his arms and stood, lifting him effortlessly. Meng Yao caught at his shoulders with a breathless laugh.

“Xichen-ge!”

Xichen smiled down at him and repeated, “Let me?”

Meng Yao ducked his head, flustered but also delighted to be cradled so close, sheltered by Xichen’s strength. “Yes, ge-ge,” he agreed softly, snuggling closer as Xichen’s arms tightened around him.

Xichen carried him to the sleeping room and laid him on the bed. Somehow the solidity of the bed under him made everything more real and immediate, and Meng Yao’s breath came increasingly short as Xichen tugged off his shoes, slowly unwound his belts and sashes, sure, gentle hands nudging Meng Yao to shift so Xichen could slide the robes off his shoulders. It felt desperately intimate, before Xichen’s hands ever touched skin, and when they finally did Meng Yao found himself arching up off the bed with a low, wordless sound.

“Shh.” Xichen kissed him again, slow and sure, flattening his palms against Meng Yao’s skin and stroking slowly up his ribs. “I have you, a-Yao.” He cupped a hand around Meng Yao’s cheek, eyes steady on him, staying close. “All right?”

Meng Yao wet his lips and nodded; anticipation still fluttered through his stomach, but Xichen’s gentle care softened it into a warmth he could relax in. Xichen kissed him softly and drew back long enough to shed the last of his clothes. Meng Yao hadn’t even noticed him undressing. He reached out as Xichen returned to the bed, a little shy but wanting to feel Xichen’s body against his. When he did, it drew a soft moan from him, and Xichen smiled as he gathered Meng Yao close against him, smoothing a hand up and down his back.

“Easy, my own. We’ll go slowly.”

Meng Yao looked up at him, eyes wide as the implications of Xichen’s words sank in. Xichen assumed he was untouched.

Which he was. His mother had defended him fiercely from anyone who had presumed her boy’s favors were for sale alongside her own, and made sure he could defend himself as he grew up. But for someone to assume it, that of course he would be inexperienced, would need to go slowly… He buried his head in Xichen’s shoulder and nodded, wordless.

Xichen cuddled him close, hands gentle on him, until Meng Yao finally relaxed against him, quieting into pliancy, until he lifted his head again, want starting to rise through the heart-shaking wonder. “Xichen-ge?” he asked, pressing a little closer.

Xichen smiled. “Yes. Come here, my own.” He nudged Meng Yao down onto his stomach, leaning over him, and Meng Yao’s whole body relaxed at the feeling of Xichen over him, sheltering him. He knew he wouldn’t be able to do anything, stretched out like this, that he was entirely in Xichen’s hands, and still all he felt was safe. Warm hands stroked up and down his back, slow and firm, until he wanted to purr with it. “You honor me with your trust,” Xichen murmured against the nape of his neck, and a slow shudder ran through Meng Yao, heat and want and sweetness all wound together. He was hard already, just from this gentle handling.

“Ge-ge, please.” He looked over his shoulder, entreating, and Xichen dropped a soft kiss against his temple.

“Yes, my own.” He slid a hand slowly down the length of Meng Yao’s body, easing under him to stroke down his stomach until long fingers wrapped around his cock, fondling him. The rush of sensation was so intense, after all the slow petting, that Meng Yao moaned out loud with it. He lifted his hips for Xichen, flushed with how wanton it felt, but Xichen’s approving sound against his shoulder and the pleasure winding through him kept him there, gasping for breath as Xichen’s fingers worked over him, slow and firm and caressing. Xichen wrapped an arm around him, supporting him and bracing himself over Meng Yao, and it was easy, so easy, to relax into that hold, to spread his knees against the soft covers and give himself up to Xichen’s touch, to the awareness of all Lan Xichen’s immense strength and control wrapped around him.

Just as his body started to tighten with the first whisper of release, Xichen let go and reached over their heads, and when his hand returned, fingers stroking over the curve of Meng Yao’s rear, they were slick. Anticipation shivered through him, and he whispered against the covers, “Yes. Please.”

Xichen gathered him a little closer, long fingers sliding between his cheeks, spreading them. “You’re so sweet for me, my own,” he murmured against Meng Yao’s ear.

Meng Yao moaned, breathless, as Xichen’s fingers rubbed slow, firm little circles against his hole, easing him open. “Always, for you.” And this was why, the slow way Xichen’s fingers worked over and over his hole, relentless and still so gentle, stretching him harder and harder, but so caressing. It set Meng Yao panting, muscles lax and trembling as those long fingers filled him over and over, and still Xichen was stretching him wider. “Ge-ge,” Meng Yao gasped, dizzy with the slow-rising flood of sensation and the warm certainty of how careful Xichen was being with him. He’d heard too many stories, growing up, of customers who weren’t, especially from the younger men. This was the furthest possible thing from those tales, and he loved feeling it.

“I’ll take care of you, a-Yao,” Xichen promised, low and sure, and just hearing it unwound Meng Yao, soothed him down into the pleasure of that intimate touch, left him draped over the support of Xichen’s arm under him. “There.” Xichen’s voice turned velvety. “That’s good.” He eased his fingers free and shifted over Meng Yao, the light, braced weight of him settling warm all the way down Meng Yao’s back. The slow slide of his cock, thick and hot between Meng Yao’s cheeks, sent a breathless shiver up Meng Yao’s spine. It felt big, made him aware all over again that Xichen was larger than he was, all over. The awareness made heat coil low in his stomach.

“Tell me, if you don’t like this,” Xichen said softly, and pressed a kiss under Meng Yao’s ear. “Promise me, a-Yao.”

Meng Yao laughed, soft and a little giddy with proof after proof of how Xichen cared for him. “I promise, ge-ge. Let me feel it?”

“Yes.” Xichen’s voice was caressing, and the hand that settled on Meng Yao’s stomach, lifting him higher onto his knees, was gentle. Meng Yao relaxed into the support, and was very glad of it indeed when Xichen’s cock started pushing into him, slow and steady, stretching him wider and wider. He was gasping for breath by the time it leveled off into a slow slide into him, but he didn’t want it to stop. When Xichen asked, husky, “A-Yao?” his answer was a low moan of, “Yes.”

Xichen took him at his word, drawing back slow and easy, and then pushing into him on a long, hard slide that ended with his hips grinding into Meng Yao’s ass. Xichen made a husky sound of pleasure that walked heat up Meng Yao’s spine. The intensity of that stretch and slide, of feeling Xichen inside him, unstrung Meng Yao, but that was just fine. Xichen held him safe and sure, and all Meng Yao needed to do was feel this. Feel how big Xichen was inside him, feel the way Xichen shifted over him and the jolt of heavy pleasure at the end of each slow thrust in. The heat of it built so slowly, so sweetly, that the crest caught him by surprise, and he cried out, thin and breathless, as pleasure raked through him, body wringing down tight on the thickness of Xichen’s cock.

Xichen groaned and caught Meng Yao up tight against his body, the long, slow rhythm of his thrusts turning hard and short. Meng Yao could feel every bit of him, now that his body was clenched tight around Xichen, and the rougher drag sent sparks down his nerves, drove tiny whimpers out of him. When Xichen stilled and slowly eased them both down to the bed, Meng Yao lay quiet in the circle of his arm, trying to catch his breath. He thought maybe Xichen was, too.

Finally, Xichen drew back, and Meng Yao couldn’t help making a soft, protesting sound. Xichen was smiling as he eased Meng Yao gently around in his arms and gathered him close again. “I’m here, a-Yao. I have you.”

Meng Yao relaxed again, winding his arms around Xichen’s ribs and snuggling close. “Thank you,” he said, a little shy now that the rush of heat and pleasure was past.

Xichen pressed a soft kiss to his forehead and another to his lips, mouth warm and slow against his. “It was my honor and my pleasure, and I thank you for permitting me.”

Meng Yao blushed hot, burrowing into Xichen’s chest. Xichen’s effortless grace made him feel so young. Xichen cradled him close, one broad hand rubbing up and down his back. “Let me take care of you, my own,” he murmured against Meng Yao’s hair.

“Always,” Meng Yao promised, basking in the warmth of belonging. He would do anything to keep this.

Anything at all.

Flipside

Nie Mingjue considered the man beside him, as he led Meng Yao into the cells to where Xue Yang was being kept.

When Xichen had first written on Meng Yao’s behalf, Mingjue had jestingly protested that Xichen was stealing his people. Now he thought rather that Xichen had found one of his own people among Nie, and reached out to claim him.

There was a strain of extremism, in Lan. Lan cultivators, especially the ones of Lan clan blood, were rarely capable of half-measures. When they chose a path, they chose with their whole hearts and never looked back. Mingjue had seen it in Xichen’s father’s choice of wife. He’d seen it in Lan Qiren’s choice of the Lan Discipline above all else. He’d seen it in Xichen’s own choice to follow the path of compassion, from which he would not budge for all his uncle’s strictness or Mingjue’s own efforts to get him to consider practicalities now and then.

He’d seen the very same thing surface in Meng Yao’s eyes, like a dragon rising from the still surface of the sea, when he’d heard Xichen might have been harmed. It was why Mingjue hadn’t tried to argue against an instant, headlong drive across the country to retrieve Xichen. And it was why he’d escorted Meng Yao down here himself. If Xue Yang said anything to suggest a threat to Xichen, which he might well do for fun, poisonous little creature that he was, Mingjue had no doubt that Meng Yao would kill him on the spot, if there was no one to hold him back.

Xue Yang looked up at the sound of them approaching, with that alarming, disconnected smile of his firmly in place. “Nie-zongzhu. Have you decided to appease the Wen by releasing me? Or perhaps to torture me for that bit of yin metal you want so much?” He laughed as if either possibility amused him.

“Be silent,” Mingjue snapped. Xue Yang always made his skin crawl, to talk to.

Beside him, Meng Yao was staring hard at their prisoner. “Ah,” he said, quiet and even, and glanced up at Mingjue. “There’s no point to questioning him, by any method,” he stated, matter-of-fact. “None of this is real to him.”

Mingjue frowned. “What do you mean?” He rapped his knuckles on the iron bars. “He seems to be able to tell everything around him is real. He hadn’t tried to walk out through these, at least.”

Meng Yao smiled a bit tightly. “I didn’t mean that he’s delusional, exactly. It’s simply that the only truly real thing in his world is himself and his desires. He won’t react the way most people would think reasonable. He might view torture as pleasing, in a way, because it’s attention focused on him. Not,” he added dryly, “that he wouldn’t also most likely take it as a reason to destroy Nie and the Unclean Realm, and probably Lan because I’m standing here talking about it.”

Mingjue couldn’t help noticing that Xue Yang was now focused on Meng Yao with a look of deranged delight. “Oh. You’re interesting.”

Meng Yao glanced at him, hard and distant in a way that was almost as alarming. “Extract the yin metal fragment from him and kill him swiftly. Speaking to him will gain you nothing.”

“Xichen might know how to locate it, at least,” Mingjue said, trying to banish the mental image of twin swords clashing and sliding against each other. “And then we can be done with this, yes.” He beckoned Meng Yao along as he turned back toward the stairs.

“Come back and talk some time,” Xue Yang called after them, lilting and coy, and Mingjue resolved to wash as soon as he could. Maybe that would get rid of the feeling that he’d walked by something foul and the scent was clinging to his robes.

“I would prefer if you didn’t,” he said, as they climbed back toward the light. “Speak with him again, I mean.”

Meng Yao laughed, flat and unamused. “Please don’t worry; I won’t. No good ever comes of it, with someone like that.”

When they found Xichen, he frowned and reached out to rest his hands on Meng Yao’s shoulders. “A-Yao?”

A visible shudder went through Meng Yao, and he stepped close, fingers wound tight in the flowing silk of Xichen’s sleeves. The way he looked up at Xichen was near desperate, but then he drew a long breath and seemed to find comfort, or perhaps stability, again. “I’m well, Xichen-xiong,” he said softly, and the words rang true.

It was an uncomfortable thought that came to Mingjue then—that perhaps, in someone with that Lan-like current of extremism, the difference between madness and sanity lay in whether they chose a path that loved them back.

Not that he really had room to judge what sanity another sect’s ways left them.

“Xichen, do you know of a way to reveal yin metal? To make it resonate?” he asked briskly, turning to the practicalities.

Xichen’s lingering worry turned to a thoughtful look. “Possibly. Let me check some of our texts.” He was gathering Meng Yao into the curve of his arm even as he spoke, and Mingjue stifled a snort of amusement.

Even if he was right, it looked as though these two had chosen a good path, in each other. He was glad for them both.

And he put out of his mind the thought of what Meng Yao’s path might have looked like, otherwise.

Becoming the Phoenix – Three

Many things had abruptly become easier for Meng Yao.

After Chang Yun was ejected in disgrace from the Lan summer lectures, whispers about Meng Yao had hushed, for the first time in his entire life. It was a little stunning, to be able to walk abroad without careful calculation of dangers and politics and how deferential he had to be to whom.

He kept the manners Huaisang had helped him polish drawn about him, of course, but the sudden freedom felt like a yoke of filled water buckets suddenly falling off his shoulders.

And whenever he was with Lan Xichen, so many of his habitual calculations dissolved in the warm glow of Xichen’s attention. For once in his life, Meng Yao was spending most of his time unreservedly happy, and a little dazed by the fact.

Sword practice did get a bit more difficult, though.

“This will finish with a lunge, so start rotating through the inside now. It stabilizes the sword and contains your qi more tightly. That will strengthen the blow, as you complete it.” Xichen’s palm slid down the inside of Meng Yao’s forearm, demonstrating the rotation, and a gasp caught in Meng Yao’s throat at the warmth of the touch, promptly disrupting his breath control.

“I’m sorry,” he apologized at once, frustrated with himself. He had better focus than this.

Xichen laid a finger very lightly against his lips. “It doesn’t displease me,” he murmured, and Meng Yao lost what little control his still had of his breath, eyes widening helplessly as heat rolled through him like a wave.

“Xichen-xiong,” he said, against that hushing finger, half protesting and half wanting more. Xichen’s smile turned a little rueful and he gathered Meng Yao close, just holding him for a moment.

“It is a little of why I meant to wait until the end of summer to declare myself,” he admitted as Meng Yao slowly relaxed against him. “But I’m selfish enough that I like how freely you answer me, a-Yao. Forgive me?”

“Anything,” Meng Yao agreed, softly.

Xichen chuckled and leaned back enough to look down at him, clearly amused. “I’m not the only one who likes to say romantic things, hm?”

Meng Yao just smiled. It was the bare truth, though he rather hoped they were never in circumstances that would lead Xichen to see this truth in action. “So, I should rotate inward in the moment I begin to shift forward?”

“Precisely.” Xichen dropped a light kiss on his forehead and stepped back. “Show me.”

Meng Yao regathered his concentration. He might never be a brilliant swordsman, but after a summer of Xichen’s tutoring he anticipated being an irreproachably competent one. He was certainly bending all his effort on that goal.

He never wanted Xichen to be ashamed of him before the other sects.


“I told you so,” Huaisang sing-songed under his breath.

“Huaisang.”

“He’s standing right there watching you.”

Huaisang.”

“Why don’t you ask if he’ll help with your lantern?”

Meng Yao pinched the bridge of his nose, holding his brush clear of the paper so he didn’t ruin the flowing water he was drawing. Water, not clouds, water. And if there was a camellia traced inside one swirl, that was no one’s business but his. “Huaisang,” he growled.

Huaisang folded a gilded paper seam delicately around the frame of his lantern, smirking. “Just a suggestion.”

Meng Yao added the final lines to his drawing, firmly refraining from looking over his shoulder at where Xichen stood beside his uncle, watching over the summer students. He could still feel the weight of Xichen’s attention, and the heat in his cheeks that had probably started Huaisang’s teasing. “You’re getting a great deal of fun out of someone else’s courtship, Huaisang. I didn’t know your preferences ran that way.”

Huaisang sputtered and then laughed, lifting both hands. “All right, all right, I’ll stop.”

“Good.” Meng Yao calmly lifted both their lanterns out of the way of Wei Wuxian’s precipitous retreat from an irate-looking Lan Wangji.

“Sorry, sorry!” Wei Wuxian laughed as he fended off both Lan Wangji and Huaisang, now, as Huaisang protested his carelessness around such fine working materials. Meng Yao let himself silently enjoy even this small inclusion in their horse-play. It felt nice.

As dusk started to fall and they all started passing around slivers of burning wood to light the lanterns, he checked the wicks in both his and Huaisang’s, and smiled indulgently at Huaisang’s count of three. He lofted his lantern gently up at the same moment as Huaisang. The white shapes drifted up, dark against the lingering light in the sky but lit from within and starting to glow faintly.

Huaisang clasped his hands and intoned fervently, “I wish to successfully complete my education, and not come back next year.”

Meng Yao couldn’t stifle a laugh. “We’ll work on that a little harder, then,” he murmured. He ignored Huaisang’s abruptly appalled look, and closed his eyes, forming his own prayer in his heart.

Please. Let me belong here.

He didn’t realize he’d actually whispered it aloud until Xichen’s hand closed warm on his shoulder, and Xichen said, just as softly, “You will.”

Meng Yao looked up and around at him, clasped hands pressed tight to his chest. The ready promise of a true place, so clear in the steadiness of Xichen’s eyes on him, made his knees weak the way even Xichen’s touch didn’t.

Xichen smiled faintly and repeated, soft and certain. “You will.”

Meng Yao bent his head, leaning just a little into Xichen’s hand, and nodded, accepting. When he regathered his composure enough to look up, it was to see Huaisang had wandered a few steps away and was playing his fan gently while staring off into the surrounding mountains, standing between Meng Yao and the sidelong glances of most of the other summer students.

Xichen chuckled. “I see. So he’s the only one allowed to tease you?”

Meng Yao made a rueful face. “Apparently. To be honest, I think Nie-zongzhu took me on in large part for Huaisang’s sake. It seems to have worked.”

“Perhaps at first it was for Huaisang’s sake.” Meng Yao’s cheeks heated again at Xichen’s gentle refusal to let him denigrate himself. “I hope the two of you will continue close.”

Meng Yao looked down, smiling, and admitted. “After this summer, I find it hard to imagine otherwise.”

And that made him very happy. But he also couldn’t ignore the weight of Xichen’s brother’s eyes on him, cool and measuring and not particularly pleased, before Lan Wangji turned his attention back to Wei Wuxian. This whole matter of having extended family seemed very fraught, from where he was standing.

On the other hand, perhaps what worked with Huaisang would work here, as well: simply taking care of what was placed in his charge.

He would give that some thought.


With only two weeks of the summer lectures left, Meng Yao thought he finally dared to give in to Xichen’s silent, subtle invitations, and walk with him back to Xichen’s rooms. For tea. In the sitting room. With the screens open. And while a tiny part of him wished otherwise, most of him relaxed at the careful, courteous propriety.

Xichen’s sober expression as he contemplated his delicate greenware cup, though, suggested that dalliance was the last thing on his mind.

“Xichen-xiong?” he asked, a bit tentative. “Something seems to occupy your thoughts.”

Xichen shook himself and looked up with a faint smile. “There is, yes. And… I believe it’s something you ought to know.” His smile softened. “Given that you are considering becoming the partner of the Master of Lan.”

Meng Yao ducked his head, trying to collect himself from the wave of giddy delight that swept through him. It was the first time Xichen had said it in so many words. If he was putting it in these terms, though, this was probably about politics. Meng Yao set his cup down neatly and folded his hands. “What is it?”

Xichen sobered again. “Since the founding of the sect, our clan has guarded and kept seal on a fragment of the yin metal Xue Chonghai crafted. Just recently, Wangji and Wei-gongzi,” his mouth quirked, “stumbled into the Cold Spring where it has been kept. Lan Yi, who has kept it sealed there all these years, released it into their hands.”

Meng Yao took in a quick breath, thoughts flashing over the history books that Xichen had brought him this summer. The yin metal shaped by Xue Chonghai had been scattered, they said. And yet, now he also remembered rumors and whispers drifting by that Wen Ruohan had found a piece. “Do the fragments call to each other, then? Is the piece Lan guarded moving because of the piece the Wen sect found?”

Xichen smiled, though it wasn’t entirely a happy one. “You’ve always been very swift of thought, a-Yao. That is my fear, yes.” He took a slow breath. “As it was released into Wangji’s hands, we are considering allowing him to seek for the other pieces.”

Which would, it went without saying, put Lan in direct conflict with Wen. “Are you…?” Meng Yao bit his lip, uncertain.

“A-Yao.” Xichen reached across the table to cup his cheek, thumb gently coaxing his lip free of his teeth. “You can always speak your thoughts to me.”

Meng Yao nodded slowly, holding tight to the trust Xichen had built in his heart all this summer. “Are you sure it’s necessary to stand against Wen?” he asked, softly.

“I’m afraid so.” Xichen’s mouth hardened into a tight line. “We’ve started seeing people, some of them from our own sect, attacked with foul techniques. People with their spiritual consciousness stolen or drained away, leaving them little more than corpse puppets.”

Meng Yao swallowed hard against a rising gorge, trying very hard not to imagine what it might be like to have his own cultivation, the thing that had let him break free from his mother’s world, turned against him like that. “The yin metal,” he whispered. “The chronicles said it consumed spirits. I thought they just meant spiritual energy.”

“Apparently not.” Xichen rubbed a hand over his face, looking tired. “I don’t know precisely when or how, but if Wen Ruohan continues to pursue this path… then yes, we must stand against him. I will start to sound out the other sects and try to gather support without exposing ourselves too badly.”

“Does that mean you’ll leave Jin for last?” Meng Yao offered with a tiny smile. To his pleasure, Xichen laughed softly.

“I did say you were swift of thought.” More seriously, he added, “And if you wish to think on this before you give me an answer, I assure you I will not take it amiss. A war among the sects is nothing I ever wished to ask you to involve yourself in.”

Fear still shivered through Meng Yao at the thought of committing to a fight against the Wen sect, given what rumor said of their numbers and wealth and vicious brutality. But the other great sects were not weak. If they banded together, they could match Wen’s numbers. And one thing this summer had allowed him to understand more viscerally than ever before was the power of the strongest cultivators. Nie Mingjue. Lan Xichen and Lan Wangji. He had heard rather terrifying things of Yu Ziyuan, Jiang-furen, this summer. And if he wasn’t mistaken, Wei Wuxian truly was a match for Lan Wangji, despite his carefree manner.

Together, it might well be possible.

“My answer has not changed,” he said, soft and sure, lifting his chin to meet Xichen’s eyes. “If you will have me, I am yours.” More shyly, he finally voiced a thought he’d taken a good deal of pleasure in, since Xichen first spoke. “Even my name tells us I was meant for you, does it not?”2

Xichen took in a swift breath, eyes going darker, and Meng Yao couldn’t help a spark of glee that he could affect Xichen the same way Xichen affected him. “A-Yao.” Xichen slid around the side of the table and reached out to close his hands gently around Meng Yao’s face. His kiss was gentle, too, but there was such restrained heat in it that Meng Yao swayed into him, hands coming up to spread against Xichen’s chest, unstrung by the depth of passion that single kiss promised. “You were well named,” Xichen murmured against his lips. “Never doubt it.”

“If you say it, then I won’t,” Meng Yao promised, voice gone husky. He was glad Xichen stayed close, one arm curving around him, because he felt very in need of something to lean against. He’d only heard that low, velvety tone from Xichen once or twice, and it turned his bones to water every time.

“Well, then,” Xichen said after a moment, tone lighter, “perhaps this is a good moment for something I’ve been meaning to do.” He drew a small cloth packet out of his robes and offered it to Meng Yao.

Meng Yao took it with a questioning look up at Xichen, but Xichen only smiled, so he carefully folded the pale blue silk back to see what was inside. When he did, his breath caught.

It was a hair ornament, not too much larger than the one he wore now, but rather than the pewter that the Nie sect favorited, this one was made of curving lines of bright silver. If he wore this, any cultivator’s first glance would take him for part of the Lan sect. “Xichen-xiong,” he whispered.

“You do belong here,” Xichen said quietly, gathering him closer. “Settle matters with Mingjue-xiong, and then return to me?”

Meng Yao turned his face into Xichen’s shoulder, blinking back the stinging in his eyes, and nodded.

A place of his own, to return to, was worth any danger that came with it.

Flipside

Jin Zixuan didn’t know quite what he was feeling.

It had been happening a lot, this summer.

First there was his (technically) betrothed, who he had been prepared to have to keep at a distance, prepared to find overeager to be connected with the Jin sect and the Jin heir. Except that she didn’t seem to be. She’d smiled in a kind way, when they’d met, and he was fairly sure it was hope he kept seeing in her eyes, but she didn’t pursue him at all. Quite the contrary, she turned away so easily, every time, that he was left feeling maybe she didn’t want this after all.

Well he was hardly going to be the one to pursue her!

Although it was possible Wei Wuxian had just a tiny bit of a point about being more polite to his (technically) betrothed. Not that it was Wei Wuxian’s place to demand any such thing, but there might be a little bit of a point under all the yelling. But by the time Jin Zixuan got done rebuffing the yelling, as he was absolutely within his rights to do, he’d usually lost the moment to consider the point.

It was all very frustrating.

And then there was Meng Yao.

The whispering among the other students had been the first he’d heard that he allegedly had a half-brother at the Lan lectures, and it hadn’t been a pleasant way to find out. He thought he’d contained himself well, had comported himself as his mother and father would, each in their own separate way, wish him to, and dismissed the gossip of lesser sects as beneath his notice. But he hadn’t been able to help actually noticing. All the more when Lan-zongzhu himself had taken Meng Yao under his wing.

Even Jin Zixuan had wondered, just a little, about what Meng Yao could possibly be providing that would interest a man of Lan Xichen’s stature. The memory of thinking that had smarted when it became clearer that Meng Yao was very intelligent.

No, not just intelligent. Perceptive. Sharp. It wasn’t uncommon, at this point, to spot him wandering the Cloud Recesses at Lan Xichen’s side, speaking animatedly about the theoretical and philosophical basis of cultivation.

On the one hand, Jin Zixuan approved. Blood would tell. On the other… even he had trouble following some of that. He wasn’t sure how he felt about the fact, especially on top of Wei Wuxian’s alarming and unorthodox but undeniably fascinating theories, tossed into the middle of lectures like a stone into still water.

The two brightest among the summer students were…

Well, he wasn’t sure how he felt about it.

“Gongzi, the packing is almost done.” Luo Qingyang leaned in the open doors of his rooms, arms crossed. “Are you really not going to speak to Jiang-guniang before we go?”

“Why should I?” he asked, snappish with his own uncertainty and reflecting darkly on the drawbacks of having people around him who were raised to be his retainers, and therefore far too familiar. In every sense of the word.

Demonstrating his point, Luo Qingyang huffed an exasperated sigh. “Because you’re going to be married to her, and that’s not going to be very nice if she thinks you hate her?”

“I don’t hate her,” he muttered, wishing his retinue had been just a little less efficient about packing his things away so he’d have something to fidget with.

“Yes, but have you given her any reason to think you don’t?” she asked with elaborate patience. At his silence, she shook her head and said, more gently, “Just think about it, Gongzi.” As she left, he sighed to himself, very quietly.

This would all be so much easier if he just knew how he felt about it all.

 

2. For those following along at home, Meng Yao’s given name, 瑶, means ‘precious stone’ or ‘jade’—that is, something fine and precious, very much in the sense that the Twin Jades of Lan is used, which makes he and Lan Xichen all kinds of poetically matching. *sprinkles hearts all over them* back

Becoming the Phoenix – Two

Meng Yao hadn’t directly answered, when Lan Xichen had asked him if he enjoyed scholarship, largely because at the time, the answer would have been no. As the summer progressed, though, he thought his answer was changing. Or more precisely, that he was learning what scholarship actually was. It was nothing like the struggle to make sense of the fragments of truth and fraud his mother had scraped together for him. Day on day passed with no urgent demand on his time, no concern about sustenance or work. Lan Qiren’s classes were strict, but simple. All Meng Yao needed to do was read and remember, to connect stories together into philosophies and theories together into cosmologies. When he found himself halted by a gap in his knowledge, Lan Xichen brought him texts on history and the natural sciences to span the distance, so clearly pleased with the project that Meng Yao found himself spending more then one evening sitting by the river as dusk fell, discussing his thoughts with Lan Xichen more freely than he could have imagined a single month ago.

“Wei-gongzi said it to provoke, certainly,” he said tonight, trailing his fingers through the icy chill of the pool they sat beside and watching the ripples flow away, “but the Nie sect itself chooses to make use of the kind of rage that can become malice, at death, does it not? The entire saber form is grounded in the ferocity of anger against injustice.” It was, after all, one of the reasons he’d chosen Nie to approach, after his disastrous experience with Jin. “Is that not, at the root, the same as what he described?”

“Both of you think deeply on these things. It’s no wonder the answers usually given the juniors are not enough to satisfy you.” Lan Xichen, seated above Meng Yao on one of the taller stones, leaned his elbows on his knees, regarding his clasped hands. “Justice is not a singular or simple thing. Consider that, in rousing the headsman’s victims from their graves to use their resentment to disperse his lingering ghost, one sort of justice would be served. Their resentment might be appeased. But in the process, would we not have endangered any chance they might have had to rest properly, by desecrating their bodies? The members of the Nie sect, especially the Masters of the sect, risk themselves by calling on the fury they do, but they risk only themselves. They do not disturb the path of other spirits. That may be as close to righteousness as can be.”

Meng Yao pursed his lips at that, because he had heard murmurs of at least one Nie ancestral rite that had claimed other lives. Had that been willing? Truly? When he glanced up at Lan Xichen, though, the man was smiling down at him, a little crooked, a little sad. It put such an unexpected twist through his chest to see that sadness that he reached out at once to touch Lan Xichen’s knee, leaning toward him. “I didn’t mean…”

“Shh.” Lan Xichen’s hand covered his gently. “This is the realm of mortals. None of us is perfect. All we can do is strive toward greater understanding.” His smile warmed. “As you do.”

The sweet security of Lan Xichen’s regard wrapped around him like a blanket on a cold night, and he relaxed into it as he was finding it increasingly easier to do. A little alarmingly so, to be honest.

It wasn’t that the whispers had stopped. They’d merely been swept a little deeper into the dark corners. They’d even taken a turn for the vicious, for a little while. Soon after he started bringing his questions to Lan Xichen, he’d heard at least one remark about taking after his mother.

Unfortunately for the Chang disciple who’d spoken, he’d been injudicious enough to say it where Lan Wangji could hear. Lan Wangji had turned such an icy glare on the Chang disciple that Meng Yao had honestly thought the boy might piss himself in fear. While he knew it had been entirely due to the slur on Lan Xichen, and no favor to him, he’d still treasured up the memory of the Chang boy’s expression, storing it away in his heart next to the face Jin Zixuan had made the day he’d answered incorrectly that a spirit of rage could only be appeased with blood. Lan Qiren had called on Meng Yao to answer correctly that rage-filled spirits could also be soothed, if one could learn enough of the spirit’s past to find something meaningful to them—a beloved song or the memory of a cherished person. Meng Yao treasured the look the entire Jin contingent had worn, really, but Jin Zixuan’s especially.

So it wasn’t that the infuriating whispers had stopped. It was just so much easier to ignore them when Lan Xichen smiled at him.


Meng Yao always looked for isolated places, when he wanted to practice the sword. He had no form, to speak of; he’d started far too late and had far too piecemeal instruction for his form to be very coherent. It was one of the things most persistently pointed to when cultivators wished for a pretext besides his birth to denigrate him, so he tried not to provide more opportunities than he could help.

It was also why he started so violently when he heard someone behind him, in the grove he’d found far off the regular paths of Cloud Recesses, balance wobbling as he tried to retrieve his sword and turn at the same time.

“Easy!” Strong hands caught his elbows and set him back upright, and he looked up into Lan Xichen’s concerned gaze. “My apologies; I didn’t mean to startle you.”

Meng Yao flushed hot and looked down at his toes. “No, I should have been paying more attention.” There was quiet for a moment, and threads of old tension wound up his back.

“Meng Yao.” His head shot up, eyes wide at the outright coaxing in Lan Xichen’s voice. Lan Xichen slid his hands up to rest on Meng Yao’s shoulders. “Surely you don’t think I would mock you?”

“No, no of course not.” His tension started to ease under Lan Xichen’s hands, soothed away by the memory of the respect Lan Xichen had always offered him.

And then Lan Xichen smiled, the smile that meant someone had, of their own will, walked to exactly where he wanted them. “Then will you favor me with the opportunity to guide this practice of yours?”

Meng Yao sighed, rueful; yes, he had walked into that. His nerves, still taut from years of denials, protested the thought, but if those memories ran deeper, the memories of Lan Xichen’s gentle encouragement this summer were closer and brighter. “If you truly think it won’t be a waste of time,” he said, low. “I know I started the sword too late to ever truly master it.”

Lan Xichen’s brows rose, and for once he looked every bit the Master of Lan. “And who told you that? I assure you, they were mistaken.”

Meng Yao’s hands clasped on each other, tight with the sudden leap of hope. “You… you really think so?”

Lan Xichen smiled. “I know so. Come here.” He led Meng Yao back to the center of the clearing and stood close behind him, hands on his shoulders. “Start with your breath. Breathe in, and feel your body and qi gather like a drawn bow. Breathe out, and feel the release of force.”

Automatically following the quiet instructions, Meng Yao breathed deep, and indeed he felt a compression through his chest and spine. Letting the breath go, listening to Lan Xichen describe what should be, he felt the little surge running like a ripple through his whole body. It did feel like release, and that image of a bow caught in his mind. “Oh.” His eyes widened. “That’s why those manuals said to move on the exhale. To ride that release and use the greatest potential moment of strength and motion.”

“Precisely.” Lan Xichen’s hands squeezed his shoulders gently. “Step with me, so you can feel it. Foot forward on the exhale. Shift through the center on the inhale, lightly, yes like that, gathering. And focus it all forward on the exhale.”

It was so easy, with Lan Xichen’s voice in his ear, with the perfectly balanced shift of his body at Meng Yao’s back to guide him, and for the first time he flowed through a step, just like the most frustrating manuals had described (though never well enough to replicate).

“Excellent.” Lan Xichen sounded downright smug, and Meng Yao craned his head back to look up at him with a laugh. Lan Xichen’s smile was just as pleased with himself as it had sounded, but Meng Yao dared to think some of that satisfaction was for him, too.

“Can you show me one more time, please?” he asked, a bit shy with the residual awareness that Lan Xichen was more or less embracing him, but above all eager with the bright sense of understanding almost in his grasp.

“As often as you need,” Lan Xichen promised, hands settling lightly on Meng Yao’s hips. “Come back to neutral stance to start. Try not bending your knees quite so deeply, this time, just enough to feel loose. Listen to what your body says is enough.”

Meng Yao listened intently, moving with the light touches until he settled into a kind of openness, in muscle and bone and qi, that he’d never felt before. It might have alarmed him, without the steady reassurance of Lan Xichen at his back, just as relaxed.

With that presence, that steady support, for once he didn’t feel afraid of anything.


At first, Meng Yao was too caught up in his discussion with Lan Xichen to realize that they were walking through one of the larger, and therefore more public, courtyards.

“…I didn’t have the context to see it, when Huaisang first mentioned, but now I think he truly does have a deep intuitive sense of how the celestial cycles can be used to heighten even the smallest action.” He looked up at Lan Xichen, pacing slowly beside him, and happiness fluttered up in his chest at the quiet interest in the tilt of Lan Xichen’s head toward him. “I suppose I can understand why most cultivators don’t rely much on those things in the field. You can’t count on being able to pick the most advantageous direction for attack or for binding, and those who haven’t made a deep study of astronomy probably wouldn’t be able to modify a trap or talisman on the moment to take best advantage of the season or time of day. But if you have studied it… I just can’t help thinking that Huaisang’s approach to cultivation could be very advantageous.”

A flurry of white at the corner of his eye made him look around and realize they weren’t alone. And that Huaisang had turned from whatever he was laughing over with Wei Wuxian and Jiang Wanyin to stare at Meng Yao, face soft with shock. Meng Yao felt his own face heat; he hadn’t held forth on his developing theories to anyone but Lan Xichen, yet. He dared a quick nod, though, because he did, more and more, think the Nie sect should be valuing Huaisang’s studies.

“Indeed,” Lan Xichen said, quiet but carrying, so gracefully indirect that it made Meng Yao a little breathless just to watch, “without the scholars among us, how should we advance as a society?”

Huaisang promptly hid behind his fan. Meng Yao thought he might be blushing, and smiled up at Lan Xichen, warm and grateful on his charge’s behalf. The answering warmth in Lan Xichen’s eyes nearly made him stumble.

Far more quietly, carrying only between the two of them, Lan Xichen murmured, “Your heart to care for those in your charge is a treasure as well.”

Yet again, Meng Yao felt a tug on the deepest part of his heart, one he’d been feeling more and more sharply all summer—half pleasure that Lan Xichen thought such things of him and half a desire to do more. To truly earn the regard Lan Xichen gave him so generously. He ducked his head, a little flustered by it.

Lan Xichen smiled quietly and rested a hand at the small of his back, guiding him toward the path that led beside one of the less frequented streams. Meng Yao could feel Huaisang smirking from across the courtyard, but couldn’t quite stop his whole body from inclining to Lan Xichen, moving with that gentle touch.

From the knot of Jin disciples on the other side of the courtyard came a faint sniff and mutter of, “Such a suck up.”

If Meng Yao hadn’t still had Huaisang in the corner of his eye, mildly alert for any teasing, he’d never have seen the split second narrowing of Huaisang’s eyes or the tiny, sharp gesture mostly hidden in his sleeve. Even so, he was nearly as startled as everyone else by the abrupt yelp and splash as one of the Jin disciples tripped over nothing and fell flat in the stream.

The water flowed along the north side of this courtyard, Meng Yao’s recent studies prompted him to note, in just the conjunction of element and direction that might make even the smallest and most fleeting talisman of freezing stick a foot very firmly motionless.

Huaisang fanned himself languidly, looking on with perfect innocence as the other disciple hauled himself out of the water, sputtering. The two Jiang disciples smirked behind him, Wei Wuxian with an elbow propped on Huaisang’s shoulder and a sidelong look that suggested he might have caught it, too. Meng Yao ducked his head, fighting not to laugh. If nothing else, this summer had convinced him that Huaisang did have the Nie clan temper, in his own form.

Lan Xichen graciously pretended not to notice the Jin disciple’s disarray, nodding a perfectly kind and composed greeting as he led Meng Yao out of the courtyard. Meng Yao composed himself likewise and passed by with lowered eyes and quiet reserve, mood considerably bolstered by a little inward glow over Huaisang’s sharp defense.

“It’s good to see that your care is returned,” Lan Xichen murmured as they passed under the dappled shade of the tall, straight trees, “but I trust Huaisang won’t be tempted to make too much trouble.”

“I’ll speak with him,” Meng Yao promised, even though it would almost certainly mean another round of gleeful teasing.

Anything he could to do keep matters as Lan Xichen liked them, he thought he probably would.


Meng Yao sat on one of the flat boulders beside the waterfall with his arms around his knees, breathing carefully, steadily, trying to control the dragon of rage and hurt that twisted through his chest.

Today had not been a good day.

He’d noticed, last night, that his notes had been moved, but he’d only thought that Huaisang might have been looking for the good ink brushes. This was Cloud Recesses, where order was strictly kept. He hadn’t really thought that it might have been one of the other summer students snooping until the morning lecture, when Chang Yun (again!) had answered Lan Qiren’s question about techniques that might allow use of a sword against a possessing spirit without killing the victim. It had been, word for word, Meng Yao’s own description of qi extension along the blade’s edge that Lan Xichen had taught him a few days ago. Lan Qiren had looked approving, and Meng Yao had felt such rage sweep through him that he was almost surprised none of his papers had caught fire from it.

His only consolation had been that Chang Yun hadn’t been able to answer any following questions, and that when Lan Qiren, now looking a bit disappointed and not particularly hopeful, had asked the rest of them if anyone could expand on Chang Yun’s insight, Meng Yao had been able to add that the technique was both limited by the cultivator’s breath control and also strengthened by familiarity with the victim. If the victim’s qi was known to the cultivator’s, then the possessing spirit would be easier to perceive and target.

But the whole thing had thrown him straight back to his troubles in the Unclean Realm and—

“Meng Yao?”

Meng Yao started violently, yanked out of his thoughts, and it was only Lan Xichen’s quick hand under his arm that kept him out of the river. Lan Xichen swiftly settled beside him in a billow of blue robes, frowning. “Meng Yao, what’s wrong? Has something happened?”

“I…” His teeth locked on his own words, hurt and fear fresh and sharp in his heart. Would he even be believed? How could he argue against everyone’s certainty that the son of a prostitute could not possibly be as accomplished, intelligent, worthy as the children of who had been born to the cultivation world?

An arm curved around his shoulders. “Won’t you tell me?” Lan Xichen coaxed.

Perhaps it was simply the unaccustomed comfort of the arm around him, but Meng Yao felt like something in him snapped, and the whole story rushed out of him in a flood—the certainty that Chang Yun had snooped in his notes to steal his ideas, the multiple times the Nie field commander had done the same, first by as-if-friendly conversations and later by outright eavesdropping, presenting Meng Yao’s ideas about patrol patterns through Qinghe or even budget plans as his own, raising himself in Nie-zongzhu’s estimation, and always, always trying to grind Meng Yao back into obscurity, into the brutality of the world he’d tried so hard to leave, only to find the same brutality here, dressed in finer clothes. He was shaking by the end of it, fingers wound into the fabric over his knees, whole body drawn in on himself, voice gone hoarse. “Sometimes, I just want to…” He cut himself off again, wincing with the twist of his heart, because he wanted so much for Lan Xichen to think well of him, but it was still the truth. He did find himself wishing for just a little time alone with those people, just him and them and a knife.

The arm around him tightened a little. “You are better than that,” Lan Xichen said, quiet and sure. His absolute certainty knocked the breath out of Meng Yao’s lungs, and when he pulled in another it shook, but it went all the way down. Slowly, he straightened enough to look up at Lan Xichen.

“Am I?” he asked, and felt that he needed to ask, because he hardly knew any longer, not when Lan Xichen’s eyes were on him.

They were dark and steady, now, and Lan Xichen lifted a hand to cup Meng Yao’s cheek. “You are,” he said, so firmly that it left room for nothing else.

Meng Yao swayed into his hand, shaken down to the core of him and yet not able to deny it. Not when Lan Xichen said it, and he knew in his heart that he would do as Lan Xichen wished. “I…” he swallowed hard. “All right.”

Lan Xichen’s smile was so warm. “That being so, will you allow me to speak to Mingjue-xiong about this?”

“I… But…” Meng Yao shook his head in protest. “There’s no proof!”

“Perhaps I will bring you some jurisprudence to read next.” Lan Xichen stroked a thumb along his cheek. “Uncle thought there was something odd, you know, about Chang Yun not being able to answer any deeper questions about what he said was a technique he’d thought of on his own.”

Meng Yao couldn’t do more than blink at him, stunned, and Lan Xichen shook his head, smile turning wry.

“Actions and thoughts leave marks of themselves behind, always. If I bring you to see Uncle, and he examines you on that sword technique, won’t you be able to answer all the questions that Chang Yun could not, and more? And if Mingjue-xiong asks his field commander about how he came to think of those patrol patterns, will he not be caught just as foolishly short?”

Meng Yao chewed on his lip. It sounded reasonable, yes, but he was still what he was and… his breath caught as Lan Xichen’s thumb stroked over his lip, this time, coaxing it loose from his teeth.

“A-Yao,” Lan Xichen said, softly, “will you let me speak to them?”

“I… that is… of course.” He hardly knew what he was saying, too stunned by the sudden understanding that Lan Xichen hadn’t just been enjoying someone to teach, all this summer. He’d been courting Meng Yao.

Lan Xichen. One of the Twin Jades of Lan.

Had been courting Meng Yao.

“Thank you.” Lan Xichen’s smile had turned more intent, and far more personal. “As I have not yet the right to be first to take action on your behalf… I will speak with them.”

Tingling warmth rushed through Meng Yao from head to toe at the thought that Lan Xichen intended to claim that right, and he had to wet his lips before he could speak. “Then I will rely on you,” he said, husky, and dared to add, “Xichen-xiong.”

Lan Xichen’s smile widened, and he leaned in to kiss Meng Yao once, gentle and restrained, so clearly restrained that anticipation curled, tight and heated, low in Meng Yao’s stomach. “That would please me very much,” Lan Xichen murmured against Meng Yao’s lips.

Meng Yao leaned into him, thoroughly breathless and deliberately pliant, and a little thrill ran through him as Lan Xichen’s arm tightened around him in response. He felt a little like he was falling, so many things he’d thought would be necessary, so many things he’d once planned, slipping out of his open hands and unraveling in the sweet rush of this new thing.

Or possibly not so new, and he ducked his head against Xichen’s shoulder, face heating as he thought back over all the moments of attention, of courtship, that were so obvious in retrospect.

“When you’re ready,” Xichen said softly, against his hair. “I will wait.”

That gentle courtesy, the unfailing respect that Xichen had offered him from the start, anchored so deeply in his heart that it made him shiver and press closer. “Thank you, Xichen-xiong.” He didn’t think it would take him long at all, to be ready, but there were some things he should finish for the Nie sect. That was for later, though.

For now, he curled deeper into the circle of Xichen’s arm and let himself rest there.

Flipside

Whenever they were both in the Cloud Recesses, Wangji’s brother tried to make time for them to eat together. Wangji liked those meals, liked the feeling of having his brother all to himself for a little while instead of needing to share him with the entire sect. He tried hard to not be selfish about it, but he still liked these little times when it was just the two of them.

Tonight, though, his brother seemed to be thinking of something else, smiling at nothing as he divided the last of the dumplings between them. The dumplings were tasty, but not enough to warrant that kind of expression. “Xiongzhang,” Wangji asked, hesitantly, “are you…” He trailed off, unsure quite what words he wanted to put to this.

His brother looked up to meet his eyes, and his smile immediately softened into the one Wangji recognized as his, the one that was just for him. “I’m sorry, Wangji. I’ve probably been a bit distracted, lately, haven’t I?”

Wangji looked down, not wanting to be disrespectful and say so, but agreeing nevertheless. His brother reached over to lay his hand over Wangji’s, and the formless anxiety wrapping itself around his spine eased a little. Their hands were so similar; he liked remembering that.

“You’ve probably noticed that I’ve been interested in Meng-gongzi.”

Wangji didn’t think he twitched, but his brother’s hand tightened on his anyway.

“I meant to speak of this, once I was sure enough.” His brother smiled. “Perhaps I am, now. I wish Meng Yao for my cultivation partner.”

Anxiety surged up again, laced with echoes of empty rooms and his uncle’s voice turning harsh. “Someone outside the sect?” he asked, trying to be calm.

“No one from within the sect has moved my heart,” his brother said, simply, as if it were truly that easy, as if duty and discretion had no part in the decision. His brother smiled for him, warm and gentle. “The heart is not always wise, perhaps, but we ignore it at our peril. The heart drives us, Wangji, acknowledged or not.”

“But—” Wangji bit off his protest and lowered his eyes.

His brother’s hand stayed wrapped over his, steady and sure. “Tell me, Wangji. I don’t wish to wound your heart in this, either.”

He drew a breath and spoke to his bowl. “Should the heart be let to drive who stands beside the Master of Lan?”

“I think it must, yes.” He looked up, more than a little startled by the quiet certainty in his brother’s voice. “If I cannot trust my partner with my own heart, how can I possibly trust them with my sect?”

Wangji blinked, feeling like his brother had tipped the world sideways. He hadn’t thought of this as a matter of trust, before. And then his brother’s smile took on the teasing quirk he’d started to dread the appearance of, this summer.

“If you relied only on the rules to judge Wei-gongzi, I doubt you would ever trust him. And yet, does your heart not tell you that he can be trusted?”

Wangji tried not to glower, but his brother was making it very difficult. “Xiongzhang.”

His brother patted his hand, obviously laughing behind that little smile. “Just a thought, Wangji.”

Wangji refrained from snorting with disbelief, and instead took a pointed bite of the last dumpling.

And very definitely did not think about what his heart told him of Wei Wuxian.

Becoming the Phoenix – One

I would like it to be clearly understood that this story is all Zhu Zanjin’s fault. He made that one video, and the moment I saw him in all that white I thought "yes, that’s just what Meng Yao would look like if he became part of Lan instead of Jin," whereupon the plotbunny descended upon me rather like a dropped anvil, and a month later I was staring at this fic and feeling a bit hung over.

So here we go, with a hard left turn from canon into a different track.

“Won’t you stay a few more days?”

The words felt like they lodged in Meng Yao’s chest, for his breath to catch on—words of welcome and invitation from the Master of Lan himself. But it was only the courtesy that Lan Xichen showed to all, he reminded himself firmly. It was fine to take this stolen moment of formal farewell to bask in that warmth, but he shouldn’t mistake it for something personal. No matter how he might wish it were, or how it had seemed it might be, for that one moment during the presentation of gifts when their hands had touched. He couldn’t lower his guard just for that. He drew in a breath to offer back light words of excuse. He was still only a servant of Nie, after all, barely even a disciple of the sect, even if Huaisang insisted on braiding his hair up as if he were.

And then he made the mistake of looking up.

Lan Xichen’s smile was warm, and even Meng Yao’s well-developed cynicism couldn’t mistake the genuine welcome of it. He even thought he saw something strangely like hope in Lan Xichen’s eyes, a sincere desire that Meng Yao not go. It shocked truth from his lips that he hadn’t meant to let fall.

“If I stay longer, I’ll only want to keep staying.” The moment he heard what he’d said, he recalled himself sharply and grabbed for his prepared words to deflect that truth before it could be denied by another. “And I’m only…”

“In that case,” Lan Xichen spoke at the same time, and smiled when he and Meng Yao broke off as one. “In that case, Meng-gongzi,” he continued, voice so gentle that Meng Yao had to swallow hard against a surge of hopeless wanting, “allow me to speak to Nie-zongzhu and request it. He is a frank and forthright man; you need to speak directly to secure his understanding, sometimes.”

Meng Yao stood staring at him, caught completely off guard. He had come expecting to spend a few precious moments luxuriating in genuine kindness, because it was clear that was the kind of man Lan Xichen was. He hadn’t expected this. “I…” He halted there, groping for words or even thoughts to deal with such generous care. Should he? It was another risk of rejection from the disciples here, but the sponsorship, however brief, of the Master of Lan might balance that. Should he?

Lan Xichen spread his hands, inviting but not pressing. Meng Yao had noticed that—Lan Xichen didn’t press, didn’t repress or chide directly, only led by action. “May I?”

Meng Yao took in a slow breath, hoping distantly that Lan Xichen wouldn’t see how it shook, and chose. “Please.” He swept into a deferential bow. “Forgive the trouble I put you to…”

Lan Xichen caught his arms, hands firm for all their grace. “You and I are of an age; there’s no need for such formality.”

Meng Yao raised his head and was struck breathless again by the earnestness of those dark eyes on him. Hesitantly he straightened, and was rewarded with an approving nod and a shade of satisfaction in Lan Xichen’s smile. “If you wish it,” he agreed softly.

“I do.”

The simple words settled Meng Yao. This summer would be a risk, yes, and he had no doubt it would wear on his control with a good eight or nine sects worth of pampered disciples whispering over his inclusion, but he had this guide rope to hold to: Lan Xichen wished him to be here, and wished him to hold his head up. He would do so, then. He took a breath and raised his chin and dared to meet Lan Xichen’s eyes directly. “Thank you, Lan-zongzhu.”

He nearly floated back to his rooms on the strength of the smile he got in return for that.


“I told you so!” Huaisang declared when he returned, still dripping wet, from his jaunt around the mountain with Wei Wuxian. He waved the roll of message paper that a very young Lan disciple had delivered to their suite of rooms. “Da-ge says you should stay, if you like.”

Another time, Meng Yao might have asked exactly how Huaisang come to fall full-length into water and clearly not mind, and possibly have put in a word or two of caution about associating with someone who had obviously chosen to thumb his nose at the whisperers, with glee and with emphasis, at every opportunity. Huaisang had a rebellious streak of his own, for all that most people didn’t recognize it, and normally Meng Yao tried not to encourage it. But right now, Meng Yao was too occupied with shock at the idea that Lan Xichen, the Lord of Wild Brilliance1 himself, had clearly sent a message immediately to the Nie sect, with enough urgency to be answered at once.

On Meng Yao’s behalf.

Huaisang nudged his shoulder against Meng Yao’s, smiling at him sidelong. “Told you he’d agree,” he repeated.

“You did,” Meng Yao finally answered, with a faint laugh of disbelief.

Huaisang made a satisfied humming sound and went off to change his robes with a spring in his step. Meng Yao, for his part, sank down beside the table in their sitting room and tried to re-order his plans. He hadn’t had one for this place, beyond the presentation of gifts itself, and being taken note of as the second Nie representative. Now… now he had an entire summer of intensive study, the kind he’d never had opportunity for before. It felt as though he’d been climbing a sheer cliff face, one reach after another, only to have someone open a door through the stone itself and hold it for him. He needed to take advantage of this time.

And, the thought followed, slow and unaccustomed, he needed to accept this gift of Lan Xichen’s.

“Meng Yao!” Huaisang sang out, popping back out of his sleeping room trailing an armful of white. “Here. You’ll need this tomorrow.” He spilled an overrobe with the Nie crest on the shoulder into Meng Yao’s arms.

Meng Yao gathered it up with a helpless smile. “Huaisang…” He swallowed hard and said to the armful of silk, “You know I’m going to make you do your homework, if I’m here.”

“Only if you’re not too busy with Zewu-jun.” Meng Yao looked up, started by Huaisang’s slyly knowing tone.

“That isn’t…! It was just his natural kindness, Huaisang, that’s all.” He had to think that, or he didn’t know what he’d do.

Huaisang tapped his furled fan against his lips, smirking faintly. “Hmmm, I wonder. Lan-zongzhu doesn’t normally take much interest in the summer lecture students is all I’m saying.” And on that slightly alarming note, he wandered back toward his sleeping room.

Meng Yao clutched the white student’s robe and tried to re-order his thoughts when it felt as though the whole world had just tilted.


A few lectures on found Meng Yao at once pleased, exasperated, excited, and possessed of a persistent headache.

He was pleased by the lectures. They were clearly laid out and provided the kind of coherent explanations for cultivation practices that Meng Yao had spent his entire literate life wishing for. He took meticulous notes.

He was exasperated that Huaisang had attended going on three years of such lectures and still couldn’t answer most of Lan Qiren’s questions. He knew for a fact that Huaisang could have mastered the concepts in a month, at most, if he applied himself, but there was Huaisang’s stubborn streak once again.

He was excited because each lecture helped him fit another bit of the patchwork study from his youth into a sensible whole, letting him either confirm or discard those bits with increasing confidence. He spent his evenings with his notes spread over any table that offered privacy, jotting down his thoughts and speculations.

His headache was named Wei Wuxian, and he could only be thankful that Wei-gongzi seemed far more focused on Lan Wangji than on Huaisang. There’d have been no homework of any sort getting done, otherwise, and Meng Yao couldn’t quite stifle the suspicion that that was the real reason Nie-zongzhu had agreed to let him stay the summer.

Meng Yao glanced around the smaller of Cloud Recesses’ public meditation gardens with a sigh, hands planted on his hips. Huaisang wasn’t here, which meant he was almost certainly around the back of the mountain with Wei Wuxian again, and most likely Jiang-gongzi with them given that Meng Yao hadn’t encountered the young man making his own search. Well, at least Jiang Wanyin might be a small restraint on what they got up to. Hopefully.

“Meng-gongzi?”

Meng Yao whirled around, heart leaping up before he even laid eyes on Lan Xichen, standing behind him on the path. “Lan-zongzhu.” He started to bow, only to be stopped by a swift hand under his arm. His cheeks were hot as he straightened, but he made himself look up and was promptly lost in the pleased smile Lan Xichen gave him. “Were you looking for someone?” Lan Xichen asked.

In the final analysis, Meng Yao liked Huaisang too much to use the threat of the Master of Lan to herd him back into line, so he smiled and shook his head. “It was nothing urgent.” He firmly set aside the thought that he liked Lan Xichen too well to share even his passing attention.

He nearly swallowed his tongue in shock when Lan Xichen swept out an inviting arm. “Will you walk a little with me, then? I’ve been wanting to ask how you find your time with us, so far.”

“I… If you wish,” Meng Yao managed, and stepped slowly to his side. He was, distantly, glad that Lan Xichen directed their steps down the smooth stone path beside one of the mountain’s many streams; he wasn’t sure he’d have been able to pull enough of his attention off Lan Xichen himself to not trip on a rougher path.

“My uncle has spoken well of your diligence,” Lan Xichen remarked, as they strolled along the green curve of one bank. “Are such scholarly studies a thing you enjoy?”

The easy compliment, so casual, so matter-of-fact, scattered Meng Yao’s thoughts and made him grope for an answer to the actual question. “This is a welcome chance for me to discover such things, certainly.”

Lan Xichen smiled, holding out a hand to guide him down the turn to a footbridge. “I’m glad, then. I hoped it was that, and not that you felt at all excluded.”

“Oh no, not at all!” Which was not entirely true, and Lan Xichen’s look of quiet regret said he heard the note of falseness in Meng Yao’s quick assurance. Meng Yao looked down. “I really do value the time to go over my notes, and think through the implications,” he murmured. Lan Xichen’s hand rested for a moment on his shoulder, and his breath caught; he almost thought he could feel the warmth through his robes, brief as the touch was.

“You can always come to me, if you have questions about the lectures,” Lan Xichen offered.

Meng Yao looked up at him quickly, eyes widening. “Oh, but I couldn’t—”

“I would like it,” Lan Xichen cut him off gently, and the sincerity of his voice caught Meng Yao’s attention. Possibilities fanned out through his mind, as reflexive as breath. Did Lan Qiren’s long tenure as the summer teacher displace Lan Xichen? Did it deprive him of renown, or of teaching itself? Did Lan Xichen wish to influence other sects more directly? Or was it Lan Wangji’s strict perfection of learning that took away his brother’s chance to guide?

Some of that, at least, he could test for right now.

“I’m afraid I would trouble you with my lack of knowledge,” he said softly, casting his eyes down. “So much of this is new to me.”

“Not at all.” Lan Xichen’s fingers rested under his elbow, a tiny graceful reminder of how he’d caught Meng Yao’s bows short, and Meng Yao was just about to put a mental mark next to ‘enjoys teaching and misses it’ and lift his head when Lan Xichen continued, “So you truly are self taught, then? Mingjue-xiong said that he thought you might be, but that you learned so very quickly he couldn’t be sure.”

Meng Yao’s eyes shot back up, wide and startled, and he felt his heart beating quicker. Lan Xichen had been testing him, and he hadn’t even realized! The man’s smile was still gentle, though, still earnest when he added, “Clearly you have little true need of help, but I would be happy to assist with those questions you do have.”

“I…” Meng Yao’s thoughts jumbled together with the sudden shift in direction as he tried to fit this sharp perception and subtlety together with the through-line of Lan Xichen’s solicitous care for the servant of another sect. One he’d suspected was mostly untaught. But even before that, Lan Xichen had stepped forward to welcome and deftly defend him…

Defend him. The only one in the room who’d needed it.

Teach him. The only one present who did need it, and who might welcome it.

The conclusion settled into place, and Meng Yao’s racing thoughts settled around it. Lan Xichen wished to take care of those around him. To be able to do something for those around him. Between an uncle who probably still considered the Lan sect his own care, and a younger brother so clearly determined to be perfect, to be no trouble, no wonder Lan Xichen had learned to be subtle about it.

No wonder Meng Yao had caught his eye, just as Lan Xichen had caught Meng Yao’s. Their needs might fit together very well indeed.

Meng Yao didn’t have to feign the deep breath he took, or the nervous clasp of his hands. He’d never anticipated an opportunity like this path opening up before his feet, and it would be a risk to take it. He didn’t dare take the chance that Lan Xichen’s own want would entirely blind him; Meng Yao would have to offer up his own genuine need, to secure Lan Xichen’s action on his behalf. He would have to give more of his genuine self than he normally dared to. But in return he might find himself sheltered under the hand of the Lord of Wild Brilliance.

Meng Yao wet his lips and looked up to meet Lan Xichen’s gaze. “If my ignorance will not trouble you too greatly,” he took a tiny step toward Lan Xichen, “I would be deeply grateful for your instruction.”

It wasn’t until Lan Xichen’s smile softened and warmed that Meng Yao realized just how tightly he must have been restraining himself, waiting to see whether Meng Yao would accept or not. “It will be my pleasure.” This time, when he held out an arm to guide Meng Yao down the path, it curved closer around him. Unexpected warmth rushed through Meng Yao, from head to toe, so strong it stole his breath, and he ducked his head again as he walked on, close by Lan Xichen’s side.

Shelter. Genuine shelter. He’d thought he’d never feel it again.


When he got back to his rooms, Huaisang was out by the sitting room table. He took one look at Meng Yao and positively grinned. “So, did Zewu-jun find you?”

Meng Yao stopped short and considered entreating the Heavens for patience. “You hid and then told him where to find me,” he stated, because it really wasn’t a question at all.

Huaisang unfurled his fan with a delicate snap and blinked innocently over the edge of it. “Just being helpful to our host.”

Meng Yao laughed helplessly; perhaps Huaisang was learning a little more from his example than Nie Mingjue had quite anticipated. “Yes, he did, so you can desist now, truly.”

Huaisang made a satisfied little hum, and took himself off toward his sleeping room. Meng Yao shook his head and tried to regather his composure. His eyes fell on his notes, still sitting out.

Perhaps… perhaps he would just jot down a few questions to bring to Lan Xichen tomorrow.

Flipside

Nie Huaisang peeked around the corner of one of the more remote pavilions, and ducked back, gesturing to his companions to come closer. A grinning Wei Wuxian, trailed by a Jiang Wanyin who was rolling his eyes, scurried up to join him and they all peeked around the corner.

Lan Xichen sat on one of the benches inside, head tilted toward Meng Yao, who perched beside him, hands moving through the air as if he might shape whatever question he was asking that way.

In Huaisang’s rather expert opinion, the student uniform suited Meng Yao. The light-weight fabric showed how fine-boned he really was, and the simple white of them brought out how large and liquid and dark his eyes were. When Huaisang’s brother had first taken Meng Yao into the sect, Huaisang had wondered a little if having someone even smaller than he was around was supposed to be some kind of encouragement to pay more attention to the physical arts. After all, if Meng Yao could do it, presumably Huaisang could too. Meng Yao had turned out to be really nice, though! He’d only ever scolded a little, and he’d been quick to deflect any lectures from the sect elders about Huaisang’s duties. On the way here, he’d let Huaisang take time to catch the finch he’d spotted with only a rueful head-shake over it, and he’d headed off the drunk advances of that one man at the inn just over the border with no more than a glare. A really scary glare, admittedly, but the point was, Huaisang liked Meng Yao.

So of course he had to show off Meng Yao’s good luck to his other friends.

Lan Xichen said something back. The river was too close, here, to hear what, but his voice was low and gentle. Meng Yao listened raptly, face turned up to him like a flower to the sun.

“Wow,” Wei Wuxian whispered in a slightly awed tone. “You were absolutely right. He really does have it bad.”

“I know, right?” Huaisang grinned gleefully and then flapped his sleeve at them. “Oh, here, watch!”

Meng Yao said something, head cocked questioningly, and Lan Xichen nodded, giving him a warm and encouraging smile. Meng Yao burst into an answering smile, sweet and bright, just like a flower blooming.

“And he doesn’t even know it!” Huaisang whispered.

Wei Wuxian gave him a look of disbelief. “No,” he scoffed, “how could either of them possibly be missing it?”

“I’m not sure about Zewu-jun,” Huaisang admitted, “but Meng Yao has no idea. I’m pretty sure he doesn’t even know he’s in love, yet.” At Wei Wuxian’s astonished look, he turned his hands palm up, helpless. “He’ll figure it out eventually, I’m sure.”

“But it’s so obvious!” Before Wei Wuxian could protest any further on that, though, a straight figure in white moved into view on the bank of the river. It drew his attention like a hook sunk in a fish.

“Lan Zhan!” And Wei Wuxian was off, trotting down the path to catch up with Lan Wangji, whose stiff body language said he was maybe considering running the other way behind that flat expression. Wei Wuxian ignored this to drape an arm over Lan Wangji’s shoulders.

Huaisang exchanged the exasperated look of younger brothers everywhere with Jiang Wanyin. “He’s going to figure it out eventually, too,” Huaisang observed. “I just wonder if he’ll do it before Lan er-gongzi tries to cut his arm off.”

Jiang Wanyin’s mouth tightened. “Probably not,” he muttered, glowering after the sibling who’d abandoned them so abruptly. Huaisang patted his shoulder in sympathy.

And then he peeked back around the corner, because entertainment this amazing was hard to come by. Besides, he’d need to know exactly when to push a little harder, to get Meng Yao to figure things out.

Huaisang hid a grin. There were some compensations for always being the little brother.

 

1. Lan Xichen’s title is 泽芜君 Zewu-jun. 泽 Ze is fairly easy to read here as luster/shine; I quite like the reading of "brilliant," it comes in useful forms for this title. But translating 芜 wu straightforwardly as overgrown misses the wonderful opportunity to take advantage of the "grown wild" connotation. Therefore, I’m rendering it here as Lord of Wild Brilliance, which has more of the clout one expects from Lan Xichen. back

Give One Heart, Get Back Two

Lan Sizhui was not used to exasperation being his predominant feeling while night-hunting, but it was happening more and more often lately.

Sizhui knew that Jin Ling was under a great deal of pressure, now he’d had to take up the responsibilities of sect master, and do so without much real support from within his own clan. He knew that Jin Ling’s eagerness to accept his own or Ouyang Zhizen’s invitations to hunt together was because these night-hunts, just the junior disciples among themselves (politely ignoring the times that Wen Ning or Wei Wuxian shadowed and watched over them) were Jin Ling’s only real opportunity to relax, to be the junior that his lack of experience still showed him to be. He knew that it was for exactly these reasons that Jin Ling could get a little reckless, on their night-hunts, and he appreciated the implicit trust Jin Ling showed them all by leaving himself so unguarded. He really did.

He just wished Jin Ling would take a few more moments to think, first, before acting. Even one moment might do, really.

Sizhui exchanged a speaking look with Jingyi as Jin Ling dove straight for the corrupted river-spirit, sword out. Jingyi rolled his eyes mightily, but he also nodded and matched Sizhui stroke for stroke as he inscribed a freezing seal and drove it, glowing, into the body of the creature.

Jin Ling’s sword struck a breath later, shattering it, and Sizhui couldn’t help smiling back at the delighted grin Jin Ling gave them as he turned, face bright with uncomplicated happiness that never failed to warm Sizhui almost as much as Jingyi’s rare quiet smiles did.

In that moment, he decided it was time to say something.


That night, once they were all settled in the town’s small inn, Sizhui laid his head on Jingyi’s shoulder and asked, soft in the darkness, “Do you ever think Jin Ling needs something to anchor him, these days?”

Jingyi tilted his head to look down at him for a long moment and then flopped back with a soft snort. “You and your taking care of everyone habits. I think you must have gotten that part from Wei-qianbei.” He hummed thoughtfully, ignoring it when Sizhui poked him in the ribs. “On the other hand, Hanguang-jun did agree to take over as Chief Cultivator; maybe you get it from both sides.” He squawked as Sizhui poked harder and grabbed for his hand, laughing under his breath. “All right, all right. I’ve noticed, yeah.” After a long, quiet moment, he laced his fingers with Sizhui’s and asked, low, “Do you think it should be us?”

Sizhui settled back against him, thumb stroking back and forth over Jingyi’s knuckles as he searched for words. “I think,” he finally said, slow and careful, “that Jin Ling needs very badly for someone in his life to show him gentleness. And for that to be someone he can trust, after what his Jin uncle turned out to be. I also think he needs someone to… well, to not stifle him. To let him be mischievous. To tease him out of it when he’s acting spoiled, but not try to just… just cut him off.” He smiled softly and curled a little closer. “And I think that sounds like you.”

Jingyi made a thoughtful sound. “And someone to be a good example, maybe, considering both his Jin and his Jiang uncles. Someone who won’t let him go the wrong way, even if there’s people saying it’s the right one.” His hand tightened on Sizhui’s. “Which sounds like you, to me. And, wow, did you definitely get that one from both sides,” he added with a low laugh.

Sizhui felt his face heat. “I’m not that stubborn,” he mumbled against Jingyi’s shoulder.

“You really, really are.” Jingyi turned his head to press a kiss to Sizhui’s hair. “It looks good on you. Pretty sure we both think so. Me and xiao-Ling both.”

Sizhui tried to stifle a burst of half delighted and half horrified laughter against Jingyi’s chest. “Jingyi! Don’t call him that!” The tantrum would be epic, even if Jin Ling was a full year younger than the next oldest of them. Or rather, quite likely, because of that.

“No?” Sizhui could hear the wicked grin in Jingyi’s voice.

Sizhui leaned up on an elbow to smile down at him in the dim room. “Well, at least not until after we’ve convinced him.”

Jingyi laughed and pulled him down to a kiss.


At breakfast the next morning, Sizhui asked Jin Ling, “How is the Jin sect doing?”

Jin Ling’s head shot up, eyes wide over a mouthful of noodles. Sizhui waited, patiently. He knew they’d never asked about sect matters before, but he’d thought more than once that maybe they should. And if Jingyi was behind him in this, he was willing to press a little.

“It’s… I mean…” Jin Ling hesitated, wariness in the faint hunch of his shoulders. Sizhui tilted his head in an encouraging nod. Slowly, Jin Ling’s shoulders eased back down and he looked away with a shrug. “It’s hard,” he admitted artlessly. “There’s a lot of people who think one of the cousin branches should have taken over. Someone older.” He sniffed over the idea with a flash of his old arrogance, and Sizhui couldn’t help smiling at it, reaching over to rest his hand on Jin Ling’s before it could curl into a fist. Jin Ling looked around, eyes wide all over again, staring at their hands for a moment before he ducked his head, coloring.

If he was honest with himself, Sizhui had to admit that it was partly Jin Ling’s shyness over the slightest expression of care that drew him. It was all tangled together, the wanting to take care of him, and the bright anger on behalf of someone who was so genuinely good-hearted, and the quiet satisfaction when Jin Ling let himself be guided. “You can always call on us, if you need help,” he said quietly, tightening his hand on Jin Ling’s for a breath. And then he smiled. “We won’t be such complicated political support as Jiang-zongzhu is.”

Jin Ling gave him an exasperated look, though he didn’t pull away. “Lan Sizhui, you’re the adopted son of the Chief Cultivator.”

“Well yes, but almost no one outside of the Lan sect itself knows that,” Sizhui pointed out. Not that a judicious revelation at the right moment might not be a very useful approach to keep in reserve, now he thought about it, especially if he needed to back someone away from Jin Ling.

“So, what, you want to lie to everybody?” Jin Ling looked dubious.

“It’s not lying,” Sizhui explained patiently. “It’s just not saying everything. Zewu-jun does it all the time; I can teach you how, if you like.”

Jin Ling sputtered, and Jingyi burst out laughing. “Everyone notices he’s the one who gets us out of trouble, and never figures out how many of the ideas are his to start with.”

“Just as many are yours,” Sizhui returned.

Jingyi grinned. “Yep. And that’s why you love me.”

Sizhui smiled at him, knowing it was soft with the warmth in his chest. “One of the reasons.” Jin Ling was looking at them with more longing plain to see on his face than he probably realized, and Sizhui stroked a gentle thumb over the back of his hand. “You can always ask us, if you need help or just want company.”

At that, however, Jin Ling’s eyes fell and and the faint tension of reserve returned—the reserve that he used with friends, instead of the arrogance he used with everyone else, which was a little progress at least. Sizhui glanced over at Jingyi, who gave him a tiny, helpless shrug. Sizhui nodded and patted Jin Ling’s hand before letting him go. He’d think over what Jin Ling might be doubtful about as they traveled, today.

“Shall we get going?” he asked.

He watched Jin Ling out of the corner of his eye as they gathered their things and set out. As they walked, he turned over what he knew about Jin Ling’s life. About the uncle who had raised him kindly but in isolation from the rest of his clan, never wanting competition for the sect’s leadership. About the uncle who had raised him strictly, perhaps as the only memento of a lost sister and perhaps trying to never let him be too like a lost brother, but always in reference to someone else. Never as Jin Ling himself. About Jin Ling’s deep attachment to the dog who loved him unconditionally. And when they stopped for water, he went to stand beside Jin Ling, looking out over the little lake that the spring fed down into.

“Is it that you want to not have to ask for our help or company?”

He’d spoken quietly, but Jin Ling jumped as if he’d shouted, head whipping around to stare at Sizhui. “I don’t…!”

Sizhui knew it might not be quite the right moment, but he couldn’t bear to just stand and watch his friend panic, either, and he reached out to lay his hands on Jin Ling’s shoulders. “Jin Ling,” he said softly, holding those wide eyes, “I’m saying you can have that, if you want.”

Jin Ling chewed on his lip. “But… why?” he finally asked, voice small.

Sizhui shook his head chidingly, though he also smiled to soften it. “Because we like you. You’re a good friend, Jin Ling.”

Jin Ling turned very pink and ducked his head. Jingyi grinned wickedly, from behind Jin Ling, and Sizhui gave him a scolding head shake. There would be time for teasing later. Jingyi folded his hands and tried to look innocent, which he was very bad at. Sizhui stifled a laugh, and looked back at Jin Ling’s bent head. Their friend was still hunched in on himself a little. Perhaps he needed to be even more plain about this.

“Jin Ling,” Sizhui said softly, stepping closer, “just because I don’t approve of everything you’ve ever done doesn’t mean I don’t like you, and respect your abilities, and want to be with you. I do.”

Jin Ling blinked up at him, looking very confused. “But…”

Sizhui lifted one hand to cup Jin Ling’s cheek, and he quieted at once, face just a bit flushed. Sizhui made a note of that. “I like you. I want you to be well. And I think you’ve been without what you need, for a long time. Am I right?”

Jin Ling was chewing on his lip again. Behind him, Jingyi rolled his eyes and came to stand right up against Jin Ling’s back, arms wrapped around him, which made Jin Ling’s whole body stiffen. “Of course he has, we all know that perfectly well, Sizhui. The question is whether he wants what he needs from us.”

Sizhui laughed softly. “You see,” he told Jin Ling, “this is another reason I love Jingyi. He always gets to the point.”

Jin Ling was still standing far too still, but his mouth finally tilted in a crooked smile. “I guess I can see it.”

Sizhui smiled and slid both hands up to cup Jin Ling’s face, stepping in close enough for their breaths to mingle. He observed how Jin Ling’s breath caught with satisfaction; he’d judged this right. “You are worthy of love and admiration too, Jin Ling. Perhaps not always for the reasons you’ve been taught, but for your true strengths and true nature. Will you accept that from us?”

Jin Ling opened his mouth and closed it again. “I…” He wet his lips, and Sizhui really couldn’t help the way that drew his eyes. “Yes?” Jin Ling whispered.

“Good,” Sizhui murmured, and leaned in the last little bit to kiss him, gentle but sure.

Despite how obvious he was pretty sure he’d been, Jin Ling still made a shocked sound into his mouth, and Sizhui entertained a brief moment of fury at both Jin Guangyao and Jiang Cheng. He set that aside for later, though, concentrating on the slow softening of Jin Ling’s mouth under his, and the sway of Jin Ling’s body as Jingyi crowded closer, enclosing him between them. When Jin Ling jerked against him with a breathless sound, he lifted his head and smiled to see Jin Ling’s lips parted as Jingyi pressed a kiss to his neck. It started gentle, but after a moment Jingyi’s eyes darted up to meet Sizhui’s, gleaming with mischief, and his cheeks hollowed a little as he sucked hard on Jin Ling’s neck. Jin Ling elbowed Jingyi and gasped, “What are you, a carp?” Jingyi dissolved into laughter, and Jin Ling straightened up in their arms, resettling himself with dignity despite the pinkness of his cheeks. Sizhui made a pleased sound.

This would work.


When they stopped that evening, it was at a larger town, and the inn had furniture in the rooms. Jin Ling took one look at the bed and promptly turned pink again. Sizhui batted Jingyi’s elbow before his grin could become laughter. The time for teasing was still later, he was pretty sure. He went to Jin Ling and gathered him close, satisfied when Jin Ling slowly relaxed against him. “It’s all right,” Sizhui said, running his fingers gently through the length of Jin Ling’s hair. It barely took any pressure at all to urge Jin Ling’s head down to his shoulder, and Sizhui made a soft, encouraging sound as Jin Ling’s arms wound tight around him. Sizhui glanced over that bent head at Jingyi, who was frowning a little, brows pinched together as he watched Jin Ling. When their eyes met, Jingyi nodded short and sharp, and Sizhui smiled. They were in agreement that Jin Ling needed some taking care of. They would probably do it in very different ways, of course, but Sizhui didn’t think it was a bad thing.

The less cooperative members of Jin Ling’s clan might, but that was their problem. If they didn’t want Jingyi’s inventive wrath to descend on them, they should have behaved better toward Jin Ling.

Sizhui rubbed his fingers up and down the back of Jin Ling’s neck while Jingyi quietly unfolded the bedding. Slowly, the lurking tension in Jin Ling’s muscles eased, and he finally snuggled against Sizhui. Sizhui firmly suppressed the urge to comment on how adorable that was. Later. “Better?” he asked instead.

Jin Ling’s color was still a little high, when he raised his head, but his eyes were clear and steady. "Mm."

Sizhui smiled and curled his hand over Jin Ling’s nape, leaning in to kiss him. This time, Jin Ling leaned in to meet him, unpracticed but sweet and open, and Sizhui made a pleased sound, tilting his head to kiss Jin Ling deeper. He didn’t quite realize he’d let his hand tighten until Jin Ling gasped and swayed against him, suddenly pliant. “Jin Ling?”

Jingyi, at least, seemed to know exactly what was going on, coming to stand at Jin Ling’s back again and squeezing his shoulders. “Feels good, doesn’t it? Knowing for sure that Sizhui has you. Someone you can really trust.”

Jin Ling wouldn’t look directly at Sizhui, but he nodded. “Yeah. It’s… yeah.”

Sizhui thought his heart might melt right then and there, and he gathered Jin Ling closer. “I’m honored by your trust,” he said softly, meeting Jingyi’s eyes over Jin Ling’s head, making sure he said it to both of them because it was just as true either way. Jin Ling ducked his head again, but Jingyi just smiled, perfectly calm the way he only ever was when it was just the two of them.

Or three, now, it seemed.

The thought sent a sparkle of pleasure and anticipation down his nerves, and the way Jin Ling was quiet under his hand gave him an idea. He squeezed the nape of Jin Ling’s neck, careful and gentle, and nodded to himself at the quick breath Jin Ling took in. He still asked, of course, when he stroked his hands down the collar of Jin Ling’s robes. “May I?”

Jin Ling wet his lips and nodded, letting go enough to lay his fingers on Sizhui’s sash, eyes questioning. Sizhui smiled, soft, glad that this wasn’t overwhelming enough to quell all of Jin Ling’s boldness. “Please do.”

“He likes to take his time about this part,” Jingyi supplied as he tugged the loosened robes off Jin Ling’s shoulders and shrugged quickly out of his own. “You can get around that by not bothering at all, though.”

Jin Ling got a speculative gleam in his eye, at that. “Really?”

Sizhui laughed, folding his underthings over the room’s bench. “Yes, sometimes. We can show you on the road, tomorrow, if you like.” He held out his hands to Jin Ling. “For now, though, come here and join me.” He drew Jin Ling down to the bed with him and settled back against the coolness of the wall, tugging Jin Ling in to settle between his legs and lean back against his chest.

“Ah,” Jingyi sounded enlightened. “Versatile.” He knelt on the bed between Jin Ling’s feet, sliding his hands slowly up Jin Ling’s legs.

“I thought so,” Sizhui murmured, folding his arms around Jin Ling and cradling him close, trailing soft kisses down the line of his neck. “Relax,” he added softly, when Jin Ling turned stiff and uncertain in his arms. “I have you.” He could feel the warmth of Jin Ling’s flush against his cheek and smiled, tightening his arms gently.

The real point of which became apparent when Jingyi sprawled out on his stomach between Jin Ling’s legs, and Jin Ling started—or tried to. The sound he made when he didn’t go anywhere was sharp and wordless, but not a protest. “Shhh,” Sizhui said against his ear. “I said I have you. It’s all right.” He felt the slow shudder that rolled through Jin Ling and made a soft, satisfied sound as Jin Ling sagged back against him, breath coming quick and deep.

His foster father had taught him to be careful with his strength, and perhaps that was why it always seemed to surprise people, despite core and upper body development being one of the central physical disciplines of Lan. Sizhui had guessed that Jin Ling would find it reassuring to be held firmly, and it looked like he was right given how lax Jin Ling was in his arms, now.

“So, are we ready?” Jingyi grinned up at them, chin in his palms, and Sizhui couldn’t help laughing.

“I think so. Yes?” he asked against Jin Ling’s ear. Jin Ling swallowed and nodded, and Sizhui exchanged a look with Jingyi and saw agreement in his eyes. When Jingyi bent down over Jin Ling, he moved slowly, making it clear what he was going to do. Jin Ling made a very breathless sound as Jingyi’s mouth closed around him, but he also leaned deeper into Sizhui’s arms, letting his head fall back against Sizhui’s shoulder. That open trust stirred a deep tenderness in Sizhui and he pressed soft kisses to the curve of Jin Ling’s shoulder as Jin Ling started to move with the slow pressure of Jingyi’s mouth. Jingyi’s eyes flickered up to meet Sizhui’s in another question and Sizhui thought for a moment, balancing the way Jin Ling had been responding to him, today, with the way Jin Ling and Jingyi usually rough-housed. He suspected the direction had better still come from him.

He nibbled on Jin Ling’s ear to draw his attention and murmured, “Jingyi is going to hold you still.”

Jin Ling’s breath caught, and Sizhui could see the way the long muscles of his thighs flexed tight for a moment. Jin Ling’s bared throat worked as he swallowed and whispered, “All right.”

Jingyi’s eyes were dancing as he slid his hands up Jin Ling’s thighs, and Sizhui could tell he was probably in for some teasing, later, about people doing whatever Sizhui said. It wasn’t as if he’d set out to be in charge of everything; it just happened! Usually because someone needed to be sensible, or someone needed to be calm. Today, it was because Jin Ling needed someone to be see what he wanted and act on it, without Jin Ling having to fight for the attention. As he felt Jin Ling tense and then relax into Jingyi’s hands settling over his hips, Sizhui loosened his own hold and stroked his palms slowly up and down Jin Ling’s body. That still seemed to fit what he needed, if the way he melted back against Sizhui’s chest was anything to judge by, and Sizhui exchanged a satisfied nod with Jingyi before Jingyi closed his mouth back around Jin Ling’s cock. This time, Jin Ling moaned out loud and Sizhui hummed to him, pleased, kneading gently over the taut muscle of Jin Ling’s stomach. The trusting ease of Jin Ling in his arms felt like it might be all he needed this evening.

At least until Jingyi shifted his grip and lifted Jin Ling just a little higher against him—just enough for Sizhui’s cock to slide between Jin Ling’s cheeks. “Jingyi!” he gasped, catching Jin Ling’s hips to hold him still. Jingyi drew slowly back and looked up at him with a tiny grin.

“You were thinking about it, earlier.”

“Well yes, but not if…” Sizhui trailed off, looking down at Jin Ling as it finally registered that Jin Ling’s body was arched taut in their hands but his head was still laid back against Sizhui’s shoulder. Open. Trusting. And also quite flushed, lips parted on each quick breath. He turned his head a little away, as Sizhui watched him, but only a little—as if he’d stopped himself. As if, the thought formed slowly, as if he were waiting.

Slowly, Sizhui bent his head, ready to draw back if Jin Ling tensed, and pressed an open mouthed kiss to the exposed arch of Jin Ling’s throat. Jin Ling gasped and tilted his head back further, back arching a little higher, and when that pressed his rear against Sizhui’s cock, Sizhui felt a shiver run through him.

Well, then.

Sizhui tightened his hands on Jin Ling’s hips, pulling him back snugly, and smiled at his breathless moan. “Yes,” he said softly against Jin Ling’s throat. “We will.”

Jin Ling’s throat worked under his lips as Jin Ling swallowed. “Yes,” he whispered.

Jingyi positively smirked. Sizhui rolled his eyes. “Yes, you’re brilliant. Help me out here, then.”

“Sure thing.” Jingyi sprawled off the side of the bed to rummage in his bag, coming up with the jar of very-definitely-medicinal gel that they had both agreed some time ago it would be more plausible for him have, if it were ever found by their elders.

Sizhui lifted Jin Ling up gently and spread his thighs over Sizhui’s own, pressing a kiss to Jin Ling’s temple. “Jingyi is going to get you ready for me.” Another shiver went through Jin Ling, and Sizhui folded his arms around him, cuddling him close again. He made low sound of satisfaction at how Jin Ling relaxed for him, and stayed mostly relaxed even when Jingyi slid slick fingers between Jin Ling’s cheeks, rubbing his entrance firmly.

And, not coincidentally Sizhui was sure, also stroked the backs of his fingers against Sizhui’s cock, which was very hard by now. The pleasure of his touch shivered up Sizhui’s spine, winding together with the pleasure of having Jin Ling in his arms, increasingly flushed and breathless as Jingyi’s fingers worked into him. “Tell us,” he started, and then paused, remembering. What Jin Ling wanted was all their attention, without having to ask for it. “Jingyi,” he corrected himself, “tell me when Jin Ling is ready.”

Jingyi smiled, pressing his fingers slowly deeper. “I will.”

Jin Ling tipped his head back a little further to stare up at Sizhui, eyes wide and dark. Sizhui bent his head to catch Jin Ling’s mouth in a soft kiss. “Jin Ling, xiao-Ling,” he murmured, “of course we’ll do this for you. You’re precious to us.” Jin Ling’s amazement over that was really starting to make Sizhui think rather violent things about Jin Ling’s family and clan.

“Why?” Jin Ling whispered, voice breaking in the middle of the word as Jingyi twisted his hand slowly, sending another shiver up Sizhui’s spine too. “I’m not your sect, or your clan…”

Sizhui gathered him closer. “You stayed with us,” he said softly, against Jin Ling’s shoulder. “Even though you’d obviously been taught to stand alone far too often. You tried to do the right thing, even when the people who should have guided you were holding their hands over your eyes, instead. And you never let go of your own heart, even when those around you denied it.” He lifted his head and smiled at Jingyi, who rested his cheek against Jin Ling’s thigh and smiled back. “I was taught to value that kind of integrity very highly.” He looked back down at Jin Ling, who seemed to be having trouble catching his breath, maybe for more than one reason, now, and dropped a kiss on the tip of his nose. “I love what you are. That’s all.”

Jingyi laughed softly. “I think he’s ready for you, Sizhui.” He leaned in and kissed Jin Ling himself, gentle even if his voice was still teasing. “In more ways than one.” Jin Ling batted at him indignantly until Sizhui caught his wrist and pressed a kiss to the inside of it.

“Come here, xiao-Ling,” he coaxed, and Jin Ling smiled and settled back against his chest, tugging out of Sizhui’s hold to thread his fingers into Sizhui’s hair and, a little hesitant, a little shy, draw him down to another kiss. Sizhui positively purred, and kissed him slow and deep, gasping into his mouth when Jingyi’s fingers stroked over his cock, slick and deliberate. Want curled low and heavy in his stomach, and he slid his hands down to cage Jin Ling’s hips again. “Now,” he said softly, and Jin Ling relaxed into his hold with a quick nod, maybe a little nervous. Hopefully not for long.

Sizhui lifted Jin Ling up and made a pleased sound as Jingyi’s hand slid over him, guiding his cock against Jin Ling. Jingyi leaned in to kiss him, over Jin Ling’s shoulder, and mouthed gently against his lips. Sizhui smiled at that, happy warmth settling deep inside him at the way he and Jingyi thought as one, on this. He slowly, carefully, drew Jin Ling down onto his cock, letting Jingyi guide them together. Jin Ling moaned out loud, and his body worked around Sizhui, tensing and releasing and tensing again. Sizhui’s breath caught at the fierce pulses of pleasure that shot up his spine, holding himself very still, focusing on the slow, firm stroke of Jingyi’s hands up and down his legs. Slowly, bit by bit, he eased Jin Ling down further, breathing through the rush as the heat of Jin Ling’s body closed around him.

Finally Jin Ling’s body relaxed and he settled back against Sizhui with a breathless gasp. “Oh…”

“You feel so good,” Sizhui whispered against his ear, lifting Jin Ling slowly and drawing him back down again, savoring the way Jin Ling moaned, the way he relaxed into this immense intimacy.

“Sizhui…”

“The two of you are beautiful, like this,” Jingyi added, watching them with dark eyes, hands sliding over Sizhui’s hips, up Jin Ling’s rips, slow and open and caressing. Jin Ling bit his lip, tipping his head back to look up at Sizhui. Sizhui paused to kiss him until he stopped.

“Anything,” he said firmly. “It’s all right.”

Jin Ling smiled at that, so sweet that it made Sizhui’s breath catch. “Okay.” He held out his arms rather imperiously to Jingyi, who laughed as he settled close, closing Jin Ling between them. Jingyi rocked against Jin Ling, driving him back onto Sizhui’s cock, all three of them moving together, and Sizhui let his eyes drift closed so he could focus on how good that felt. “Mmm, yes.”

Gradually they found a rhythm, a slow flex and hard grind of bodies, a cascade of gasps and moans tangling together, a scatter of messy kisses pressed to any mouth that was close enough, and Sizhui sank himself into the pleasure of it, the sweetness of Jin Ling’s trust and Jingyi’s desire, the heat in his body slowly winding tighter.

It was Jin Ling who came apart first, a desperate gasp captured in Jingyi’s mouth, and then his body tightened fiercely around Sizhui. Sizhui shuddered and pulled Jin Ling down hard against him, grinding deep into him until the pleasure of it raked through him, hot and intense. Jingyi groaned, low and velvety, whole body one long, sinuous flex of muscle as he scattered kisses up Jin Ling’s throat to catch Sizhui’s mouth, and Sizhui freed one hand to tangle together with Jingyi’s own on his cock and stroke him hard until he came, too.

They subsided into a tangle of limbs, all of them breathless and flushed and messy, and Sizhui couldn’t stop laughing, soft and light with the lightness in his chest.

“Is he always like this, after?” Jin Ling mumbled into Jingyi’s shoulder, and Jingyi snickered.

“Sometimes. When he’s gotten something he really wants.”

Jin Ling lifted his head, looking startled, and Sizhui put another mark on his very private internal list, next to ‘Do something about Jin’, before turning Jin Ling’s chin to kiss him, slow and gentle. “Yes, you are,” he murmured.

Jin Ling smiled, bright and shyly pleased. At least until Jingyi ruffled his hair, cooing, “Xiao-Ling is so adorable!” The ensuing wrestling match tumbled them both off the bed, and Sizhui shook his head, laughing again.

Yes. This would work.

Epilogue

Sizhui paced across the first courtyard of the Jin compound at his seniors’ heels, Jingyi at his shoulder, carefully composed despite how much he was looking forward to seeing Jin Ling. They had to be decorous during the yearly meetings, and it was Jin’s turn to be host so Jin Ling would have extra responsibilities to take care of. Of course, he could enjoy the sight of his lover being the competent sect master he was, too.

He stood patiently while Jin Ling greeted Lan and the Chief Cultivator, and Wei-xiong, who smirked at how Jin Ling tried to make him sound like an afterthought, and ruffled Jin Ling’s hair in revenge. Eventually, though, formal greetings were done and he let himself smile warmly at Jin Ling and enjoy the bright smile Jin Ling always had for them in return.

From the side of the courtyard where some Jin disciples stood, quiet but carrying words cut through the air and froze that smile. “Looks like Lan really will pick up any stray dog that walks past them.”

Jingyi’s sword rang free as he whipped around to glare at them. “If you think you can criticize Lan, get out your sword and do it that way!” He lunged out of line, straight for the one who’d spoken, who fell back with a startled yelp.

For one breath, the eye of every Lan disciple, and most of those from other clans who were still in the courtyard, turned to Sizhui, expectant. Sizhui looked at the paleness of Jin Ling’s face and the tight set of those normally-soft lips.

He calmly folded his hands, and said nothing.

Quick breaths drew in, all around him, rippling out like the mark of a raindrop on water. Every junior disciple in the court, and not a few of the seniors, rocked a step back from him. Sizhui stood still, hands folded, and watched until Jingyi had kicked the Jin disciple’s feet out from under him and pinned him against the flagstones with a sword at his throat before he finally said, softly. “Jingyi. I’m sure he misspoke himself.”

Jingyi raised a brow and prodded his captive lightly with the point of his sword. “That so?”

The other young man swallowed, looking more than a little wild-eyed, and nodded as vigorously as he was currently able. “Yes! Definitely!”

Sizhui smiled faintly. “I was sure it must be. Please do be careful, in the future, Qianbei.”

There was silence in the courtyard as Jingyi came back to his side, which Sizhui approved of almost as much as he approved of the mixed amusement and exasperation that had displaced the tight hurt in Jin Ling’s expression. He smiled at Jin Ling, calm and immovable, and Jin Ling rolled his eyes.

“The Lan Sect is welcome at this conference,” he repeated meaningfully, sweeping a hand at the inner doors.

Jingyi nudged him, as they walked on, and flicked his eyes at Wangji-yifu’s back. Sizhui considered the relaxed, if straight, line of his foster-father’s shoulders and the ever so faint forward tilt of his head, and stifled a laugh. He shook his head just a little at Jingyi, reassuring; Wangji-yifu wasn’t upset at them, not at all. Jingyi looked dubious, but subsided.

As they all filed into the wing set aside for them, Wangji-yifu did lay a hand on Sizhui’s shoulder to hold them back, and Jingyi looked nervous again. Sizhui just looked up at his foster-father, perfectly steady in his determination to take care of the people who were precious to him, and Wangji-yifu nodded to him, lips curving faintly, and let him go.

That apparently made it Wei-xiong’s turn to drape an arm over his shoulders. “A-Yuan’s grown up so much!” His words were light, but the steady approval in his eyes made Sizhui duck his head, pleased.

Before Sizhui could answer, though, Jin Ling darted through the screens and banged them shut behind him. “I cannot believe you!” he hissed.

That immediately revived Jingyi, who smirked. “What? He didn’t do anything at all.”

Sizhui patted Wei-xiong’s arm to be let go so he could go to Jin Ling and catch his hands before he started really yelling. “Xiao-Ling,” he said, very softly, which got Jin Ling to pause. Sizhui smiled softly. “If you really want us to not defend you, I’m afraid that’s going to be a bit difficult.”

Jin Ling looked down at their hands. “Mm.” After a moment to compose himself, though, he looked back up and added, “I need to stand on my own as sect master, though.”

“I was avenging a slight to Lan,” Jingyi said in a virtuous tone. “Nothing to do with Jin.”

Jin Ling rolled his eyes mightily, and Sizhui squeezed his hands. “There’s still nothing political about it. Jingyi and I support you personally. That’s all.”

Jin Ling chewed on his lip, and Wei-xiong finally spoke from where he was leaning against the wall beside Wangji-yifu, with no trace of the teasing tone he usually took with the younger disciples. “No one stands completely on their own, a-Ling.”

Jin Ling stilled at his serious tone, suddenly looking uncertain and even younger than he was. “Really?”

“Really,” Wei-xiong said, absolutely certain.

Jin Ling looked down at their laced hands with a tiny smile. “Oh.”

Jingyi came to sling an arm around him. “Quit sulking and I promise I’ll save some for you, next time.”

Jin Ling’s smile turned sharp and wicked. “Deal,” he agreed.

Sizhui sighed, but didn’t protest, and Jingyi’s grin got a somewhat bloodthirsty edge to it. Sizhui didn’t actually disapprove, so he said nothing of it, and after a long look at him Jin Ling laughed and threw his arms around them. Sizhui smiled and gathered him in, leaning against Jingyi. This was what he wanted. This was what he would defend.

He glanced over his shoulder at the rustle of robes, and caught his foster-father’s eye as he started to turn away down the walkway, one hand at the small of Wei-xiong’s back. Wangji-yifu gave him a faint nod, quiet approval in the relaxed lines around his eyes. And also in the grin Wei-xiong threw over his shoulder, for that matter. Sizhui ducked his head, feeling the happy warmth of their support settling in his chest.

“It’s so cute, how he takes after you,” Wei-xiong said as they walked away.

“He takes more after you,” Wangji-yifu returned, sounding perfectly sober but obviously teasing back. Well, obviously to Sizhui anyway. Somehow, no one else ever seemed to get it.

“Lan Zhan, how can you be so blind about your own child?”

Sizhui tried to swallow a laugh, and Jingyi shook his head. “Hanguang-jun doesn’t get any less scary just because Wei Wuxian is teasing him, Sizhui.”

“He isn’t scary at all,” Sizhui protested, only to get disbelieving looks from both of them.

“He doesn’t see it because he’s scary the same way,” Jingyi told Jin Ling, who nodded wisely.

“That sounds about right.” He paused and added, “Especially after today.” A smile was creeping over his face again, though, and he slanted a sidelong look at Sizhui. “It was actually kind of…”

Jingyi was grinning again. “It kind of is, isn’t it?” he agreed. “Hey, you’re being a good host, right? Why don’t you show us our rooms?”

“Good idea.”

Sizhui laughed as he let them drag him off, bright and open.

Yes. This was what he would defend.

End

Raise the Pillars

Lan Zhan always tried to demonstrate by his actions that he had full faith in a-Yuan’s ability and judgement. So he had only once gotten all the way to Taicang, to watch for a-Yuan’s party, when they had been late to return from a night-hunt. Normally, he managed with only one or two internal reminders to prevent himself hovering at the gates.

He reminded himself of this again, when he found himself passing by the gate for no particular reason for the second time that day.

Perhaps Jin Ling was reckless, yes. Perhaps Ouyang Zizhen was impulsive, yes. But Wei Ying had gone to watch over them, and if the party was a bit later than expected it probably only meant that Wei Ying had decided to expand the journey’s lessons to encompass bargaining with stall-keepers or advanced archery techniques. There was almost certainly no need for concern.

He was turning determinedly away when he caught the sound of familiar voices down the path.

“…really don’t have to—” Wei Ying was saying, only to be interrupted by Ouyang Zizhen’s voice, full of indignant passion.

“You shouldn’t have to put up with that! It isn’t right! They just… they blame you for everything, Wei-qianbei, and you never did anything but try to keep people safe!”

“Yes, yes, they do,” Wei Ying said in a soothing tone, “but it isn’t like it matters.”

“Wei-qianbei!” Ouyang Zizhen sounded downright scolding, now. Lan Zhan noted that a-Yuan had yet to say anything moderating, himself, which suggested he agreed quite firmly. When the party turned the final curve in the path, all the junior disciples were clustered around Wei Ying. Ouyang Zizhen and Lan Jingyi were crowded in at Wei Ying’s shoulders protectively, nearly bristling with it. Wei Ying looked fondly exasperated at this. Jin Ling walked quietly ahead of them, eyes shadowed, though not nearly as tense as the other two.

A-Yuan walked at the back of the group, expression so very calm that Lan Zhan glanced reflexively at his grip on his sword. It wasn’t tight. It was, rather, easy and poised, as if a-Yuan might draw at any moment. Lan Zhan raised his brows and went to meet them.

“What happened?” he asked quietly, reaching up to lay a finger against Wei Ying’s lips when he started to answer, looking at a-Yuan for a reply.

A-Yuan bowed, every impeccable manner pulled around him like a cloak against the cold. “Hanguang-jun. When we stopped this morning for food, there were people at the inn discussing the haunting we had gone to address. One of them mentioned that there seemed to have been more hauntings lately, and that it was only to be expected when the Yiling Patriarch had returned.” He bestowed a nod on Ouyang Zizhen that was nearly a bow, so clearly approving that the other boy straightened up in response. “Ouyang Zizhen corrected their misconception quite promptly.”

Wei Ying huffed and wrapped his hand around Lan Zhan’s, removing his finger. “It really wasn’t necessary to get into a fight with idiots over breakfast.”

“To supply necessary knowledge is admirable,” Lan Zhan noted, ignoring the way Wei Ying rolled his eyes.

“That was followed by some historical debate,” a-Yuan finished. “I apologize for the delay in our return.”

Lan Zhan considered a-Yuan’s sudden vagueness about this ‘debate’ and also the rather heated smile Lan Jingyi was giving a-Yuan, and concluded that a small village west of Gusu had been gently and earnestly lectured on Wei Ying’s history and accomplishments until they had been shamed into admitting their error. A-Yuan’s imitation of Xichen-xiong could be alarmingly effective. No wonder Wei Ying looked so exasperated.

“Learning comes first.” Under the shelter of that inarguable principle, Lan Zhan exchanged a small, satisfied nod with a-Yuan.

“You are both so ridiculously overprotective,” Wei Ying scolded. He was smiling, so both Lan Zhan and a-Yuan ignored it.

“Or maybe just protective enough.” Jin Ling looked up at Wei Ying, eyes still a little dark. “There are still cultivators who think that way, Uncle.”

Wei Ying’s smile softened, and he ruffled Jin Ling’s hair until the boy ducked away, scowling. “Lan Zhan doesn’t think it. None of you think it.” He shrugged, loose and easy. “The people who matter don’t think it.”

It worked on the juniors, who all grinned or blushed or otherwise looked flustered and pleased. Lan Zhan couldn’t deny that Wei Ying’s words sent warm satisfaction unfurling like a blossom in his own chest. But they didn’t distract him from the underlying issue, which was that a whole society of those who claimed to seek the truest self had become far too ready to lay responsibility for their own lack of achievement on the truest one of them all. When a-Yuan went to see his friends off, Lan Zhan stayed close beside Wei Ying, walking with him back to their rooms.

Wei Ying nudged his shoulder against Lan Zhan’s, glancing at him sidelong, eyes warm. “Lan Zhan. You know it doesn’t matter to me.”

Lan Zhan stopped in the middle of their courtyard and turned to face him, lifting one hand to cup his cheek. “I remember the look on your face, listening to the sects pledge your destruction.” Wei Ying hadn’t been at all afraid, but he had been hurt, wounded to the core. He flinched from Lan Zhan’s words, even now.

“That wasn’t…” Wei Ying lifted a hand to cover Lan Zhan’s, turning his face into Lan Zhan’s palm. “It wasn’t that I cared what most of them said or thought,” he finished softly. “It was that Jiang Cheng was right there. And I’d just lost everyone. Again.”

Lan Zhan reached out to gather him close and murmured against his ear, quiet and fierce, “You will never face such things alone again.” As Wei Ying leaned into him, he added, “I would have them not happen in the first place.”

Wei Ying huffed a faint laugh. “So would I, but people are like that.”

“Only if no one steps forward to say they should not be.” Lan Zhan tightened his arms as Wei Ying stirred against him. “You said yourself: Jiang Cheng was there. What if he were not?” He ran his hands slowly up and down Wei Ying’s back, trying to ease the tension gathering there. “What if I had stood forth against it?”

“Then they would have started saying the same things about you,” Wei Ying said flatly, and Lan Zhan felt the pull on his robes as Wei Ying’s hands tightened sharply in the fabric. “You saw that happen at the Burial Mounds.”

“And yet, when you spoke the truth of Su She’s deeds, they knew it.” Lan Zhan ran his fingers gently through Wei Ying’s hair. “I do not believe our society is so lost that truth will never move them.”

“Maybe. At least if the likes of Jin Guangyao isn’t egging them on,” Wei Ying grumbled, and then abruptly lifted his head, eyes wide. “Oh.” He was completely still for long moments, so still Lan Zhan spread a hand against his back, not entirely sure he was breathing. Finally Wei Ying did take in a deep, slow breath. “Oh.”

“Wei Ying?” He could usually follow Wei Ying’s thoughts, but he wasn’t entirely sure where they’d gone just now.

Wei Ying pushed back just enough to take Lan Zhan’s shoulders in his hands. “I’m an idiot,” he declared, in a tone which suggested anything but. “Jin Guangshan and his brat of a nephew stirred up a little talk, sure, but they were so obvious about throwing their weight around I doubt it would have gone very far. It was only Jin Guangyao that turned it into something else, starting right from the victory banquet, I bet. That must be when he started working on the set-up for the hunt at Phoenix Mountain, which means he was probably the one egging on the Wen prisoners’ keepers too, because it isn’t hard to guess how Jiang Cheng will act when it comes to the sect.”

Lan Zhan felt like he might need to catch his breath from the way Wei Ying’s thoughts leaped and rushed ahead, this time. “You mean… that Jiang Cheng would not support your compassion?”

Wei Ying’s mouth twisted for a breath. “That either. But the point was to make me lose my temper, ideally in public, over the treatment of the Wen remnants. Because that was the one thing he could be sure the other sects wouldn’t support, which means Jiang Cheng wouldn’t either, to protect Jiang’s reputation. And once I was acting apart from any of the sects, how easy must it have been to stir up fear that I’d act against them?”

“You will not be without the support of a sect again,” Lan Zhan said firmly, and blinked when Wei Ying swooped in to kiss him quickly and then shook his head.

“That’s not the most critical point. People are people. They’ll always be at least a little afraid of those stronger than themselves. But it wouldn’t have gone further than that without Jin Guangyao pushing. It’s that kind of interference that we need to be sure to halt.” He flashed a brilliant smile at Lan Zhan. “And the two of us are a match for any one like him.”

The conundrum Lan Zhan had been chiseling at in his mind for years, and had returned to far more urgently of late, turned over in his thoughts, the breaking point of it suddenly evident. Not how to change human nature, but how to stop the hands of the few who saw in other humans only tools for their own use. “Yes,” he agreed softly, and ran his fingers down Wei Ying’s jaw, coaxing him in for another, slower, kiss. “We will be.”

Wei Ying leaned in and kissed him back, humming a contented little sound into his mouth. After a moment he murmured, against Lan Zhan’s lips, “You know, there’s one person who could really help out with something like this.”

When Lan Zhan drew back, he saw that the laughter had slipped away from Wei Ying’s mouth. “Who?”

Wei Ying’s eyes were steady and serious on him. “Nie Huaisang.”

Lan Zhan took in a sharp breath and had to close his eyes for a moment, seeing again the empty stillness of his brother’s face, the last time Lan Zhan had visited his rooms, the way his gaze didn’t seem to really see what was around him.

Yet, he also remembered Jin Guangyao’s smile and the utterly reasonable tone of his voice, speaking condemnation of Wei Ying, dropping fear, word by word, into the ears of the other sects. And he remembered the light in his brother’s eyes, the way he’d held out his hands to welcome Jin Guangyao into the Cloud Recesses.

It cut across his heart with an edge made of shame, because he loved his brother, but he understood why Nie Huaisang might have seen justice in using Xichen-xiong’s hands to put a final end to the unblinking cruelty of Jin Guangyao’s plots.

Wei Ying’s hand on his cheek, warm and calloused and real, drew him back. “We don’t have to,” Wei Ying said softly. “But in the whole cultivation world, right now, he’s probably the best one at spotting that kind of manipulation. And the one with the most reason to put a halt to it.”

Lan Zhan laid his hand over Wei Ying’s, lacing their fingers gently. “Besides you? Perhaps so.”

Wei Ying blinked at him. “Besides…? Oh! Sure, I guess so.”

Lan Zhan really had some exceedingly uncomplimentary thoughts about Jiang Fengmian and Yu Ziyuan, these days. “Think more of yourself,” he told Wei Ying, quiet and firm.

“I will if you will,” Wei Ying proposed, something Lan Zhan frankly doubted. “Do you want to leave Nie Huaisang out of this?”

Lan Zhan gave his lover a stern look for that slippery maneuver, but made himself think it over. Was filial duty, or even his anger over his brother’s pain, more important to him than having this ally in keeping Wei Ying safe? As soon as the thought formed, though, he felt the tension in his arms and shoulders ease. Another thought formed to answer it, as surely as his blade would rise to answer the awareness of a blow coming toward him.

No. It was not.

He gathered Wei Ying close again, feeling the warm, living weight in his arms that whispered to his heart that all was well. “Let us speak to him.”

Wei Ying’s eyes widened, and even the bright smile that blossomed over his face didn’t fully hide his underlying amazement. “You’re sure?” he asked softly, draping his arms over Lan Zhan’s shoulders, fingers toying with the ends of his headband. Lan Zhan smiled and let him.

“I am.”

If everyone else in Wei Ying’s life had been blind and foolish enough to think Wei Ying’s generous heart would always be at their disposal, even if they failed at every turn to cherish, or even appreciate it… well, Lan Zhan was more than willing to ensure that everyone involved learned better. Including Wei Ying.


The errand was not immediately urgent, so they walked rather than riding their swords. At least, Lan Zhan walked. Wei Ying brought Little Apple to ride, insisting that the beast needed the exercise. Little Apple himself was unconvinced by Wei Ying’s arguments, and held out for an apple from each of them before consenting to take his headstall without turning up his nose or nipping.

It was good to be on the road together, though. Lan Zhan hadn’t fully realized how constantly alert he’d been, in the Cloud Recesses, for any sign that his uncle’s disapproval was affecting how the rest of the sect treated Wei Ying, or that his brother’s grief was spiraling downward, or that there was some need for his word as Chief Cultivator to quiet the lingering agitation among the sects. It was pleasant to be alone for a bit, just the two of them.

They were let in immediately, when they arrived at the Unclean Realm. The easy welcome made Wei Ying smile, only a little crookedly, which Lan Zhan had to admit pleased him. Even so, the way the Nie sect master came to welcome them and show them, not to his formal receiving room, but to his personal sitting room, sharpened Lan Zhan’s attention. This was a very marked degree of favor and respect, something which, in retrospect, Nie Huaisang had used his reputation for timidity to avoid offering any of the other sect masters or the late Chief Cultivator. He wondered if this was an apology of sorts.

Nie Huaisang poured tea all around and sat back, delicate cup held gracefully between his fingers. “What may I do for the Chief Cultivator and his cultivation partner?” he asked. “Or is it Lan Wangji and Wei Wuxian who have come to visit?”

“A little of both.” Wei Ying trailed his fingers over the silky smoothness of the table, not quite perfectly at random. The motion caught at Lan Zhan’s eye. None of Wei Ying’s movements quite formed characters of the talisman script, but the suggestion was there. Perhaps he wasn’t the only one on edge. “Lan Zhan wants me not to be a target again, and I have to admit I’d like that too. That’s the personal part. For the less personal, we’re looking for a way to prevent our society’s weaknesses from being exploited.”

“Fear of the unknown is a weakness,” Lan Zhan supplied, at Nie Huaisang’s raised brows.

“And what do we have a Chief Cultivator for, if not to take thought for the cultivation world as a whole, and try to find ways to strengthen us all?” Wei Ying flashed Lan Zhan a bright smile, eyes crinkled with a private laugh, “Even if he’d often prefer to do it by knocking some heads together.”

Lan Zhan took a composed sip of his tea. “Only when truly necessary.”

Nie Huaisang furled his delicately painted fan and tapped it against his chin, not quite covering a faint, tilted smile. “So says the man who gave Jiang-zongzhu a black eye that lasted for weeks after the second battle at the Nightless City.”

Wei Ying paused, staring at Lan Zhan with wide eyes. “…you did?”

Lan Zhan took another sip of tea, which he hoped did a better job than the fan of covering his considerable satisfaction at the memory. “We would appreciate your insight,” he told their host.

Nie Huaisang tilted his head, faint smile fading as he watched them. “In protecting people from their own fear? As well try to protect the fertile ground from seeds.”

“Some harvests require more cultivation than others,” Lan Zhan returned, and after a moment Nie Huaisang turned a palm up in graceful acknowledgment.

“If there’s anyone who would know the signs to watch for, that someone is manipulating public opinion for their own ends, it would be you, wouldn’t it? Wei Ying added, quietly.

Nie Huaisang looked down at his folded fan, face still. Lan Zhan waited while he thought.

“It’s a good thought, but you’re being naive about how to start,” Nie Huaisang said at last, “Once you’ve recovered, then yes, maybe you’ll only need to keep watch to weed out the exceptional players in this game. But right now you’re already at a disadvantage, and that will attract anyone who wants a cheap victory in public opinion. So the first thing you need to do is persuade people that you bring them advantage in increasing their cultivation. That was what almost saved you, before, you know. The useful tools that everyone knew were of your making. You need something of that sort again, now.” He looked up with a tiny, wry smile. “The thing is, most people aren’t very thoughtful, let alone original. Wei-xiong is a bit of an exception.” He chuckled at Wei Ying’s exaggerated preening, but it faded back into seriousness swiftly. “For most people, if they usually do things one way, then they think it’s always been that way, even that it must be the right way. So once you’ve got them thinking in a new way, it won’t be hard to keep it up. But to get them there, you need to give them a justification for why the new way is right.”

Wei Ying slumped bonelessly over the table with a deep sigh, fingers toying with his cup. “Because of course, just being, you know, correct isn’t enough.” He waved a hand when Nie Huaisang started to speak. “No, you’re right, you’re right. It’s only when they don’t have a choice, or when there’s an advantage, that people change, I suppose.”

Lan Zhan contemplated the notion of not giving people a choice for a long moment before putting it aside with only a flicker of regret. Lan Yi had tried that once already, and it hadn’t worked well enough for his current purposes. “Will you help to construct such a justification, Nie-zongzhu?”

Nie Huaisang considered him for a long moment, eyes dark and opaque. “I admit that I owe the two of you,” he said, finally. “And this will probably be good for our society as a whole. Better than leaving it all to lie, at least. I’d be willing to help. But this will be a long piece of work; I’d like something in return.”

Lan Zhan felt the subtle tension that threaded through Wei Ying, beside him. “What is it you want?” Wei Ying asked, not straightening up but suddenly far more intent.

The corner of Nie Huaisang’s mouth quirked up. “I want the position of Chief Cultivator, when Hanguang-jun steps down. I want neither of you to stand in my way, while I restore my clan’s face from what I had to do to it. In return,” he spread his hands, “I’ll also use it to help you guard against the cultivators of dangerous harvests.”

Wei Ying’s mouth curled, too tight for amusement alone but still amused, Lan Zhan thought. “Oh, that should be fun to watch. All right, on one condition.” Now he straightened, shoulder brushing Lan Zhan’s, and his voice dropped into something hard and serious. “That you stand by your promise. The next time you decide someone has to die, you do it with your own hands or not at all.”

Lan Zhan felt his sharp awareness of their surroundings and of Nie Huaisang himself easing a little, the edge of it softened by Wei Ying’s fierce protectiveness. Neither of them faced this alone any more.

Nie Huaisang tilted his head, eyeing both of them, and finally smiled, unfolding his fan with a gentle snap. “You’re a good pair, the two of you. I agree.”

Wei Ying nodded and looked over at Lan Zhan, brows raised in question. Lan Zhan thought over what they’d all said so far, and decided he had one more question. One that might tell him just a little more of what Nie Huaisang would make of this plan. “Why do you say we’re a good pair?”

Nie Huaisang gave him an amused look over the edge of his fan that suggested he thought Lan Zhan might be indulging his vanity a little, but answered freely enough. “Your influence keeps Wei-xiong focused; his influence keeps you flexible. Neither,” he added dryly, “something either of you is especially good at on his own.”

Wei Ying mimed being struck, laughing, though it softened into a small, true smile as he looked sidelong at Lan Zhan. Lan Zhan smiled back, shifting his hand to rest lightly on Wei Ying’s knee, under the table. “I agree,” he said, simply, encompassing both Nie Huaisang’s remarks about the two of them and his proposed deal. Nie Huaisang’s answer had spoken of an eye for balance.

Nie Huaisang rolled his eyes and flapped his fan at them. “Good, good. Now go on, both of you. There’s a guest room ready. Go make eyes at each other there.”

Wei Ying’s smile transformed into a wicked grin, and he seized Lan Zhan’s wrist and bounced to his feet. “Okay!”

Lan Zhan let himself be tugged along, leaving Nie Huaisang shaking his head and smiling behind them.


Nie Huaisang joined them for breakfast in their rooms the next morning. “I think the one we’ll want to start with is Yao Chenzhuo.”

Wei Ying made a pained face over his dumplings. “Did you have to mention him while we’re eating?”

“Build up a stronger stomach,” Nie Huaisang directed ruthlessly, popping a bit of fruit into his mouth. “Yao-zongzhu is easily led and a terrible gossip. Convincing him that he secretly thought, all along, that exploration of mysterious cultivation methods is daring and admirable will not be difficult. Once convinced, he’ll spread the notion that you’re an asset to our world faster than any other.”

Wei Ying made another horrible face, and then sighed. “Okay. Who else?”

Nie Huaisang gave both of them a long, steady look. “To be honest, the most critical are almost all taken care of already. The junior set can be left to Ouyang Zizhen and Lan Sizhui. Jin will mostly be an internal problem for Jin Ling, but I have faith in that boy’s stubbornness.” He turned over his fan between his fingers, looking down at it, and finished softly, “The only really critical player left is Jiang-zongzhu.”

Wei Ying flinched, mouth tightening, eyes flickering down, and Lan Zhan deliberately set decorum aside and reached out to lay his hand over Wei Ying’s, fisted on the table beside his bowl. Wei Ying looked up at him, nascent attempt at a nonchalant smile fading under Lan Zhan’s steady gaze until the helpless hurt under it showed. Nie Huaisang’s gaze promptly fixed on the far wall.

“Take your time to think on it,” he said quietly. “I can speak to him myself, on the strength of having been at the temple, to see the end of it all, but… that will work best if I have some idea of what still needs to be said.”

Wei Ying’s free hand dropped to his belt, where Chenqing rested, fingers running over the smooth lacquer. “I think,” he said softly, “the idea that you’re trying to untangle the left-overs of Jin Guangyao’s work would be enough for him. Knowing he was manipulated, he’ll still be angry. He only ever took that if you made it obvious what you were doing. But no, I don’t think he’s ready to hear me say it, yet.”

Nie Huaisang looked directly at Wei Ying again for a breath, eyes dark, and finally nodded. “All right.” He gave them a tilted smile. “Let’s think about how to describe your heroism to Yao Chenzhuo, then.”

Wei Ying took a breath and turned his hand over to give Lan Zhan’s a quick squeeze before summoning a smile. “Well then. Not a white steed, but a black?”1

Lan Zhan started a little at that. Jing Ke, the reknown retainer a desperate king sent on a dire, hopeless errand, farewelled and remembered as a hero despite his failure. Black for white, condemnation instead of praise, yet success instead of failure. Lan Zhan released a soft breath as the perfect balance of Wei Ying’s reference settled into his mind. Nie Huaisang’s mouth twisted wryly. “Appropriate enough. I was already thinking about hosting a hunt in another month or two, as my own first step. If you’re there for a public toast, it becomes your return banquet.”

“Four sides arrayed by heroes,” Wei Ying agreed dryly. “He’ll like the implication that the fourth might be him.”

“I’ll be sure to look very impressed with him, yes.” Nie Huaisang sighed deeply and fluttered his fan. “It’s really such a shame you don’t write more, Wei-xiong; you’re terribly good at it.”

Lan Zhan had to agree, though he was still a bit bemused by the part where the black steed in question was clearly Little Apple. That was also an appropriately ironic reversal, he supposed, irreverent in a way that was very Wei Ying. He listened to the two of them pick and choose select phrases to prime Yao Chenzhuo with, but what he paid the most attention to was the way Wei Ying’s fingers slowly relaxed in his.

Renewing that fading tension was nearly the last thing he wished to do, but he knew leaving it alone would only leave Wei Ying open to sharper hurt. So when Nie Huaisang took his leave of them, Lan Zhan slid around the table and gathered Wei Ying into his arms. Wei Ying laughed softly and wriggled around until he was leaning against Lan Zhan like a superior sort of arm-rest. Lan Zhan took a moment simply to enjoy the solid weight of Wei Ying against him, combing slow fingers through his hair. “We have spoken of what needs to be done,” Lan Zhan said quietly. “But not of what you wish to do, abut Jiang Wanyin.” Sure enough, tension wound back through Wei Ying’s body, and Lan Zhan’s arms tightened, trying to soothe it.

“Trade you,” Wei Ying said against his shoulder, voice a little rough. Lan Zhan thought that was mostly deflection, but… perhaps not entirely. So he thought, and gathered his words.

“When I lost you,” he started, fingers still moving slow and steady through Wei Ying’s hair, “My brother let me grieve. When he visited, he did not demand that I forget you or denounce you. He did not ask that we play any of the variations on Cleansing I had made for you. He told me little things about events in Gusu. He brought a-Yuan to visit. He gave me time, even though he believed by then that you had followed evil ways. So I will give him time to grieve Jin Guangyao. I will not demand that he forget the kindness between them.” Lan Zhan had to take a slow breath before he could finish, because this still cut at him. “But neither will I forget the true evil that was done behind the shelter of my brother’s trust.”

Wei Ying was curled into him, now, arms tight around him. “Lan Zhan…”

“Shh,” Lan Zhan hushed him, hearing plainly the guilt in his voice. “I give you my heart and my truth willingly, Wei Ying.”

It took a little while for Wei Ying’s shaky breaths to steady, but eventually he relaxed enough to rest his head back on Lan Zhan’s shoulder. Finally he said, slowly, “I… never thought it was balanced, between me and Jiang Cheng. Or, I guess, Jiang itself. Uncle Fengmian saved my life, brought me back to the cultivation world. Jiang Cheng gave me a family; his family. How could anything repay or balance that? Putting up with his temper tantrums, when I could tell he was just hurt or scared… it seemed like such a little thing, compared.”

“He is not a child, now,” Lan Zhan couldn’t help pointing out, though he was careful to keep his voice even, his hands easy on Wei Ying’s back. “Nor was he, then.”

“No,” Wei Ying agreed, soft and sad, fingers toying with the edge of Lan Zhan’s sleeve. “He made his choice, and it wasn’t the one I would have made, or advised he make. Maybe not even the one his father would have made. But he made it and stuck to it. In a way… I was kind of proud of him.” Wei Ying snorted softly. “I thought he was wrong, but I was kind of proud anyway.”

Lan Zhan waited quietly, stroking Wei Ying’s hair, slow and steady.

“The thing is,” Wei Ying took in a deep breath and let it out in a shaky rush, “now he knows. That I gave him my Golden Core. When he didn’t know… I didn’t want…” much quieter, Wei Ying finished, “I didn’t want him to feel indebted, the way I’d always felt.”

Lan Zhan closed his eyes and gathered Wei Ying in tighter. He could only imagine how that feeling had subtly poisoned Wei Ying’s sense of his place with the family that took him in.

“So what can I do but call it quits, and tell him that paid for all?” Wei Ying asked, curling closer.

“For now, perhaps nothing,” Lan Zhan agreed quietly, restraining his urge to declare that Wei Ying was quit of the Jiang Sect. That wasn’t his decision, alas. With some effort, he turned his thoughts back around to what Wei Ying might need out of this. Out of his family. Out of the brother who’d never quite managed to grow out of throwing tantrums to get his shixiong’s attention. From that last thought, he spoke slowly. “Perhaps Jiang Wanyin needs a little more time to grow up, now he knows where he is truly growing from.” From Wei Ying’s gift, from Wei Ying’s love, and Lan Zhan very privately hoped that the Jiang sect master choked on it.

Wei Ying huffed, half laughter and half exasperation. “That sounds about right, actually. He always did take a while to decide about things.”

“Then let Nie Huaisang speak to him, for now.” A congenial solution, from Lan Zhan’s point of view. “And see what he chooses, from here.”

Wei Ying tipped his head back and smiled up at Lan Zhan, small and sweet. “You became very wise, when I wasn’t looking.”

Lan Zhan shook his head, ruefully aware of the less than wise path his private thoughts took. “Only now that you are looking, again.”

Wei Ying snuggled closer. “Then I’ll stay, to keep looking.”

Lan Zhan smiled, hearing the promise it was, and gave back his own.

“Yes.”

Epilogue

Wei Wuxian was up a tree again.

He’d managed well enough through the hunt itself, mostly by sticking close to Lan Zhan’s side. But the banquet had done him in. When Yao Chenzhuo had, in all sincerity, drunk to “Our outstanding talent that only grows greater!” and beamed at him, Wei Wuxian had been so torn between laughing hysterically and screaming at the man, he’d had to escape. Fortunately, he’d managed to laugh it off in a way the increasingly drunk sect masters took for modesty, and Nie Huaisang had covered his retreat with some adroit flattery.

He’d almost rather deal with dogs.

Dusk had deepened into blue by the time pale robes emerged from the gates and came unerringly toward him until Lan Zhan was standing at the foot of the tree looking up at him. Wei Wuxian sighed, leaning back against the smooth trunk.

“Are we really sure I have to be nice to idiots?” he asked, unable to help his plaintive tone.

Lan Zhan’s voice was quiet and sure, in turn. “You do not have to do anything you do not wish to.”

It made Wei Wuxian’s breath catch with the sudden feeling of his world being upended, and he realized he was still waiting for denial. For what everyone else had always told him, whether gently or in scolding or simply by example. For the answer he’d spent a life and more fighting to prove wrong.

And instead Lan Zhan gave him an open door, and open hands.

He rolled lightly off the limb he’d been perched on, and dropped down into the arms that lifted to catch him. “I want to stay with you,” he said, absolutely certain, folding his arms around Lan Zhan’s shoulders.

“Then you shall,” Lan Zhan answered simply. Wei Wuxian let himself relax into the warm relief of the accord between them.

“Yeah,” he agreed softly. “I will.” The promise settled between them like the evening settling over them, natural and inevitable, and Wei Wuxian leaned his forehead against Lan Zhan’s, letting the feeling sink in.

When they finally turned back toward the light of the gates and the noise of cultivators drinking and boasting, he felt calmer than he thought he had since he was a child. In fact, he wondered a little if this was what his mother had felt, when she’d found her right partner, found a truth that went deeper than birth or accepted wisdom. The brush of Lan Zhan’s fingers against his wrist, and the private smile in Lan Zhan’s sidelong glance, curled into his chest, so perfect and sweet that he hoped so.

He held tight to that feeling as they stepped back out in the light.

End

1. This whole bit is a reference to “Yong Jing Ke” (咏荆轲) by Tao Yuanming 陶淵明, used here because Wei Wuxian is an inveterate poetry quoter when he’s emotional. Also, the line about the white steed caught my eye and immediately suggested ironic reversal of almost everything about the Jing Ke story. back

Return to Here

Wei Wuxian

It was not, Wei Wuxian maintained firmly in face of Lan Zhan’s raised brows, that he didn’t notice important things. He’d always noticed Lan Zhan’s actions, for example, even when he had misinterpreted some, had once thought lack of trust was slowly killing his most precious friendship. So it wasn’t that he hadn’t noticed that his Golden Core was regenerating.

It just hadn’t felt like he remembered it.

He’d been very young when his Core formed, but he did remember it. It had felt like a fountain rising up, taking the river that always surged through him, the constant, fast-running current down every meridian of his body, and sending it all through a single, narrow point. The sudden force of his own qi moving had felt like it might lift him off the ground.

Come to think of it, no one had been able to catch him until Shijie had called laughingly for him to come down off the roof before he missed all of dinner.

This felt completely different.

For one thing, it had been a long time since he’d felt that river running through him. Wen Qing’s surgery, brilliant as it was, had still shocked his whole system. She’d warned him it would, even if he lived through the removal, that his qi would be disrupted. Like a stomped in puddle, he’d said, and she’d rolled her eyes, a rare victory for humor in those few days. No one, she’d told him with some emphasis, could really say how long his qi would be disrupted before it returned to any sort of regularity. She’d decreed that he should rest as much as possible until he felt the flow smooth again and could perhaps gauge what it would be like, in the future.

Wei Wuxian was very sure that the Burial Mounds had not been the kind of rest she was thinking of.

He remembered very clearly what that had felt like, too, though he tried not to. Remembered the suffocating heaviness of the atmosphere, how difficult it had been, at first, to tell air from ground from the spiritual pressure of rage all around him. If he’d been thrown down there with his qi still flowing and open, he suspected the pressure might have stopped his heart before even he’d have been able to turn inward and harden the edges of his life force. But if he hadn’t been what he was, hadn’t still had at least a thin, stuttering flow to work with… well, then he’d never have been able to do what he did.

He remembered feeling the pressure of rage, like immaterial claws all around him, lashing at him unseen. He remembered, even in the middle of shock and fear, being fascinated by the massive, surging force of it, remembered fragmented thoughts spinning through his mind, wondering exactly what spells the Burial Mounds had been bounded with, to concentrate the fury of its ghosts this way.

To concentrate it like a Golden Core focused a cultivator’s qi.

He remembered the shock of the thought, the flash like lightning illumination in the dark, when he saw the yin metal sword hovering untouched at the center of that roiling fury and yet ringing with it like a struck gong. He remembered the split second of decision, like the instant after throwing himself over a cliff, in free-fall with no way back.

When he’d answered the spirits yes, when he’d closed his hand around the sword and let himself feel his own fury, it had felt like toothed blades digging into his flesh. It hurt. But it also held him—held him up and held him fast. And in that moment of steadiness, he had reached out with the qi still welling sluggishly through him like blood from a wound, and slipped the hold a little, guided those teeth, those claws of rage, down his flesh, down his bones, and through the metal in his grasp.

The bursting surge of power that ripped through him had felt so like and so unlike the flow of his life through his Golden Core that he’d screamed with it, screamed his throat raw, whole body shaking with the edged, tearing alienness of it even as he’d shifted into an achingly familiar neutral stance to let it rush through.

It hadn’t been the same. The paths and patterns that malice and resentment took weren’t like the paths that qi naturally flowed into. His own qi had still, always, been separate from that power, been the near-helplessly light hand he’d used to redirect the spirits’ rage, his own rage. He’d moved through his sword forms for two days and nights without sleeping, trying to channel the fury and reduce the clawing drag of it, before falling unconscious. He’d woken from fractured dreams of swords rising and sweeping upward in a shining arc, with the notes he’d once heard Lan Xichen play ringing through his head. Music had helped, had made his control surer. The weight of millennia of meaning, behind the script of talismans, helped, had teased at the spirits still sensible enough to notice with mazes and tasks, each one giving him that one more gasping breath of time to find his balance, find his place and being in the world again.

He’d found a place, in the end, found a balance. He’d just never been wholly sure it was his own.

Because none of that had changed the tattered, thin flow of his life energies. The river he’d ridden after the extraction of his Golden Core had been separate from his blood, if not entirely (safely) separate from his heart. The time he’d spent with the Wen survivors in, ironically enough, the Burial Mounds, had been the closest he’d felt again to the oneness with the world that he still remembered the feeling of.

And yes, maybe he’d succeeded, mostly by pure stubbornness, in pacifying his own rage, after his death. Yes, maybe he’d finally pulled himself out of that particular river. Maybe doing so had made other spirits’ fury far easier to control, when he was so rudely yanked back into life, or maybe it really was a healing of his own energies that made it all easier. But he still hadn’t felt anything like that brilliant, wild fountaining up of his qi that he remembered perfectly clearly from doing this the first time!

The eloquent arch to Lan Zhan’s brows finally faded. “What does it feel like?” he asked, instead.

Wei Wuxian flopped back across the mats of their sitting room with a sigh. “It just feels… normal. Not concentrated. It’s like… coughing to clear your chest, and then you can breathe all the way down.” He lifted a hand, focusing into his index and middle finger, as if to inscribe a talisman, and paid close attention to the sensation. “It’s… more like a spring than a river,” he said slowly. “Not a rush, just… a welling up.”

Lan Zhan gave him a distinctly judgmental look before rising to cross to their book shelves and pick out a scroll, which he unwound to a single diagram and placed delicately on the floor beside Wei Wuxian. Wei Wuxian leaned up on an elbow to see an anatomical figure of the meridians leading into, yes all right, the Bubbling Well-point at the palm, and rolled his eyes mightily. “That is my point, Lan Zhan. That’s what anyone could become aware of and use, even without much cultivation!”

“Your Golden Core is not as strong as it once was,” Lan Zhan agreed, settling back onto his cushion. “But do you think that will not change?”

Wei Wuxian opened his mouth and then paused, closing it again. “Hmm.” It was true, after all, that this was unknown territory, bar a few frustratingly vague mentions in pretty unreliable chronicles. Which meant that there was no one else to say what might or might not be possible. He smiled slowly at the thought, at the flash of bright, reckless delight he also hadn’t felt in a while, and looked up to find Lan Zhan looking back at him with quiet satisfaction.

“Let’s find out.”

Lan Wangji

When he was young, Lan Zhan had spent some time privately wondering whether Wei Ying even knew the meaning of discipline. Perhaps, he had theorized to himself, Wei Ying’s natural brilliance had obviated any need for it. He had even worried a bit, because he had seen other disciples of natural talent reach the limit of their abilities and halt there, not knowing how to strive further.

When he had thought back, after his heart had encountered a similar halt, he had wondered if there was anything he might ever have done, to draw Wei Ying into safer waters, to coax that brilliant talent away from the fatal edge he’d insisted on exploring. At the time, he had not been able to see any action he could have taken or not taken, and had concluded, with bittersweet helplessness, that perhaps Wei Ying would not have been Wei Ying if he had shied away from any edge.

Knowing what he knew now, Lan Zhan was close to awe at the revealed depth and dedication of Wei Ying’s discipline. To take a crippling injury and certain death, and forge from them a new life and triumph, even one laced with pain—if there were justice in the world, Wei Ying would be recorded among the greatest of cultivators.

He watched Wei Ying now, as he worked with Suibian, flowing through the sword forms he drilled in every day. Every day, he ran out of strength to support the sword, meditated until he had regathered himself and could draw it again, and return to his drill. And yet, there was no frustration in his movements, no impatience. The growing depth of Wei Ying’s Golden Core proceeded as if inevitable, day by day, as if sunrise slowly illuminated something already present.

Wei Ying brought his form to a close and immediately leaped up onto Suibian’s blade, hovering like a hawk over the courtyard. Wei Ying’s focus stole his breath to see, utterly unyielding and yet without force, unless it was the force of the very seasons turning.

He wondered if Wei Ying had always been like this, or if this was something he’d found during the months he’d disappeared into the Burial Mounds.

Wei Ying had never explicitly admitted where he’d been, back then, but some things had been clear from the very start. He’d been somewhere unrelentingly dangerous. Every movement, once he’d returned, had been made with a terrifyingly constant awareness of every other thing around him, living or dead, moving or still. He had never stumbled, never flinched save from the force of malice itself, never been surprised by any human approach. And he had never permitted any approach but one he had determined was no threat, controlling the space between himself and others with absolute, ruthless perfection. Lan Zhan had worried over those signs, at the time, but what could he do while Wei Ying strove to pretend there was no change? He’d set himself to match Wei Ying’s awareness, at least of Wei Ying himself, and taken what comfort he could in how flawlessly they started to move together, on the battlefield.

He’d also known Wei Ying had been somewhere with an abundance of malicious spirits and the energies of resentment. He’d worn those energies like a cloak over his shoulders, when he returned, and the readiness of his own rage to surge, as wild and unbounded as any resentful ghost’s, had frightened Lan Zhan. Mostly for Wei Ying, but sometimes of him, as well.

When Wei Ying had taken away the Wen refugees, Lan Zhan had concluded he really had spent all of those missing months in the Burial Mounds, just as the rumors Wei Ying shrugged off had claimed. He’d spent most of a week utterly failing to mediate, disbelief and glee and terror chasing each other around his heart. No wonder, he’d thought then, Wei Ying had changed so.

And yet…

And yet, had Wei Ying ever truly changed? No one without immense capability could have matched Lan Zhan so effortlessly, let alone survived what Wei Ying had. No one whose heart was not given to compassion and justice could have been so unfailingly roused to rage by cruelty. No one without a deep and abiding awareness of the world could so fearlessly and fully give himself to the regeneration of his energies that Wei Ying was bringing forth now.

A yelp from above warned of what happened at least once every day, now, just before Wei Ying tumbled down into a dusty sprawl in the middle of the courtyard. His smile was sunny, though, as he propped himself up on his elbows to grin at Lan Zhan.

Yes. He thought perhaps Wei Ying had always been like this.

End

The Quiet Here

Wei Wuxian tip-toed around the walkway of the Lan library pavilion, keeping an eye out for any of the junior disciples who might turn up to ambush him with questions about how to actually tell the difference between a spirit and a monster, in the field, if no one knew the creature’s origin, or the best footwork for long distance leaps, or how to draw multiple arrows without fouling the fletching. It wasn’t that he didn’t enjoy teaching them things. He did! And if Lan Qiren was in ear-shot, the constipated look resulting from a conflict of “he’s contaminating my disciples” and “thank the heavens they’re bothering someone else with that” was high quality entertainment. It was just that he was hoping to find Lan Zhan, today, and having the kids around put some limits on how enthusiastically he was comfortable greeting his lover.

Not many, but some.

Finally he made it to the door uncaught, darted through it, and closed it firmly behind him, throwing the inner lock. “Safe!”

Lan Zhan looked up from the writing table where he was taking notes from one of the older scrolls, brows rising silently.

Wei Wuxian grinned, just a little sheepish. “I wanted to come see you without the juniors interrupting.”

Lan Zhan smiled faintly and held out a hand to him. “Come, then.”

Wei Wuxian stepped quietly through the soft, bright silence of the library and slid down to his knees beside Lan Zhan, reaching out to close his hands around Lan Zhan’s face and kiss him, slow and deep, taking his time about tasting the corners of Lan Zhan’s mouth. He made a pleased sound into their kiss when Lan Zhan’s arms wrapped around him, drawing him in closer. “I was missing you,” he murmured against Lan Zhan’s lips.

Lan Zhan’s lips curved. “And I you.”

Wei Wuxian drew back enough to give the scrolls and notes and brushes spread neatly across the writing table a significant look. “You’re sure?” he teased.

“Shall I demonstrate?” Lan Zhan asked, quite calmly, and Wei Wuxian leaned against him, laughing softly.

“I didn’t actually want to interrupt. Much.”

Long fingers slid into his hair and drew him back down to another kiss, this one fiercer, heated. “You are not an interruption,” Lan Zhan said firmly, when he let Wei Wuxian go.

A little breathless from the heat of the kiss, Wei Wuxian settled beside him, smiling. “Okay, then.”

Lan Zhan gave him a rather considering, sidelong look, and started to stack his scrolls and notes off to one side. The warmth of knowing he had so much of Lan Zhan’s regard and attention spread through Wei Wuxian’s chest, but he couldn’t help a tiny twinge of guilt also. “I really didn’t mean to—” Lan Zhan touched two fingers to his lips, hushing him, and kissed him again, gentle.

“You are never an interruption,” he repeated, quiet and certain.

“Lan Zhan…” Wei Wuxian reached out to wind himself around Lan Zhan. His lover’s surety loosened some small, tight thing, deep inside him. Lan Zhan held him close, one hand moving slowly up and down his back, until Wei Wuxian managed to ease the tightness of his hold.

And then he set Wei Wuxian back a little and began undressing him.

“What…?” Wei Wuxian laughed, eyes wide. “Lan Zhan, seriously?” He went willingly enough when Lan Zhan tugged his robes off and started on his underthings, but a significant part of his mind was still trying to fit Lan Zhan together with sex in the library pavilion and having some difficulty doing it.

“Hands demonstrate more clearly than words,” Lan Zhan said, as imperturbable as ever if you didn’t notice the faint crinkle of amusement at the corners of his eyes. Wei Wuxian figured he was laughing for both of them, though hopefully not too loud, because he definitely didn’t want to be interrupted at this point. When Lan Zhan had him down to bare skin and he had, at least, managed to get rid of Lan Zhan’s sashes and untie his under-robe, Lan Zhan caught his hands and kissed him again, slowly, until Wei Wuxian’s laughter quieted into soft, approving sounds against Lan Zhan’s mouth. When Lan Zhan’s hands on his shoulders urged him to turn, he did so reluctantly, nipping at Lan Zhan’s lower lip as he drew slowly back.

When Lan Zhan pressed him down, and he realized he was being bent over the writing table, his breath left him completely on a gasp that was half arousal and half shock. Everything sharpened abruptly in his senses: the bright, shadowless light of the pavilion; the silky smoothness of the dark wood under his chest and shoulders and palms; the scent of ink and paper from Lan Zhan’s notes; the warmth of Lan Zhan’s hands smoothing down his back as if he were a folio Lan Zhan wanted to spread out across the table. “Lan Zhan,” he breathed, husky. He was hardening just from being touched with such slow care.

Silk whispered against his skin as Lan Zhan bent over him, pressing a kiss to the nape of his neck, open robes falling around him. “You are most precious to me,” Lan Zhan said softly, against his skin, and pressed another kiss between his shoulder blades. “Of all things,” and another, to the small of his back, “the most precious.”

Wei Wuxian made a wordless, yearning sound, in answer. He never had words for what he felt, when Lan Zhan spoke like this, but want was definitely a part of it. Anticipation wound through him, hot and heavy, as Lan Zhan’s palms stroked down his body, over his hips and down his thighs, parting them wider, until Wei Wuxian was completely spread out across the writing table. Only then did slick fingers stroke between his cheeks and shape slow, hard circles over his entrance, until he was spread open there, too, laid so completely open for Lan Zhan that it stole his breath.

Lan Zhan leaned down over him to murmur against his ear, “I’ve thought about this before.”

The simple words, and the thought that Lan Zhan had thought about it here, thought about it often enough to be prepared, swept such a wave of heat through Wei Wuxian that his toes curled and he arched over the table, pushing back into Lan Zhan’s touch. “Lan Zhan,” he moaned.

Broad, calloused hands ran gently up his body. “Slowly?” Lan Zhan asked, and the want in that low voice was enough to ease Wei Wuxian back into quiet, relaxing against the smooth, polished wood.

“Yeah,” he said, husky. “Okay.” A shiver stroked up his spine as Lan Zhan’s hands closed on his ass and spread him, and he relaxed into it, lips parting at the slow press of Lan Zhan’s cock against his entrance. “Oh…” It was slow but steady, and the stretch of his body opening up around the thickness of Lan Zhan’s cock felt like it might not ever end.

It felt amazing.

By the time Lan Zhan was all the way in, Wei Wuxian was more sprawled than relaxed over the table, panting for breath. “Lan Zhan…”

The same breathlessness was in Lan Zhan’s voice. “Slowly, my heart.”

As if Wei Wuxian wouldn’t let him do anything he wanted, when Lan Zhan called him that. Lan Zhan was waiting for him, though, so he mustered a fervent, “Yes.”

Lan Zhan’s hands spread against the writing table to either side of him, and he moved slowly over Wei Wuxian, rocking in and out of him, white robes whispering around them in the bright stillness of the library. The slow slide of Lan Zhan inside him, filling him over and over again, swept pleasure down his nerves in ripples, like the waves of a lake against the shore, and Wei Wuxian moved with him, lost in the sensation.

“Lan Zhan,” he moaned, eyes half closed with the heat winding tighter through him, “you feel so good.”

“Good.” Lan Zhan’s voice was husky. His hands slid up Wei Wuxian’s arms and over his back. “I dreamed of having you like this. All the strength and beauty of you in my hands again.”

The burst of want and delight that answered pushed Wei Wuxian right over the edge he hadn’t even realized he was so close to, and he groaned as pleasure flashed through him, sweet and sharp, wringing him out around the harness of Lan Zhan’s cock inside him. The velvety sound of Lan Zhan’s moan swept another wave over him, and he shuddered as Lan Zhan’s hands closed tight on his hips and Lan Zhan drove deep into him.

Slowly, the hot rush of pleasure eased and they stilled together, Lan Zhan’s hands stroking up and down his back again. Wei Wuxian made a pleased sound. He thought Lan Zhan had probably figured out how much he liked just being touched and petted. He didn’t protest when those hands urged him upright, because Lan Zhan also gathered him in and held him, open robes draped around them both as Lan Zhan settled back. He lounged contentedly against Lan Zhan, and grinned at his faint huff of laughter.

“What was it you came here for?” Lan Zhan asked, at last, fingers sliding through Wei Wuxian’s hair.

“Oh right!” He straightened, though not enough to take him out of Lan Zhan’s arms. “I found something in Paths of Light that made it sound like re-cultivating a Golden Core might have happened before!”

Lan Zhan looked at him, brows ever so faintly raised.

“Well, yes, I know Lu the Younger makes all kinds of ridiculous claims, but he wasn’t saying he did it, so it’s a possibility.”

“Who then?” Lan Zhan asked, tucking a strand of Wei Wuxian’s hair back.

Wei Wuxian leaned into his hand, smiling. “Hong Ming.”

“We have some of her writings.”

“Thought you might.” Wei Wuxian leaned in to kiss him, and reached for his clothes. Once they were put back together enough that Wei Wuxian would be willing to unlock the door again, Lan Zhan laid both hands on his shoulders, stilling him.

“Even if there is no precedent, there can be no doubt of what is happening.”

Warmth curled through Wei Wuxian, softening his smile, softening his whole body as he leaned against Lan Zhan, arms draped over his shoulders. “I know. It isn’t that. It’s just…” His mouth quirked. “Wen Qing would absolutely kill me, if I didn’t document this as thoroughly as possible, if she were still around. I owe her so much, the least I can do for her memory is this.” He saw the flash of disagreement, or perhaps anger, in how Lan Zhan’s eyes narrowed for just a moment, and shook his head, kissing Lan Zhan again, slow and coaxing. “She concealed us from her own clan, when we had to run. Remember that part, too.”

Lan Zhan made a noncommittal sound and gathered him in closer, holding him tight. Wei Wuxian smiled and snuggled close, resting his temple against Lan Zhan’s. If this was the reassurance Lan Zhan wanted, he was more than happy to provide it. They stood together in the quiet light of the library for some time before Lan Zhan’s hold on him eased. Wei Wuxian straightened and dropped a kiss on Lan Zhan’s nose. “Love you.”

Lan Zhan’s mouth curved faintly. “Will you let me take care of you?” he asked, quiet, not pressing, and Wei Wuxian had to take a quick breath against the sharp claw of remorse that raked through him. He’d been so stubborn, back then, not paying as much attention as he could, just because he’d thought he shouldn’t have to, with a friend. He cupped Lan Zhan’s cheek, thumb tracing Lan Zhan’s cheekbone. “I will,” he said, low and serious, “I promise.”

Lan Zhan’s smile blossomed for a breath, sweet and warm, and he laid his hand over Wei Wuxian’s. “Hong Ming’s works are in the east shelves.”

Wei Wuxian laced their fingers together, smiling back, bright with the happiness inside him. “Let’s go see.”

This time, they would do better.

End

Here and Now

Wei Wuxian was not, in the grand scheme of things, at all opposed to reading. On the contrary, he quite liked digging through what other people often considered musty and pointless scrolls on the special seals and talismans produced by different clans, and when he was in the right mood, and accompanied by the right kind of drink, he very much enjoyed reading poetry. So it wasn’t that he didn’t understand the attraction of books and scrolls; he did. It was just that Lan Zhan seemed to read as a sort of reflex, one that came right after breathing. A properly balanced life included books, but it also included other things.

So Wei Wuxian considered it one of his duties to coax Lan Zhan away from his reading now and then, and today Lan Zhan had been reading for several hours without even a pause for fresh tea. It was definitely time.

He folded the notes he’d been jotting and tucked them into Treatise on the Changing of Names to keep his place, and stood up in one long, slow stretch.

Lan Zhan didn’t look up.

Wei Wuxian huffed a faint laugh and strolled across from the corner… all right, wall… well, okay, significant section of their sitting room that he’d taken over for his own, to where Lan Zhan sat, perfectly straight, at his writing table.

Lan Zhan turned a page.

Wei Wuxian grinned. It had taken him a while to wrap his mind around the idea that Lan Zhan had learned how to tease, in the years they’d been apart. He was very understated about it (of course), but it was still adorable. Wei Wuxian circled his lover to drape himself over Lan Zhan’s back and murmur into his ear, “Lan Zhaaaan.”

Lan Zhan turned his head enough to give Wei Wuxian a sidelong look, one brow raised.

“Study time is over,” Wei Wuxian declared, folding his arms around Lan Zhan’s shoulders.

“Is there else we should be doing?” Lan Zhan asked, still holding his book open. His shoulders were completely relaxed, though, so Wei Wuxian had no hesitation in swinging himself around Lan Zhan’s side to land squarely in his lap. Sure enough, Lan Zhan caught him adroitly in one arm, and Wei Wuxian grinned up at him.

“You should be paying attention to me.”

Lan Zhan looked down at him, and the line of his mouth softened. “You always have my attention.”

The simple certainty of the words caught Wei Wuxian, just as surely as Lan Zhan’s arm around him, quieting his playfulness into attention. “Always?” he asked, softly, reaching up to trace light fingers along the curve of Lan Zhan’s cheek.

Lan Zhan laid his book aside and brought his hand up, fingers sliding gently into Wei Wuxian’s hair. “Always.”

This time the certainty in his voice was absolute, so complete it rang through the room like a struck chord that stole Wei Wuxian’s breath with its purity. He had to wet his lips before he could speak again, and when he did it was nearly a whisper. “Show me?”

Lan Zhan leaned down and kissed him, slow, every small movement so deliberate that it stroked a shiver down Wei Wuxian’s spine, every cool slide of lips against his speaking of how he was at the center of Lan Zhan’s attention. It felt so good, so easy to relax into that certainty. When Lan Zhan shifted to let him down to the mats and lean over him, Wei Wuxian let him, didn’t (for once) reach up to pull Lan Zhan down close. The weight of Lan Zhan’s intent focus on him was just as good as the weight of his body, heavy and reassuring. He let Lan Zhan take his hands, relaxed in his hold as Lan Zhan unlaced his cuffs, one after the other, long fingers moving over the ties as carefully as they moved on the strings of a guqin.

It felt so good.

He lay quietly in the bright light from the window behind Lan Zhan’s reading table as Lan Zhan unwound his belts and laid his robes open, layer by slow layer, moving pliantly with the gentle stroke of broad palms down his hips, over his shoulders, down his arms, basking in all that focused attention like it was sunlight. It felt just that warm and all-encompassing, and he wanted to just stay here until the warmth sank all the way into his bones.

And then Lan Zhan lifted his arm and pressed a kiss to the center of his palm. Another, very precisely, to the point three fingers below his wrist while Lan Zhan’s fingertips stroked softly down his arm to his shoulder, unerringly tracing the flow of his qi. The delicate touch pulled his whole body taut, cut his breath into a gasp. He’d spent so long not letting anyone suspect enough to check, not letting anyone close enough to see the condition of his qi, how threadbare it had been stripped. So long, learning where to apply the little stream of raw strength left to him, to accomplish what only those of great power might do by direct force.

Lan Zhan leaned down to press another gentle kiss to his stomach, just under the arch of his ribs. “Forgive me,” he said softly, against the skin. “Forgive me that I did not see. That I did not trust how deep the roots of your reasons must run, to take the path you have.” He lifted his head and looked down at Wei Wuxian, eyes soft and serious. “I see you now, Wei Ying. You have my word.”

Wei Wuxian felt like all the breath was being pressed out of his lungs, and he shook his head a little. “You don’t… It’s not…” The apology was the least part of what Lan Zhan had just said, but it was the part he had some map to dealing with.

Lan Zhan leaned down again to kiss the halting words off his lips. “I see you now,” he repeated, quiet and sure, and Wei Wuxian wound his arms around him and held tight, trying to catch his breath. Which was not assisted by how Lan Zhan gathered him up and held him, fingers stroking gently down his neck and back, slowly tracing each flow. He wanted this, so, so badly, wanted Lan Zhan to know him down to the core, to prove that it was possible.

He had no idea what to do with getting any of that, let alone all of it.

And Lan Zhan just held him, as he tried to find his control again, held him close while Wei Wuxian buried his head in Lan Zhan’s shoulder and gasped for breath, held him until he finally managed to calm, finally managed to whisper against layers of fine white, “I wanted you to know. I just couldn’t…”

“Yes.” Lan Zhan stroked gentle fingers all the way down his spine, touch so alive that Wei Wuxian could feel the effect on his qi, feel it like a current of cool water in warm. “Permit me to know, now?”

Heat tightened, low in Wei Wuxian’s stomach, at the thought of letting Lan Zhan touch him that deeply, trace all the paths of life and remaining strength in him. “Yes,” he agreed, husky.

Lan Zhan gathered him closer for a moment. “Thank you, my heart.” Wei Wuxian couldn’t help but laugh a little, soft and unsteady, as Lan Zhan laid him back against his spread-out robes, reaching up to tuck back Lan Zhan’s hair. “You don’t need to thank me.”

“When it is called for, I will,” Lan Zhan told him, calm and immoveable as he shrugged out of his own robes, white fabric slipping down to join black and red pooled around them. “Become used to it.”

Wei Wuxian really did laugh at that, winding his arms around Lan Zhan as he settled back down, a lean weight of muscle over Wei Wuxian. “I love you, Lan Zhan.”

Lan Zhan cupped his cheek in one broad hand, eyes dark and steady. “You are all that is precious to me.” The certainty of his words sent a soft rush of warmth through Wei Wuxian, and he turned his head into Lan Zhan’s hand, smiling.

And then his breath drew in fast and his eyes widened, as Lan Zhan stroked his open palm gently down Wei Wuxian’s neck. His hand was alive–as if he were about to inscribe a seal, as if he were about to draw his sword, as if he were about to transfuse his own life force. Wei Wuxian could feel it.

And Lan Zhan must be able to feel him just as clearly.

That certainty, and the intent weight of Lan Zhan’s eyes on him, drove a soft moan out of him. Gentle, relentless sensation, the slow caress of hands carefully tracing the flow of qi through his body, folded him deep in the warmth of Lan Zhan knowing all of him. He wanted it with everything in him, but even so he arched up with a tiny, breathless sound of not-quite-protest when Lan Zhan’s palm stopped over his solar plexus. “There’s nothing there,” he whispered.

“Then let me know that.” Lan Zhan’s voice was soft against his ear, and when he opened his eyes (when had he closed them?) the daylight brightness of the room past Lan Zhan’s shoulder stunned him a little with its normality. Surely the world should be glowing, lit up from within, the same way he felt right now, doubly aware of the faint currents of his own qi with every path that Lan Zhan traced over his skin. Did he really want to halt it, try to withhold this one thing that Lan Zhan knew of already?

He closed his eyes again, deliberately relaxing back against the firmness of the mats under them, offering this moment of trust as freely as he could. “All right.”

Lan Zhan’s mouth covered his, and the slow, wet sliding together of lips and tongues put a sensual edge on the cool current of qi that slid into him, sending his whole body surging up against Lan Zhan’s. He’d felt this before, long ago, in the cave where they’d both nearly died, but not like this. That moment was hazy in his memory, tangled together with pain and cold and cloudy regret. This time there was nothing in the way of feeling the cool, strong current of Lan Zhan’s qi flowing into and through his own, and his arms tightened around Lan Zhan as if he could pull the feeling closer that way. “Lan Zhan…”

“Breathe with me,” Lan Zhan murmured against his lips, fingers holding steady just below his ribs. The huskiness of his voice made Wei Wuxian shiver, but the request was such a basic exercise that he fell into rhythm with Lan Zhan without thought.

And then he was hard pressed to keep it, feeling the flow of his qi start to parallel the current of Lan Zhan’s, warm and cool sliding into each other and winding together. His next exhale was a low moan. “Lan Zhan…”

Lan Zhan made a distinctly pleased sound and slid his hand down Wei Wuxian’s stomach, tracing the major flow there, slow and certain, until long fingers wrapped around his cock. The intensity of heat, pleasure, response that rushed through Wei Wuxian’s body and energies both left him dizzy and clinging to the rhythm of their breaths as the one stable point left, and oh it felt so good, knowing Lan Zhan was still with him. The slow in and out pulled him deeper into the moment, into the absolute certainty of Lan Zhan’s touch, until he was moving with Lan Zhan, rocking up into each stroke in a long flex of muscles, trading deep, slow kisses back and forth. In one moment, he thought this might last forever, and in the next he was already over the edge, groaning out loud as pleasure pulsed through him like the heavy beat of a drum. Lan Zhan gathered him in tighter, and Wei Wuxian wound closer around him, holding on as heat and sweetness shook him apart.

When his senses finally settled again, he was cradled close in Lan Zhan’s arms, chest heaving as he panted for breath. Lan Zhan’s hand swept slowly up and down his back, open and soothing, and he could still feel how alive Lan Zhan’s palms were, feel the faint response of his qi.

“You always have my attention, Wei Ying,” Lan Zhan said quietly, and Wei Wuxian had to bury a burst of helpless, giddy laughter in Lan Zhan’s shoulder.

“I believe you,” he promised, breathless, and laughed again at the eminently satisfied sound Lan Zhan made, and kissed the faint, pleased curve off his mouth.

It wasn’t until they were putting their clothes back to rights that Lan Zhan spoke again, very quietly. “Wei Ying. I believe you do have a Golden Core.”

Wei Wuxian froze in the act of pulling his sash snug, feeling the words like a physical shock, and slowly looked around at him. Lan Zhan was watching him, gaze steady and even. “But that’s… not possible.” His voice rasped on the words.

“I have not the skill of one such as Wen Qing, but I know what I felt just now.” Lan Zhan stepped close and touched his fingertips to Wei Wuxian’s stomach, just under his ribs. “I do not know why or how, but it is there.”

Wei Wuxian pressed his hand over Lan Zhan’s, as though that would let him feel what he hadn’t before. He hadn’t felt anything there, had he? Nothing like what he’d known his Golden Core to feel like. No one that Wen Zhuliu had attacked had ever recovered.

But he hadn’t been attacked, had he?

“The extraction?” he murmured to himself, turning the pieces over in his head. “Maybe the real problem was scarring, all along? Or did the revival ritual transfer that with his wish? Or maybe continuing cultivation itself is the key, do we have any records…?” As possibilities sorted themselves in his mind’s eye, he looked up with a grin to see Lan Zhan smiling faintly at him, rueful and fond. “Lan Zhan! I need all the medical books from the Lan library! And also a bunch of the histories, I think.” He looked around, frowning at the stacks of books and notes and charts already in his end of their sitting room. “Is there room for them here? Maybe I should just take over a station in the library—” He broke off as Lan Zhan kissed him.

“Let us see,” Lan Zhan said, sounding calm but still looking amused. Wei Wuxian laughed, leaning against him.

“Yeah. Let’s.”

End

Pace Out the Foundations

Pace Out the Foundations

Lan Zhan was settling Wei Ying in his rooms when his uncle arrived to speak with him. Lan Zhan was not surprised.

His uncle had never hidden his disapproval of Wei Ying.

“Wangji.” His uncle stood in the open screens, looking still and strong as a house pillar. “We must speak. Come along.”

“Oh, don’t mind me,” Wei Ying said immediately, turning from his very minimal unpacking with a bright smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “You can talk here.”

“Some matters,” his uncle’s tone was frosty, “are not the business of outsiders.”

Lan Zhan folded his hands at the small of his back and drew in calm with a slow breath. This would be the next step on the path he’d chosen, it seemed. “My cultivation partner cannot be considered an outsider.”

His uncle sputtered. “Your cultivation—!”

Wei Ying propped an elbow on Lan Zhan’s shoulder, still beaming, at least with his mouth. “There you are. All the more reason not to hold back!”

Lan Zhan glanced sidelong at him and quirked a brow. Wei Ying had never seemed particularly eager to listen to Lan Qiren when they were younger.

The smile fell away as Wei Ying straightened and turned to face him, leaving only the hardness in his eyes. “From what your brother said, the last time you went to ‘talk’ with him about me, he nearly killed you.” The words were quiet but fierce in a way that Wei Ying rarely left uncovered for the world to see, and Lan Zhan couldn’t help a tiny smile that Wei Ying would show it for him.

“Have no fear. We will only speak.”

Wei Ying’s mouth tightened for a moment before he blew out a breath and shook a mock-admonishing finger at him. “You’d better.” On its way back down, Wei Ying’s hand slid briefly over the line of his flute, the ‘or else’ unspoken but clear. That startled him a little, at least until he placed the memory of where he’d seen this before—the absolute dedication with which Wei Ying had protected his sister and, before Jiang Cheng kicked away that protection, his brother. Then it woke again the aching warmth of knowing Wei Ying truly knew and returned the measure of his love.

Lan Zhan inclined his head, accepting Wei Ying’s terms, and turned to his uncle, ignoring the warring of anger and shame in his expression with as much grace as possible. He held a hand toward the steps. “Shall we?”

They walked in silence all the way to his uncle’s rooms. Lan Zhan noted the cold tea set, as he sat; this had not been a planned invitation, then, but spur of the moment.

“Wangji,” his uncle began, “when you accepted the position of Chief Cultivator, you also accepted a responsibility to the cultivation world.”

“Indeed,” Lan Zhan interjected, with careful timing, into his uncle’s pause for breath. “I have been thinking on that.” His uncle sat back with a faint frown, looking more puzzled than displeased, and Lan Zhan relaxed a bit. He wasn’t terribly good at this, not the way his brother or even a-Yuan were. This next part, for instance, he couldn’t think of any way to say but bluntly. “Senseless pride and petty rivalries have weakened the sects. If we are not to invite another cycle of catastrophe, we must change.”

His uncle’s eyes immediately narrowed, and Lan Zhan stifled a sigh—just as he’d thought. “True enough, perhaps, but that change must not be influenced by the morals of one who has abandoned the correct way.”

It had been a long time since Lan Zhan had assumed that his uncle’s interpretation of the Lan discipline was the most correct one. And, of course, in the wake of that understanding had come other thoughts. “Is it not the nature of cultivation to find one’s own way? Our clan’s writings speak of the importance of this, as do many others. Learning comes first,” he quoted.

“Reject the crooked path,” his uncle snapped back.

Lan Zhan folded his hands carefully, looking down at them as he reached for the words that he’d turned over in the silence of his own thoughts, for years. Now, he thought, was the time to set those words free. The first time, at least. “At each turn, Wei Ying has acted, not to aggrandize himself or rule over others, but to shelter the weak, to preserve life. At the cost of his peace, even his life, he has never faltered on that way. If his path is a dangerous one, one inviting harm, he has drawn that harm upon himself alone. He has borne the weight of his own morality—a sterner weight than I have witnessed any other bear.” He lifted his head to look his uncle in the eye, and his uncle rocked back a little, scowl turning startled and perhaps wary. “It is for this he draws so many to his side, against the outcry of the powerful—to shelter under his hand until they gather the strength to walk their own paths. Perhaps it is for this that the powerful decry him.”

He laid no particular emphasis on his last words, but his uncle’s shoulders jerked taut, all the same.

“What, then?” his uncle asked, in clear disbelief, “you would have the cultivation world acknowledge any path, including that demonic one, as legitimate?”

Lan Zhan took another breath against an upsurge of the slow, deep anger that had gathered in him over the years. “I would have us recall the purpose of cultivation—not selfish hoarding of power, but the benevolent use of it.” Because that was really the core of it, that so few valued what it was that Wei Ying did, the compassionate use he made of the power he had and pursued.

His uncle ran a hand over his face and sighed. “Wangji. This is not a dream world we live in, nor the Heavenly realm. Our rules exist because because we are only human, and human desire requires some curbs to it. They are the reflection of hundreds of years of experience. And that experience tells us that some things simply cannot be turned to good ends.”

Lan Zhan spread his hands against his uncle’s table as if he might hold the truth he felt between them. “And yet, our rules are insufficient.” Across his uncle’s incensed inhalation, he added, “Why else would they need be added to?”

He expected the moment of silence that followed, given that his uncle had added nearly a thousand. He took no joy in arguing with his uncle like this, but he could not allow such intolerance to go unchallenged here in his own clan. He had to start here.

“If it’s self-aggrandizing power you would do away with, then start with the one you call your partner!” his uncle finally snapped, resettling his sleeves with short, sharp movements.

Lan Zhan held very still, breathing through another surge of anger that was still more than half at himself for ever suspecting such a thing, for not trusting Wei Ying’s reasons. And into his own silence fell the notes of a flute. Lan Zhan recognized the mellowness of the tone at once; it was Chenqing.

The melody was Clarity.

“Why that—!” His uncle pushed to his feet and stormed out of his rooms. Lan Zhan followed after, swallowing laughter. It was so very like Wei Ying to tweak Lan Qiren in the same breath he used to soothe Lan Zhan, to be thumbing his nose at society and sharing a soft memory in private, all at the same moment.

Wei Ying was perched on the railing of the courtyard outside, playing, and his eyes danced as they met Lan Zhan’s. Lan Zhan smiled helplessly back and stepped past his uncle to hold out his hands to Wei Ying, even as his uncle started to scold, “Eavesdropping…!”

On reflection, perhaps his uncle did have some cause to think Wei Ying a bad influence on Lan Zhan’s manners, but Lan Zhan had spent most of the past sixteen years coming to the repeated conclusion that this was not as weighty a problem as Lan Qiren wished to claim.

Wei Ying brought Clarity around to a close and spun his flute lightly between his fingers, returning it to his belt and reaching out free hands to take Lan Zhan’s. “Oh, I wasn’t listening,” he assured Lan Qiren, widening his eyes and looking earnest, if one didn’t attend to the way one corner of his mouth tucked up. “At least not until you shouted loud enough. I didn’t hear much, but you sounded like you could use a little clarity.” He hopped lightly down from the railing, not leaning on Lan Zhan’s hands but not letting go either. “Lan Zhan, where are the rabbits? I was going to visit them, but I think one of the juniors moved them.”

His uncle threw up his hands and rounded on Lan Zhan. “And for this you would overturn all the traditions of the cultivation world?”

Lan Zhan regarded his uncle evenly and did not protest the exaggeration, calm with the certainty his heart gave back to that question. “I would.”

His uncle’s shoulders jerked back, and he stared at Lan Zhan for a long, silent moment before he turned without a word and stalked back into his rooms.

“Lan Zhan?”

He turned back to find Wei Ying also staring at him, eyes wide. “He… he just means you want to consolidate a few of the rules to save words, or something, right?” Wei Ying asked with an uncertain smile.

Lan Zhan shook his head. “We fear the unknown, but the known is smaller each generation. This must not continue.” He tightened his hands on Wei Ying’s. “The sects have chosen me to guide them. So be it. I will not let our world remain one that denies a true heart.”

Wei Ying opened his mouth and closed it again before finally managing, “But that’s not… I didn’t…” He looked so thoroughly at a loss that Lan Zhan had to smile, though there was a bright thread of anger running through his amusement. He understood better, now, what it was to raise a child, and how Wei Ying must have been raised that he so earnestly denied his own worth. He stroked his thumbs over the backs of Wei Ying’s hands, seeking to gentle his uncertainty. “Actions in crisis tell of one’s character. Crisis never diverts you, rather it cuts away your teasing and distractions. What is left shines true without fail.”

“Lan Zhan…” Wei Ying couldn’t seem to meet his eyes, staring down at their clasped hands. His weight was in his toes, like he might turn and run at any moment, but when Lan Zhan tightened his hold, Wei Ying gripped back hard.

Quiet and sure, he repeated, “I will not let our world remain one that denies you.”

“You’re serious,” Wei Yin whispered, finally looking back up at him, eyes wide and wondering. “You… but… for me?”

Lan Zhan lifted a hand to touch Wei Ying’s cheek. “Your lineage flows from the only one in living memory to truly succeed in her cultivation. Knowing you, I am no longer surprised.”

Wei Ying turned his head into Lan Zhan’s hand, breath quick and unsteady against his palm. But when Wei Ying finally moved, it was to take a step closer, free hand coming up to wind tight into Lan Zhan’s robes.

Lan Zhan looked over Wei Ying’s bent head to where his uncle stood in the shadows of his rooms, watching them with folded arms. Lan Zhan tipped his chin up in silent question: Where is this self-aggrandizing power you think you saw? Their locked gazes held for a long moment before his uncle finally shrugged, sharp and irritable, and looked away, turning toward his sitting room. Satisfaction settled over Lan Zhan. His uncle might not ever approve of Wei Ying, but at least he would not interfere. That would do, for now. He gathered Wei Ying closer and murmured, “Shall I ask what larger sets of rooms are untaken, at the moment?”

Wei Ying looked up, a little flushed, blinking back wetness from his eyes, but laughing again. “Yes. All right.” It was agreement to more than a new set of rooms, and Lan Zhan smiled, satisfaction deepening.

Wei Ying was with him, again. He no longer had any fears.

End

The Heart of the Matter

Before

Sizhui had always been fascinated by the collection of Lan writings about the history and disciplines of their clan. They were so varied. Some were chilly and precise, some were zealous, and some, in Sizhui’s opinion, really wanted to go back and be monks and not deal with worldly matters at all. All of them, though, seemed to stumble when they tried to talk about intimacy and passion, and started talking around the details. It was really quite frustrating for a studious young man who just wanted to learn. So, in pursuit of learning, which the clan rules enjoined them all to in any case, Sizhui had put together the things he’d noticed his foster father never forbid, done a little personal research, and concluded that yes, he probably did want to do this with his best friend. More importantly, if the way Jingyi’s eyes lingered on Sizhui’s mouth and the way his ears then turned red were anything to judge by, Jingyi wanted the same thing.

So, really, all Sizhui had to do was wait for Jingyi to be ready.

Patiently.

Really, quite patiently.

They were in the bath house, scrubbing off after some extra evening practice of their sword forms when Jingyi’s sidelong glances finally resolved into words.

Honestly, it was just a good thing Sizhui got plenty of practice interpreting the small nuances of expression from his foster father.

“Hey. Sizhui?” Jingyi scrubbed industriously at one leg. “You know how the Lan Discipline says not to wallow in pleasure?”

He seemed to run out of words, there, and Sizhui hid his smile by reaching around to soap his back. “Yes?” he prompted.

“Well.” Now Jingyi was scrubbing between his toes with great concentration. “That means some pleasure is okay, right?” His eyes slid sidelong toward Sizhui. “Have you ever…?”

“Not with anyone else.” Sizhui slanted his own glance at Jingyi, under his lashes. “Did you want to?”

Jingyi promptly turned red, but there was also the glint in his eyes that often preceded his most entertaining ideas. And frequently Sizhui having to talk their way out of trouble, but if he minded that he wouldn’t be best friends with Lan Jingyi, after all. “I was thinking about it,” Jingyi admitted, with the artless honestly that Sizhui had always liked in him.

“Well, then.” Sizhui left off working up lather in one hand, since he thought he’d got enough now, and stepped over to curl his other hand around the back of Jingyi’s neck. “Let’s,” he murmured and tugged Jingyi close enough to kiss.

It took a breath for Jingyi to stop grinning, but when he did the slide of lips against lips turned soft and warm, and Sizhui could absolutely see why people did this. Jingyi’s hands closed around his hips, tentative at first and then firmer when Sizhui made an approving sound into his mouth. Body against body was a little awkward, a little bit of angles bumping against each other, but he liked being so close; it felt good. He slid his soapy hand down Jingyi’s chest and gently over his stomach, halting when he felt Jingyi’s breath stutter. “May I?” he asked softly.

Jingyi pulled back enough to look at him, eyes wide. “I, um.” He swallowed and huffed out a laugh. “Yeah.”

Sizhui smiled back and wrapped his hand around Jingyi’s cock. He was a little surprised by how different it felt, doing this for someone else, from doing it for himself. The smooth texture of Jingyi’s cock against his palm, and the way he hardened in Sizhui’s hand, caught at his senses without his own pleasure to distract from them. The way Jingyi gasped, hands tightening sharply on Sizhui’s hips, the way his lips parted under Sizhui’s, pulled at his attention, made him listen closely as he stroked Jingyi, trying to tell what he liked.

Jingyi definitely seemed to like a firm grip, that made him moan low in his throat, and Sizhui smiled as he kissed Jingyi again, coaxing; he might have known. Jingyi’s hips rocked up into it, when Sizhui turned his wrist, fingertips pressing down the underside of Jingyi’s cock. “Sizhui!” he gasped, and Sizhui pressed closer, hand moving faster. He liked hearing Jingyi like this; liked knowing he was part of Jingyi’s pleasure. It was like the first time they’d worked as a pair during a night-hunt, relying on each other, on how well they knew each other—like that, only with a hotter, heavier edge.

“I’ve got you,” he told Jingyi softly, out of that feeling, and drew in a quick, startled breath at the shudder that rolled through Jingyi in response, the way his cock pulsed against Sizhui’s palm as he came, swaying, hands flashing up to catch Sizhui’s shoulders. Sizhui pulled him close, arm tight around his waist, and said again, more certain, “I’ve got you.”

“Yeah,” Jingyi said against his neck, a little hoarse. “Yeah.” After another breath or two, he added, “Wow.”

Sizhui laughed softly, holding him close. Something gleeful curled through his chest, like triumph but lighter, sweeter. Jingyi laughed with him, getting his feet under him again, hands sliding down Sizhui’s arms. “So,” he ducked his head a little, smiling. “Your turn?”

“I’d like that.” Sizhui thought he’d probably like it very much; he was already more than half hard, just from touching Jingyi.

Jingyi looked around and tugged Sizhui toward the nearest bath bench. “Come here.” He sat and tugged on Sizhui’s hands again, grinning up at him. Sizhui’s face was a little hot as he settled himself over Jingyi’s legs, straddling his lap, but it did feel nice when Jingyi’s arms settled around him. He slid closer, experimentally, and made a pleased sound at how nicely they did fit together, like this, his arms draped over Jingyi’s shoulders, Jingyi’s face tipped up to kiss him.

When Jingyi’s fingers stroked over his cock, Sizhui’s breath drew in sharply and a tingle of heat rushed through him head to toe. He hadn’t realized how intense it would feel, to be touched by another, to feel such an intimate caress and not know quite what it would do next, keeping the awareness at the front of his thoughts—this was someone else touching him. “Oh.”

“Is it good?” Jingyi asked, and Sizhui smiled, remembering how much he’d liked knowing exactly that. He leaned against Jingyi.

“Very good.” He bit his lip at the thought that came next, but it felt right, so he murmured against Jingyi’s ear, “A little harder?”

This close, he could hear the way Jingyi swallowed. His arm tightened around Sizhui and his hand tightened around Sizhui’s cock, and oh but that felt good. “Mm, yes,” Sizhui agreed, increasingly breathless. “Right there,” as Jingyi’s fingers stroked back behind his balls before sweeping up again, “do that again!”

Pleasure curled through him, hot and heavy, and he let his eyes slide closed to concentrate on sensation, found his arms winding tight around Jingyi’s shoulders as Jingyi stroked him, found the encouraging words he meant to offer getting jumbled and husky. “Ahh, yes… further down oh, yes…!”

When the heat burst through him it was sweet and intense and swept up all his senses for long moments. He was very glad, when it ebbed, to feel Jingyi’s arm tight around him. For a while all he wanted to do was lean against his friend and be supported while his senses settled. When he thought he could manage coherent words again, he murmured against Jingyi’s temple, “Thank you.” He could feel it, against his own cheek, when Jingyi’s face heated.

“You too. I mean. You’re welcome?”

Sizhui smiled, easing back a little, only to pause and glance down. Jingyi was half-hard again, already. Sizhui’s smile tugged wider. “You liked me telling you what to do that much?” he teased gently.

Jingyi sputtered, and finally huffed, looking aside as he settled both arms around Sizhui’s hips. “Well. That’s not any different than usual, is it?”

Sizhui laughed. And people wondered why he was such good friends with Jingyi. They fit together, was all.

This way, too.

He leaned back in for a soft kiss. “Let’s finish getting cleaned up, then.”

Jingyi grinned up at him, eyes glinting. “You know, I bet the waterfalls around back don’t have many people passing by.”

“It’s probably been a while since anyone inspected the bounds there, then,” Sizhui pointed out, obliging, as he stood and reached for the soap again. “We should check on that.”

Jingyi laughed as he poured one of the rinse basins over himself, shaking wet hair back. “Good idea.”

The familiar warmth of knowing they were thinking the same thing settled in Sizhui’s chest, anchoring the unfamiliar excitement still fluttering through him. They would fit together this way, too. Maybe they would even be partners for good.

And if he felt a twinge at having something he was pretty sure his foster father had lost, the thought of staying with Jingyi still felt right.

After

After all the mysteries were resolved, and temporary farewells said, one certainty stayed with Sizhui—he needed to do right by his past, as right as he could, before moving forward again.

Jingyi gave him a long look and rested both hands on his shoulders. “You’re sure?”

“I’m sure,” Sizhui answered, quietly. Jingyi squeezed his shoulders and gave him a firm nod.

“All right. We’ll be there, when you get home.” Before Sizhui could do more than smile for the quiet certainty of that reassurance, Jingyi turned briskly to Wen Ning. “So, the thing you have to remember is, Sizhui likes to fuss over people. Just let him feed you; it’ll make your life easier.”

“Jingyi!”

“What you have to watch out for is that he doesn’t sleep enough,” Jingyi went on as if he hadn’t heard a thing. Sizhui put a hand over his eyes. It didn’t really help; he could still hear Lan Fengli and Lu Anbo grinning. “If it gets to midnight and he still isn’t asleep, put another blanket over him and stay nearby, so he can tell you’re there.”

Sizhui was never going to stop blushing, at this rate.

“Thank you.” The quiet sincerity of Wen Ning’s words stilled them all. When Sizhui looked, Wen Ning was holding Jingyi’s gaze, eyes as sure and steady as his voice. “For helping me take care of my family. Thank you.”

Jingyi was very still, watching Wen Ning.

Wen Ning’s smile was gentle. “And I’ll take care of your partner; I promise.”

Some of the straightness eased out of Jingyi’s shoulders, and Sizhui blinked at him. He’d had Jingyi be protective before, but never possessive. Perhaps it was simply the newness of this new relative? He nudged Jingyi’s shoulder with his, and Jingyi ducked his head a little, glancing at Sizhui sidelong. Sizhui smiled and stroked his fingers over Jingyi’s wrist, hidden by the folds of their sleeves.

He wasn’t going anywhere. Or, perhaps more accurately, he was always going to come back.

Jingyi relaxed and nodded faintly.

Wen Ning’s expression had turned downright indulgent, and Sizhui did his best to stifle any further blushes as he picked up his sword. “I’ll see everyone in just a little while.”

The chorus of cheerful goodbyes was heartening, of course, but it was the steadiness of Jingyi’s gaze on him, as he turned to leave, that Sizhui wrapped up in his heart to carry with him.

“You found a good partner,” Wen Ning remarked, apparently to the trees, as they made their way back onto the main road.

Sizhui smiled, satisfied with the feeling of his old-new life fitting in solidly around his current one. “Yes. I did.”

End

There You Are

So, while costuming may suggest that WWX is returning to LWJ after a little road trip, at the very end of ep 50, I was way too outraged to notice that the first time around. Instead I spent the last five minutes basically shrieking at the screen variations on “Don’t you dare, you absolute fuckers, oh my god!” and similar. That was my first response. My second, upon getting the last five seconds, was to mutter dire things about screenwriters who think they’re clever, and to write some together-after-all smut, to soothe the emotional “no no no no no!” of the first response. So, for everyone else who lost their shit at the ending and did not recover enough for nuance for quite some time, if ever… this story is for you. For everyone else, most of it will read well enough if you assume LWJ came to find WWX on the road at some point.

I am also much indebted to my sometime brain-share partner, Lys ap Adin, for several gestures in here, which my LWJ immediately latched on to.

By the time they got to the next town, Wei Wuxian felt severely off balance. Hearing Lan Zhan’s voice at his back, just when he’d been finishing what he’d expected to be another goodbye, had sent such a shock through him that he’d had to take a moment just to breathe before he’d dared to turn around, and for another moment he’d thought the sight of Lan Zhan, solid and present and returning to him would knock him off the edge of that cliff.

He’d hesitated again, when they’d reached the road, weight shifting on his toes, not knowing whether Lan Zhan had meant to join him or for him to join Lan Zhan. Lan Zhan hadn’t looked like he’d noticed, but he’d taken a calm and deliberate step in the direction Wei Wuxian had been headed, and Little Apple had cheerfully yanked him along that way.

And when Wei Wuxian glanced between the lowering sun and the town’s inn, Lan Zhan just as calmly turned them toward the inn.

He supposed he was glad one of them was sure of what he was doing, right now.

When they were finally settled in one of the second floor rooms, been assured of fresh blankets, had the virtues of the kitchen extolled to them, and were finally alone in the cool, blue shadows of early evening, Wei Wuxian found himself once again at a loss for what he should be doing. This had not been on his mental road-map at all. Oh, he’d turned over the idea of dragging Lan Zhan out and about with him, over the past few weeks, and also the thought of descending on the Cloud Recesses to shake the place up a little. But never for Lan Zhan to be the one to follow him, to reach out for him the way he was reaching out this very moment, fingers tracing lightly over Wei Wuxian’s cheek and trailing down his jaw, gentle and warm and oh…

Oh.

He stepped slowly closer, hands stealing out to slide under Lan Zhan’s outer robe and rest on his hips. “Lan Zhan?” He could hear the huskiness in his own voice.

“You broke my grip once,” Lan Zhan said, voice as low and calm as ever on words that made Wei Wuxian’s heart twist. “I don’t wish to let you do so again.”

Wei Wuxian swallowed, feeling like his heart was trying to climb his throat, and perhaps beat its way right out of him. “Are you sure?” he asked, finding a grin, even if he was fairly sure it didn’t make it to his eyes. “Everyone will wonder how much the Yiling Patriarch is corrupting the new Chief Cultivator–” He broke off, blinking at the sudden press of a finger against his lips.

“You are not a force for corruption.” The firmness of that statement made Wei Wuxian’s throat tight again.

“Lan Zhan,” he said, softly, lips brushing against Lan Zhan’s finger, because he appreciated Lan Zhan’s confidence in him, and he shared it of course, but they both knew what the rest of the world thought. Lan Zhan’s eyes narrowed a hair.

“Stubborn.”

That made him laugh. “Always.” Lan Zhan actually huffed, faintly, and he laughed again, relaxing into the familiarity. It slipped a little sideways when Lan Zhan smiled and took a tiny step closer, cupping his hands around Wei Wuxian’s face. That was familiar, sure, but only from daydreams. Never with the sensation of sword- and string-callouses against his skin, or the realization that he could feel Lan Zhan’s body heat, standing this close.

“Wei Ying.”

Entranced by the faint curve to Lan Zhan’s lips, which he still wasn’t used to seeing, it took him a minute to notice that Lan Zhan’s eyes had tracked down to his own mouth. When he did, though, he couldn’t help smiling, slow and bright, and draping his arms over Lan Zhan’s shoulders.

“So, you are sure?” he asked, leaning in a little. Lan Zhan’s eyes slid back up to his, steady but also fiercely intent, even heated.

“Yes.” And then he waited, very still.

“Then yes,” Wei Wuxian answered, pleased, and leaned in the last little bit to kiss Lan Zhan.

It had been quite a while since he’d kissed someone, even if he didn’t count those years when he was a wandering ghost, but he was still pretty sure he’d never felt with anyone else the surge of tingling warmth from head to toes, that answered when cool lips parted under his. He wanted this. He’d wanted this for a long time. Wanted the soft slide of Lan Zhan’s tongue against his and the sight of long lashes against the curve of Lan Zhan’s cheek as he closed his eyes.

It was the way Lan Zhan’s hands spread against his back, though, that made his breath catch–a slow, careful caress that pressed him gently closer. So careful of him, like Lan Zhan held something fragile and precious, and that plucked at a thread of wanting deep inside him, set his insides shaking. “Lan Zhan,” he said softly, against Lan Zhan’s mouth, not quite sure of what he could say to give form to that want.

Lan Zhan dropped another kiss at the corner of his mouth and drew back to look at him, sober and level, long fingers stroking down the line of Wei Wuxian’s folded collars to rest on his sash. “Let me?” he asked, quietly.

Another wave of heat washed over Wei Wuxian like a flood-wave down the river, and he had to swallow before he could answer, “Yeah.”

Wei Wuxian had never considered himself shy, nor had anyone else who’d spent more than five breaths in his presence. But he was finding himself unable to face head on the careful slowness of Lan Zhan’s hands undressing him, slipping each layer off and folding it aside, the soft, steady weight of Lan Zhan’s eyes on him, looking like he was unwrapping some artwork that had been dropped and finding it miraculously whole. His gaze slid aside from Lan Zhan’s and his breath turned short and uneven. “Lan Zhan…”

White swept around him like a snow flurry, but Lan Zhan’s arms, holding him, were warm. He buried his nose in Lan Zhan’s shoulder with a faint laugh, mostly at himself, winding his arms tight around Lan Zhan in turn. After a breath to recover his balance and insouciance, he added, a bit muffled “Now you’re overdressed.”

“In a moment,” Lan Zhan said quietly against his ear, fingers sliding slowly through his hair. Wei Wuxian was more than willing to seize that moment and bask in the simple pleasure of being petted, relaxing against the straight line of Lan Zhan’s body with a pleased little sound. It was soothing. It felt… secure. When Lan Zhan’s fingers traced down his spine, he arched a bit with the touch, smiling slow and lazy.

And then he had to laugh at the clear satisfaction in the faint curl of Lan Zhan’s mouth. “You like being able to make me relax?” he teased.

“Yes,” Lan Zhan answered, so simply that Wei Wuxian couldn’t help kissing him again. This time, Lan Zhan held him firmly and kissed back with a slow-opening hunger that sent heat curling low in Wei Wuxian’s stomach. He decided that ‘a moment’ had arrived, and started pushing those flowing robes off Lan Zhan’s shoulders, working loose pale blue sashes while he sucked on Lan Zhan’s lower lip. It took an unreasonable amount of undressing to get down to skin, exactly the way he’d always figured it would, but feeling how Lan Zhan’s hands tightened on him, fingers digging into the muscle of his back, when he did was absolutely worth it. He loved feeling Lan Zhan react to him like this, so openly.

“You like holding me too, hm?” he purred, wrapping around Lan Zhan and kissing down his jaw. “Have you ever wanted to hold me down? Feel me under you?” He nibbled on Lan Zhan’s ear, mouth curling in a wicked grin. “Wanted to fuck me?”

“Sometimes, yes.” Lan Zhan’s voice was a bit hoarse, now, and his hands spread against Wei Wuxian’s back, sliding slowly up, unmistakably possessive. “I always wanted to hold you. To keep you with me.”

The sweetness of knowing he was wanted like that, of hearing and feeling it, took his breath, and he pressed closer. It took another moment to unlock his throat, and it came out husky when he said, “Then I’m yours, Lan Zhan.”

When Lan Zhan’s arms tightened around him, this time, they drove most of his breath out, and the fierce demand of Lan Zhan’s mouth on his stole what was left. Wei Wuxian wrapped himself around Lan Zhan, welcoming it, kissing back with open want to match Lan Zhan’s own, a little dizzy with the relief of knowing it was matched. The relief made it easy to relax into Lan Zhan’s hold, to move with him when he shifted toward the bed, to sink down without letting go. “My own,” Lan Zhan whispered against his mouth, and Wei Wuxian laughed, soft and breathless.

“All yours,” he agreed, sliding his hands up into Lan Zhan’s hair, drawing him down to another devouring kiss. The long, slow strokes of Lan Zhan’s hands up and down his body drew pleased little noises out of him, and he hooked a leg around Lan Zhan’s, fitting them together. Lan Zhan’s hand slid down to curve around his ass, and Lan Zhan drew back just far enough to look at him, eyes dark and steady.

“Wei Ying. May I?”

It was warmth that surged through him like a flood-wave this time, and Wei Wuxian smiled, soft and free, with how good it felt, Lan Zhan’s care. “Yeah. Anything you want.” And then practicalities nudged at his brain. “Oh, but hang on…” He looked around to see if his bag was in reach.

Lan Zhan leaned over with a perfectly straight face to fish a small bottle out of his bag, and Wei Wuxian burst into delighted laughter.

“Looks like I’ve been an excellent influence already!”

Lan Zhan looked down at him with a faint, rueful curve to his lips, and such warmth in his eyes that it stole Wei Wuxian’s breath again, sent him reaching up to trace that tiny, gentle smile, eyes wide with the wonder of it being for him. “Lan Zhan…”

Lan Zhan kissed his fingers softly and answered with absolute certainty, “Wei Ying.” It was reassurance and acceptance all wrapped up in the name he never heard from anyone else, and he pressed closer, arms winding tight around Lan Zhan.

“Yours,” he said softly, against Lan Zhan’s mouth, purring as Lan Zhan promptly gathered him up close again. “Mm, yeah.”

Lan Zhan flicked the bottle’s stopper out one handed, not letting go of Wei Wuxian even for that, which he approved of greatly. He approved even more of how good it felt when long, slick fingers pressed between his cheeks, rubbing his entrance slow and firm. Lan Zhan watched him, eyes intent on his face, as he rubbed slowly harder, fingers working gradually past the tightness of muscle to press in. Lan Zhan definitely seemed to know what he was doing, and the rush of heat that answered that thought made Wei Wuxian light-headed. He let himself relax into Lan Zhan’s hands, breath coming deeper as Lan Zhan’s fingers pressed deeper, stretching him open slow and sure, and when Lan Zhan worked his knuckles gently back and forth through Wei Wuxian’s entrance he moaned out loud with how good it felt.

Lan Zhan’s eyes on him were bright and intent, burning hot, and his voice was deeper than usual when he asked, “Now?”

Wei Wuxian thought about being stretched open harder, and a hot shiver walked up his spine. “Yes.”

Lan Zhan turned to press him down against the covers but seemed very reluctant to let go long enough to get any further, trailing slow, open-mouthed kisses down Wei Wuxian’s throat.

“Nn, Lan Zhan, ahh… come on.” A tiny pause was his only warning before Lan Zhan bit down, careful but firm enough to mark skin. Wei Wuxian lost all his breath on a low groan, bucking up against him, abruptly hard and hot. “Yes…!” He coiled around Lan Zhan, grinding against him more deliberately this time, pleased by the shudder he could feel roll through Lan Zhan. He turned his head to purr against Lan Zhan’s ear, deliberately inciteful, “I want you inside me, Lan Zhan.”

The sound Lan Zhan made was nearly a growl, and Wei Wuxian laughed, soft and breathless and delighted with the knowledge that Lan Zhan wanted him this much. When a hand wrapped around his hip and urged him over, long fingers digging into his skin, he turned willingly, stretching out on his stomach. Lan Zhan didn’t draw back, though, didn’t pull his hips up the way he’d expected. Instead, he stretched out beside Wei Wuxian and gathered him back into the curve of his body as he curled around Wei Wuxian. Wei Wuxian found himself easing back against Lan Zhan with a soft oh.

It felt good. Warm. He could feel Lan Zhan’s cock sliding between his cheeks, and he still wanted more of that, but he could also feel all of Lan Zhan wrapped around him like a promise of support, even of shelter, and he smiled helplessly, snuggling back against him. “Now?” he asked.

“Now,” Lan Zhan agreed against his shoulder, one hand sliding down Wei Wuxian’s thigh, pushing it gently up to spread him out a little, and all over again he found himself relaxing into the clear care of Lan Zhan’s touch.

And in that moment of unwinding, Lan Zhan pushed into him.

Wei Wuxian moaned out loud at the hard stretch and slide of Lan Zhan’s cock sinking into him, eyes falling closed as the surge of sensation drew out long until Lan Zhan stilled against his back, breathing short and hard against his ear, all the way inside him.

“Mmm, yes.” Wei Wuxian ground his ass against Lan Zhan’s hips in a tight little circle, wanting to feel that fullness more. Lan Zhan’s arms tightened hard, around him, and Lan Zhan jerked back to drive in again. The motion felt even better, and Wei Wuxian made encouraging noises that broke into gasps as Lan Zhan held him close and fucked him, every stroke pounding in deep, like Lan Zhan wanted to push through his skin to hold him tighter still. It felt incredible, and Wei Wuxian sank himself into the sensation, let pleasure shudder up his spine and shake him in Lan Zhan’s arms, let it drive open moans and snatches of encouragement out of his throat, yes, and perfect, and please, until Lan Zhan made a half-desperate sound against his ear and reached down to close long fingers, just barely still slick, tight around his cock, stroking him roughly. The jolt of pleasure sent Wei Wuxian bucking wildly in his arms, eyes wide and blind with the rush of heat bursting through him. He felt like it might shake him to pieces, and only Lan Zhan’s hold was keeping him together, that hold and the low moan that told him Lan Zhan was here with him.

When the surge of pleasure finally ebbed into sharp little aftershocks, his throat was dry from panting for breath and Lan Zhan was shuddering against his back. “Wei Ying.”

It was a tone he’d never heard from Lan Zhan before, low and caressing, and his heart tried to climb his throat again. He slid a hand down to cover Lan Zhan’s, on his stomach, tangling their fingers together, and hoped he’d heard what he thought he did. “Yeah,” he agreed, husky. “All yours.”

Lan Zhan made a satisfied sound and cradled him closer, and Wei Wuxian breathed out slowly, relief that he’d been right tangling with amazement that Lan Zhan really did want him this much, this openly. He lifted their laced hands and pressed a kiss to Lan Zhan’s knuckles. Lan Zhan made a tiny, questioning sound, and leaned up on an elbow, tugging him gently over and looking down at him with intent, thoughtful eyes. Finally he said, softly, “I want, very much, to be with you. Always.”

That moment on the cliff came back to Wei Wuxian all in a rush, the shock of Lan Zhan’s voice, of Lan Zhan following him, coming back to him, going with him, and it felt like a hand squeezing his lungs. He swallowed hard, trying to find words to return, anything that could come close to the wonder and hurt and joy tangled up in his chest at this moment, but he couldn’t. He never could find the right words for these things, and that choked his breath shorter.

“Ah.” Lan Zhan reached out and gathered Wei Wuxian into his arms and just held him, one hand sliding up into his hair to press Wei Wuxian’s head down against Lan Zhan’s shoulder. Wei Wuxian wound his arms around Lan Zhan’s ribs and hoped the tightness of his hold said what he needed it to while he brought his breathing back under control.

When he realized that Lan Zhan was rocking him, just a little, he couldn’t help laughing, and that dissolved the last of the tightness in his chest. Out of that release, he finally managed to say, on a soft sigh, “I love you.”

Lan Zhan’s arms tightened around him, hard enough to drive his breath out, and yeah, he thought this was a pretty clear way to communicate. And then Lan Zhan spoke, and he stilled, shocked. “I have loved you for much longer than I knew what it was I felt. I’m sorry it took me so long to understand.”

Wei Wuxian lifted his head and stared at Lan Zhan, eyes wide. Lan Xichen had said Lan Zhan had loved him, even that far back, but Wei Wuxian could read between the lines pretty well when he had a reason to, and the story of their father and mother had been one of guilt and shame, as much as love. He’d thought that was probably about right, back then; that if Lan Zhan had loved him, it had been through guilt. He’d thought it couldn’t be the same feeling as now, because if it was that kind of feeling…

…then Lan Zhan wouldn’t have come back to walk Wei Wuxian’s road.

Suddenly, every broken Lan rule along their journey turned and fell into a new shape. Not simply necessity, and not just indulgence, no, that had been a deliberate step each time, Lan Zhan choosing over and over to walk Wei Wuxian’s road beside him. Another laugh shook him, soft and breathless and astonished, and he wound himself tighter around Lan Zhan, whispering against his ear, “Me too. I didn’t see what you meant.” He buried yet another half-shocked laugh in Lan Zhan’s shoulder. “I’m an idiot. We match so well.”

Lan Zhan huffed softly at that, still holding him close, and Wei Wuxian smiled. If Lan Zhan would be with him, always with him… he felt like the whole world was opening up around him. Not broader, because he’d always walked where he pleased, but deeper, with the promise of at least one place to stand where he would truly belong.

Beside Lan Zhan. Wherever they went.

“Lan Zhaaaan,” he sing-songed in Lan Zhan’s ear, feeling a wicked grin tug at his mouth, “can we go back to the Cloud Recesses? Your uncle’s getting old, right? It’ll be good for him to get his blood moving.”

He didn’t hear a sound, in response, but pressed this close, he could feel the single short breath of Lan Zhan’s laugh, and snuggled closer, satisfied. Yes.

He could belong here.

End

Not Quite There

“…ghoststhe Yiling Patriarch…Wei Wuxian!”

Yanked toward the edge of manifestation (again), Wei Wuxian dug in his immaterial heels (again) and reflected that he might actually have made it to the underworld if it weren’t that humans had an apparently unending need for someone to blame for everything. Other people’s ghosts, the weather, the price of vegetables, he’d even had a couple floods blamed on him. If resentment actually had sufficiently overcome him for him to desire catastrophe and destruction, he’d very likely have been able to accomplish quite a lot of it purely on the strength of the representations and stories passed around among peasants, lords, and cultivators alike. They were almost as good as an ancestral tablet, if far darker in the sustenance they offered.

Their influence would have been a lot easier to resist if he’d had an actual tablet.

Well, wishing wouldn’t do him any good, and dwelling on that right now could do a lot of harm. So failing a proper anchor, he thought hard on the memory of a nice, long breath and focused himself on more personal talismans instead.

Lotus seeds.

The sensation of drawing back his bow.

Lan Zhan’s exasperated expression, which was all in the tilt of his brows and the faint thinning of his lips.

The notes of Clarity.

He leaned on the memory of Clarity a lot, these days (whatever days these were). It wasn’t as good as feeling the resonance of the actual music, but it helped. The memory that someone had cared enough to play it for him helped to block the dark current of too many people shaping his name toward hatred. He knew that, if he truly needed the help, even now, he could probably (probably) find Lan Zhan and hear this song again. He was trying to be less trouble for his few surviving friends, though, so instead he focused his will and kicked away the rich current of resentment trying to coil into him.

Besides, he was way more stubborn than anybody who needed someone else to blame for the resentment they’d probably roused themselves.


Wei Wuxian, perched on top of a mountain to enjoy a summer storm, which was a very different experience as a wandering ghost than it had been as a living person, felt a tug on the fabric of his spirit and curled his lip. That was pathetic. It felt as if he’d maybe gotten a lady’s scarf blown against him by a strong wind.

Honestly, was it just him or were the spirit summoning rituals that happened for him a few times every year getting weaker? Half the time, they were using arrays he’d designed himself; surely they could do better than this!

Admittedly, he hadn’t let himself be dragged close enough to check the arrays for a while now. It was only entertaining the first handful of times, to flirt with the drag of other spirits and wills on his own, to prove to himself that he was still stronger than the idiots who feared him.

He sighed, letting the energy of the storm crackle over and through him, sharp and heavy, distracting him from the tug of summoning. The ones trying to summon him were never anyone he actually wanted to see.

(The time he’d seen Jiang Cheng there had been the last time he’d let a summoning draw him close.)


At first he wasn’t even sure what it was. It didn’t feel like a summoning. It felt like someone calling his name, but not the way pretty much everyone called it these days.

More like the way Wen Qing had once said it, desperate and furious and terrified and out of any other option.

That was probably why he turned toward it instead of pulling back, as was pretty well reflex by now.

And then there was darkness and heaviness, and opening his eyes. For the first time in probably quite a few years…

He opened his eyes.

End

Getting There

Three Days After the Destruction of the Burial Mounds

When Lan Zhan took Wen Yuan out of the wreckage of the Burial Mounds and brought him down off the mountain, he was thinking of grief and of the nature of righteousness, and of possibly saving one tiny glimmer of the hope Wei Ying had so unhesitatingly given his hands and life over to. The hope that no one else in Lan Zhan’s world even seemed to see, let alone cherish as he felt it deserved. He had not, as he walked carefully down the path to Yiling, trying to balance a fretful child in his arms with the clawing pain of his back, been thinking about making himself into a father in the eyes of the broader world.

That had apparently been an oversight.

“Not like that, young man!” The grandmotherly fruit vendor on his right plucked the wailing Wen Yuan out of his arms where her neighbor the fish vendor had only just finished arranging him. “You don’t want to toss a child who’s already crying! Save that for when he’s in a better mood.”

Tossing for good moods, Lan Zhan dutifully noted on his internal list of the rules of child rearing, despite some personal dubiousness. The list was already growing and sometimes contradictory, and he’d only been speaking with the two women for a little while. He could only hope that further experience would sort out the contradictions.

“When they’re already crying, you want to rock them,” the fruit vendor dictated, and Lan Zhan noted with a spark of hope that Wen Yuan’s wails did seem to be decreasing in volume as the woman swayed back and forth with him.

No sooner did he think it, then Wen Yuan looked up at him tearfully and broke into another full-volume wail. Lan Zhan’s heart sank.

Before he could strike the tentative mental entry of Rocking for tears, though, the fish vendor laughed. “This one is definitely a daddy’s boy. Give him back, Jingmei, and let his father try.”

“Gently, this time,” the fruit vendor directed as she bundled Wen Yuan back into his arms, adjusting his hold briskly under the child’s seat.

Lan Zhan ruthlessly stifled a flinch as the slices on his back pulled, and did his best to copy her slow sway from side to side, nearly holding his breath. To his immense relief, it seemed to work this time. Wen Yuan’s tears slowly tapered off, and the boy finally went limp against him with the boneless slump Lan Zhan had already learned meant a child asleep, face mashed into Lan Zhan’s collar. He dared to breathe out a soundless sigh of relief, which both women nevertheless caught immediately if their broad grins were any sign.

“There now, you’re learning, young man,” the fish vendor said, not nearly as softly as Lan Zhan would have thought advisable. Apparently they were correct again, though, because Wen Yuan didn’t stir.

Lan Zhan still kept his own voice down when he said, as gravely as he could when it was so heartfelt, “Thank you.” He also walked slowly and carefully, as he left, which was probably why he was still in ear-shot when the fruit vendor remarked to her neighbor, “Can’t imagine what the child’s mother was thinking, letting the two of them wander around unsupervised.”

“He does look pretty lost, doesn’t he? Do you think…?”

“The clans did have some kind of big fight recently, didn’t they? If it was bad enough even we heard about it, then maybe. If he lost her it would explain why he’s so sober so young, I suppose.”

“And now he has a child to raise alone, on top of his loss. Poor boy.”

Their voices faded behind him, and Lan Zhan breathed carefully through a wave of bitterness. He hadn’t lost his cultivation partner. He’d barely even had a chance to understand that a partnership was what he wanted, before Wei Ying had been gone. Somehow that only made the pain bite deeper, the coldness of lost friendship turned razor-edged with lost chances, far sharper than the pain of his body.

Wen Yuan—Lan Yuan to be, he was determined—wriggled in his arms with a sleepy sound of protest, and Lan Zhan carefully relaxed his hold again, resettling a-Yuan in the fruit-vendor-approved manner, and paced slowly and steadily on.

The indulgent smiles that followed them suggested that he was starting to get this part correct, at least.

One Month After the Destruction of the Burial Mounds

It took several weeks to recover enough from what his brother called his overexertion and their uncle referred to as his foolishness, to have visitors. Lan Zhan, still unable to sit upright for very long without a relapse into fever from the branding injury—or self injury—that he couldn’t neither recall nor quite regret, stared at the bright smile on a-Yuan’s small face and briefly entertained the thought that his relatives might feel he deserved some additional punishment.

“I can’t pick you up right now,” he explained, using the low, calm voice that he’d found most effective on the trip home to head off at least some of a-Yuan’s inexplicable bouts of tears.

Apparently this was one of the times it would fail to work; a-Yuan’s face crumpled.

Lan Zhan mentally thumbed through his list of tentative rules of child rearing, and could only come up with ‘distract with a toy’. He suddenly regretted raising the rabbits so far from his own rooms; surely rabbits would count as a toy. “Would you like to hear a story?” he essayed.

He knew a considerable number of stories of Lan history; surely one of them would be suitably diverting? Perhaps one of the stories of Lan Yi?

Wei Ying would like the stories of Lan Yi.

A-Yuan considered the offer like a seasoned bargainer in the market, and finally nodded, beaming again the way he had when Xichen-xiong had left the boy beside Lan Zhan’s bed with a faint smile. Lan Zhan, after a moment of calculating how much pain was wearing on his strength today, held out one arm, flicking his fingers to beckon a-Yuan closer. With a-Yuan curled up, warm, against his side, he cast his mind back to some of his earliest lessons in Lan history and began, quietly, “When Lan Chen died, his daughter Lan Yi become the third leader of the Lan Sect…”

A-Yuan listened quietly, and likely without much comprehension, to the tale of a chaotic time, of cultivators striving against each other as well as the spirits of malice they existed to quiet. Lan Zhan couldn’t help comparing the steel determination of Lan Yi, to gain peace for those in her care, by any means necessary, to Wei Ying’s willing descent into darkness, to guard those without the power to guard themselves.

He had been taught that Lan Yi had been regrettably extremist. That her methods had proven an undesirable path, one that led, in the end, to increased strife. But he couldn’t help dwelling on her likely response to the Wen clan, and feeling that she would have come to the same conclusion that the current clan heads had, and have done it considerably more swiftly.

And would that not have been a good thing?

Lan Zhan looked down to see a-Yuan asleep against him, and now drooling on his robes. He sighed silently and gathered the boy closer, leaning back against his pillows. Wei Ying had acted, rather than wait, always, and he had acted at every turn with compassion. If also with an unfortunate tendency to show off. Yet even many of those he had protected had condemned him and the path he’d chosen. It was a dangerous one, Lan Zhan knew that, had seen that. Yet he was also very sure that many of Wei Ying’s detractors spoke out of nothing but craven fear or resentment. Certainly the people who had left a-Yuan orphaned twice over and abandoned to die had behaved contemptibly. Could he say, then, that they were wholly wrong? Should he not have tried to turn Wei Ying from his path?

His uncle had taught him that the difference between right and wrong was as clear as the line between black and white, but he wondered more and more how his uncle could possibly believe that.

Eleven Months After the Destruction of the Burial Mounds

Lan Zhan was getting quite tired of his confinement to his rooms, after almost a year, but had to admit that it was better to stay put than to court another collapse in the library or another month of fever as his body protested any overexertion. So he tried to rediscover the patience that he sometimes felt Wei Ying’s death had snapped into pieces, counted the days only in terms of returning bits of strength, and accepted his visitors calmly as they came.

After his brother, his uncle came most frequently.

Those visits were most often discussions of technique, of refining Lan Zhan’s mastery of the spiritual resonance that grew from the physical resonance of strings, or of picking apart the effects of the melodies brought back by many years of Lan disciples traveling abroad. Only rarely did they start to stray into physical applications that Lan Zhan wasn’t recovered enough to execute. When they did, he thought he saw in his uncle’s frowns the same tangle of regret and resentment that flicked at his own heart every day he was stuck in his bed.

And then, of course, there were the frowns that had nothing to do with Lan Zhan’s transgressions or injuries. The one, for example, that answered a-Yuan bursting through Lan Zhan’s entry in a billow of pale, new robes, trailing behind him the exasperated voice of the third cousin who’d volunteered to look after him while Lan Zhan recovered.

“A-Yuan, stop running! Lan Yuan, you come back he—” She broke off with what might have been a stifled squeak at the sight of Lan Qiren’s forbidding look, and whispered urgently, “A-Yuan!”

A-Yuan ignored her to scamper to Lan Zhan’s side and spin around on his toes, robes swishing through the air. “Ji-xiong, look!”

Lan Qiren looked, if possible, even more forbidding at the sound of that casually intimate name. Or perhaps it was at the streaks of mud along the hems of a-Yuan’s robes.

“I see,” Lan Zhan answered calmly, which he’d never lost the habit of, even once a-Yuan grew out of most tantrums. The simple acknowledgment still made a-Yuan beam happily at him.

“You should teach him more decorum, if you will insist on the boy being Lan,” his uncle snapped, eyes lingering with definite disapproval on the mud. And then, low enough that Lan Zhan didn’t think even he was supposed to hear it, and was sure a-Yuan and Lan Fang hadn’t, “Glad you never used to be that much trouble, at least.”

And Lan Zhan remembered with abrupt clarity that his uncle had given him exactly the same disapproving look that he was now giving a-Yuan’s muddy hems whenever Lan Zhan had insisted on visiting his mother’s house after her death. Yet, even as aggravated as Lan Qiren clearly still was over Lan Zhan’s defense of Wei Ying, even as similar as this moment was to that one, his uncle didn’t seem to remember. For a moment his mind felt blank with startlement, not knowing what to do with that. His uncle had always emphasized unfailing knowledge and memory of the rules of the Lan Discipline as the defining mark of Lan Zhan’s accomplishment. But this—this truth of Lan Qiren’s own heart and thoughts—his uncle didn’t remember?

He’d thought their disagreement must be one of principles, or of interpretation of principles. But did his uncle not even attempt to practice the principles he’d demanded of Lan Zhan and his brother?

Lines he’d learned by heart, long ago, seared across his thoughts.

Learning comes first.

Do not say one thing and mean another.

Be easy on others.

Do not cause damage.

Do not give up on learning.

Do not break faith.

This shattering was far slower than the one in the Nightless City had been. That had been a breaking point all in an instant, when Lan Zhan’s dedication to the Lan Discipline he’d been taught, above all, snapped in a single moment of time, with the momentum of all the six years before it. This was a slow widening of the blank instant of realization into an open field, in his heart—the field of knowing his uncle’s example was not simply one he could not follow. It was one he should not follow.

“Lan Zhan?” Lan Qiren was frowning at him again, now. Lan Zhan took what felt like his first breath in rather a while.

“A-Yuan will learn, as he grows,” he said quietly, pushing himself up to his feet with only a brief twinge, today. “Just as I did.” He held a hand down to the boy and added to him, quietly, “It’s important to keep your robes clean. It is part of having courtesy to others and respect for yourself.”

A-Yuan looked up at him, eyes wide, and nodded, tucking his hand trustingly into Lan Zhan’s. “Bath?” he asked, with the simplicity his own harsh fever had left him with, still lagging a bit behind his age-mates in expression but somehow cutting to the core all the more directly, for that. Lan Zhan smiled, faintly.

“Yes.”

He led a-Yuan back to Lan Fang, who smiled at both of them gently, as she took the boy’s other hand. “You can visit tomorrow, a-Yuan,” she promised, with a glance at Lan Zhan to check. He nodded silently and she directed an approving look at him as much as at a-Yuan, as she led the boy away.

When he turned back, his uncle was watching him, eyes hard and level. “Spoiling the boy will lead to nothing good.”

Lan Zhan looked back, just as level. “Earn trust,” he quoted from the Wall, though the emphasis was his own.

Lan Qiren’s nostrils flared with his sharp inhale, and he stood with a jerk and strode out through the open screens.

Lan Zhan breathed again, slow and deep, feeling that open field in his mind and heart. If it was his duty to choose the truths that a-Yuan would grow with, then he chose the righteousness that challenged, rather than confined. The righteousness that Wei Ying had taught to him. Trust. Courage. Integrity. Chivalry. Kindness.

The strong will that could achieve anything.

This, he would believe in. This, he would seek out and demonstrate for the bright, young life he had snatched from the wreckage made by those of small mind and heart. He would follow this path, that was not a crooked one.

And perhaps, then, he would have enough peace in his heart to give to Wei Ying’s spirit, when he found it.

Three Years After the Destruction of the Burial Mounds

Lan Zhan did not normally consider himself easily distractible. Indeed, he was extensively trained in the meditative focus required for advanced cultivation, regardless of his surroundings. He had successfully maintained unwavering focus in face of violent weather, small mobs of townspeople, and ambush by powerfully malevolent spirits. A simple marketplace should have held nothing that could successfully distract him from his current task, especially when he was on his way to a hunt at his brother’s side.

But the sight of a book-seller’s stall had pulled up the memory of a-Yuan’s softly disappointed expression, at hearing that no, the Lan library held no tales beyond the history of various Lan cultivators. The boy’s downcast eyes and tiny “Oh.” returned with crystal clarity and dragged at Lan Zhan’s footsteps.

One of the books was titled The Adventures of He Jue.

“For Yuan-er?” his brother murmured, pausing at his shoulder. Lan Zhan could hear his brother’s smile and pressed his lips together. Xichen-xiong laughed, just a faint breath between them, and rested a hand on his shoulder. “There’s hardly any shame in taking good care of the life you’ve taken responsibility for.”

Lan Zhan glanced at him sidelong. It wasn’t the first time his brother had said something that suggested he didn’t entirely agree with their uncle about some things. Perhaps Xichen-xiong was just subtler about it than Lan Zhan; his brother had always been better at that. Xichen-xiong just smiled and patted his shoulder gently. Lan Zhan thought about the smile his brother had managed never to quite lose, and about a-Yuan’s smile, quieter now than it had been a few years ago, now that he’d grown old enough to begin absorbing something of Lan decorum and reserve, but still sweet and warm.

He thought of the last look he’d seen on Wei Ying’s face, still smiling for them even with heartbreak in his eyes.

He picked up The Adventures of He Jue and turned decisively to the book seller. “How much?” He pretended to not notice the way his brother’s smile warmed a little, but felt comforted in his decision anyway. It was easy, after all, to decide that he would preserve whatever he could of what Wei Ying’s compassion had given to the world. Taking another concrete step to bring up a-Yuan less as he’d been raised and more like the friend who had challenged Lan Zhan to look beyond the decisions of those who had come before… that was harder. Worthwhile, he was convinced of that, but still hard to step firmly along that path under the eyes of his clan.

Perhaps it was because he was already thinking on what might be correct and yet outside (or perhaps further within) the precedent of the rules of Lan Discipline, but another title caught his eye as he tucked the adventure tale into his pouch.

“Wangji?” Xichen-xiong actually sounded shocked this time. Lan Zhan’s face heated, but he couldn’t quite drag his eyes away from -sitions of the Flower Battle peeking out, perhaps appropriately, from underneath another book. The memory of bright, delighted laughter rang in his ears, laughter he had most definitely not appreciated at the time. Now, though…

“I still owe it to Nie Huaisang to replace his belonging,” he stated, just as evenly as he could. “Even if it was Wei Wuxian’s prank, I was the one who destroyed it.”

“How very… diligent of you.” His brother’s voice was a bit choked, but Lan Zhan thought it was with amusement rather than outrage. Xichen-xiong wouldn’t have alluded to one of the Rules, if he really disapproved.

Lan Zhan’s expression was once again perfectly smooth as he plucked the book out of its stack and turned again to the book seller. “How much?”

This one, though, he would not be showing to a-Yuan.

Five Years After the Destruction of the Burial Mounds

As he sat and listened to his brother easily bending the visiting cultivators to his wishes with little more than a gentle smile and a few courteous words to each, Lan Zhan couldn’t help dwelling just a bit on the fact that Xichen-xiong seemed to have gotten at least two generations worth of skill with people all to himself. Certainly their uncle didn’t show much evidence of the skill, and he didn’t remember it being notable in their father either.

He certainly didn’t have it. By this stage in the months-long campaign to convince all the mid-size sect leaders to build and mind the watchtowers in their territories, he’d have long since given up in exasperation and gone to build the things himself just to escape the interminable arguments.

Xichen-xiong was directing that smile at Yao Xianghai, now. “Your devotion to justice is well known, Sect Leader Yao. That you support this project, to give all people the protection they deserve, will be invaluable.”

Yao Xianghai immediately stopped looking dubious and instead straightened his shoulders and smoothed down his mustache. “Certainly, certainly! It’s only the right thing to do.”

Lan Zhan considered what Wei Ying would have said about this, which was rapidly becoming his first resort for getting through the various convocations, and allowed himself an internal scoff on Wei Ying’s behalf. Fortunately it only took a few more minutes of his brother smiling at hypocrites to secure everyone’s agreement, and then Lan Zhan could usher them out.

He almost tripped over a-Yuan, who had apparently been watching silently from the edge of the open screens. Lan Zhan’s brows rose; he would never have suspected a-Yuan of being interested in the politics of cultivation, but the boy’s face was bright as he watched them all emerge.

“Sizhui?” Lan Zhan beckoned him a little aside, nodding for Lan Chunhua to come and take the visitors off his hands. She had a much better serene smile, in any case, an approach their visitors seemed to be enjoying.

“Wangji-xiong, is that why we’re supposed to always be courteous?” a-Yuan asked, sounding very enthusiastic. “So everyone agrees with us?”

Lan Zhan almost said ‘yes’ and had to take a moment to compose himself. Possibly he’d been spending a little too much time, lately, thinking of what Wei Ying would say. “Courtesy is what we all deserve from each other,” he supplied instead, which had been his brother’s answer to a similar question. A-Yuan nodded attentively, and he ventured to add, “Respect for others is a good habit.” Another nod, bright eyes fixed on him with silent expectation, and he finally admitted, “It does help ensure people respond to you promptly, if you must direct them clear of a malevolent spirit.”

A-Yuan beamed and mustered a formal bow for him. “Thank you for the lesson, Wangji-xiong!”

As he scampered off, Lan Zhan wondered if it was normal for a child’s family to feel trepidation over any unexpected excitement.

When he came across a-Yuan, a few days later, easily herding the hot-tempered Lan Jingyi through their chores with nothing but a sweet, expectant smile, he couldn’t help feeling his trepidation had been justified. But he also had to hide a chuckle.

Wei Ying would definitely have laughed.

Eight Years After the Destruction of the Burial Mounds

Lan Zhan stood at the back of the hall of instruction and silently watched as his uncle led the newest junior disciples through a recitation of the qin language. A-Yuan sat near the front, straight and attentive; Lan Zhan was unsurprised that he named without error every note played. A-Yuan had been fascinated with the language of notes ever since he realized there could be meaning, as well as spiritual resonance, in the notes and chords Lan Zhan taught him.

It was almost impossible, these days, to see the grubby, enthusiastic toddler Lan Zhan had first met in the polite and collected young Lan Sizhui. It really only showed in the brightness of his eyes, when he understood something. That, and perhaps his determination.

“…taken together form brief but comprehensible sentences. Lan Wangji, the sentence just played was what?”

The strictness of his personal training prevented Lan Zhan from either starting or floundering at the sudden question. “Are you man or woman. One of the most useful questions when the spirit has forgotten its own name.”

Lan Qiren swept on with the lesson, with no indication that such a prompt and thorough answer was anything but utterly expected, and delivered a stern glare to any disciple who suddenly rustled or looked over his shoulder at Lan Zhan. A-Yuan didn’t look around, and Lan Zhan found himself torn between approval for a-Yuan’s self-discipline and regret that his natural streak of mischief seemed to have been tamed at last. He tried to settle on approval. That, at least, would help a-Yuan here, in the heart of what was now his own clan.

And then slight movement caught his eye.

A-Yuan, still looking becomingly attentive and thoughtful, was forming silent chords with his fingers on the writing-table in front of him.

Greetings

Lan Zhan’s brows lifted a hair. That was actually an unusual one; most spirits were beyond pleasantries. Greeting was only recommended for when one suspected one was dealing with a divine spirit.

How are you?

The silent chording stumbled a little over that. Lan Zhan wasn’t surprised. It was a combination of two separate phrases, only one of which a-Yuan would have had much practice with, yet. He still found himself having to conceal a smile. Perhaps a-Yuan retained more of the child he’d been than Lan Zhan had thought.

He stayed to the end of the lesson, when his uncle finally allowed the disciples to get up and flock around Lan Zhan. A-Yuan slipped through the little crowd to look up at him, eyes bright. “W—” A-Yuan’s glance flickered toward Lan Qiren, and he swiftly amended Lan Zhan’s name to a very respectful, “Hanguang-jun?”

Lan Zhan smiled faintly. “I’m well,” he answered the silent question a-Yuan had played. The brilliant smile a-Yuan broke into definitely reminded him of the child’s response to that first butterfly toy.

Perhaps the courtesy name he’d chosen for a-Yuan would be more than a wistful hope, after all. Perhaps some memory of the lives Wei Ying had snatched away from the world’s hatred would continue.

And if that recollection was sheltered by Lan… well then, perhaps Lan Zhan would think he hadn’t utterly failed his own heart, after all, despite the long years with no sign of Wei Ying’s spirit.

He paced quietly through the walkways of the Cloud Recesses, with the juniors’ soft, eager questions swirling around him, and let that thought settle into the deep places inside him.

Thirteen Years After the Destruction of the Burial Mounds

Lan Zhan sternly suppressed an absurd urge to straighten a-Yuan’s robes. They were already perfectly straight; a-Yuan looked every bit the composed Lan junior disciple, prepared to lead a night-hunt on his own for the first time. And if Lan Qiren might have sniffed over the eager brightness of a-Yuan’s eyes, well that was only one of the things Lan Zhan had come to disagree with his uncle about.

“The Mo family is known to have a good deal of pride,” he said, instead.

A-Yuan’s mouth tucked up at the corners for a moment before he nodded earnestly. “I’ll be sure to watch over Jingyi.”

At that, Lan Zhan had to stifle a brief laugh, and he suspected a-Yuan saw it, from the way the boy smiled. “I’m sure you will be a credit to Xichen-xiongzhang,” he said blandly, and watched a-Yuan duck his head, smile turning shy and pleased. “I will be in the area.”

A-Yuan sobered at that and nodded obediently. “If there is a spirit beyond our strength to deal with, I’ll signal.”

Lan Zhan nodded back, satisfied, and watched a-Yuan pace down the paths toward the gates with every appearance of grave dignity. It was ridiculous, he told himself, to feel nervous on behalf of an accomplished and responsible junior. But perhaps he’d stay relatively close to their hunt. Just in case.

Besides, if there was any living soul Wei Ying’s spirit might return to, surely it was the child who preserved as much of his brightness as might be had in this world.

End

Thunder’s Movement

Zhao Yunlan was a man of simple tastes.

(“What, really?” Da Qing had asked, the first time Yunlan had said this out loud, perching on top of Yunlan’s then-beginning collection of wine and liquor.

“I said ‘simple’ not ‘cheap’,” Yunlan had pointed out.)

A man of simple tastes, which meant that every now and then Yunlan liked to go out to one of the city’s two underground clubs. The drinks were invariably cheap, and a night of getting out on a floor full of other moving bodies and ignoring everything but the sound and the beat soothed something in Yunlan, made it easier to deal with his daily work of balancing procedure against his office full of talented oddities. The last few years had been busy enough, or busy-not-quite-dying enough, that he’d let the habit lapse, but the thought had cropped up once or twice recently that he might like to go out again.

So far, the thought had met with two checks. The first turned out to not actually be a check. In fact when Yunlan had, very casually and completely in passing, mentioned the modern, cosmopolitan (and only a little likely to be raided) notion of a dance club, xiao-Wei had laughed at him.

“I attended the university as a student not that long ago,” he’d pointed out, eyes still bright with amusement even after he’d stifled the open laughter. “I’ve been to Upstairs more than once, while it was over on the west side. Though I admit I spent more time listening than dancing.” His nose had wrinkled just the tiniest bit. “It’s loud, but I certainly enjoyed it more than the Wings.”

Yunlan had made a considerably less reserved face. Dragon City’s very own superclub was not his idea of fun either.

So that was one hurdle cleared easily. The second, however, was giving him more trouble.

“Do you honestly not own a single t-shirt?” Yunlan asked from the depths of Shen Wei’s wardrobe.

“No, as I told you ten minutes ago,” xiao-Wei said patiently from where he sat on the bed in the oldest pair of jeans he owned (which weren’t very), still shirtless. It wasn’t that Yunlan objected to xiao-Wei being shirtless—far from it. But he did object to the idea of hitting an underground nightclub in any of xiao-Wei’s usual wardrobe. Every relaxed knit shirt the man owned was long-sleeved, and while he didn’t object to seeing xiao-Wei drenched in sweat, either, he’d rather it be for better reasons. The irony was not lost on him, that xiao-Wei, or at least his clothes, would have fit right in had they actually been going to the Wings.

“I don’t suppose…” Yunlan started, in his best coaxing tone.

Xiao-Wei cut him off briskly. “No, I will not borrow one of yours.” Yunlan sighed. He hadn’t really thought xiao-Wei would agree; his lover was way too much of a tailoring snob to wear anything that wasn’t perfectly his size.

“Okay, okay. I guess it’s one of these, then.” He pulled out the lightest-weight of xiao-Wei’s band-collar button downs. Plain white, at least, which would blend decently. Xiao-Wei slung it on, doing up the buttons swiftly, and then allowed Yunlan to roll the sleeves up over the elbow, plainly amused.

“And you say I’m the clothes-horse,” he teased.

“You are. I dress for comfort.” Yunlan mostly said it to see xiao-Wei roll his eyes, and grinned at him, leaning in to steal a kiss. “Come on, let’s go before it’s too packed.”

The Upstairs, currently tucked away in the re-zoned commercial block behind the University’s Department of Athletics, already had the music going. Scraps of a driving beat escaped each time the heavy door at the bottom of steep concrete stairs down below street level was opened. That was really only a tease, though. Past the ticket table and through the next door, they walked into a wall of sound.

A bit of it was from the people who always insisted on attempting to talk to each other, either gesturing vigorously to supplement meaning or leaning over the tables scattered around the room, lips nearly brushing each other’s ears. Some of it was the enthusiastic yelling that met any especially stylish transition by the DJ in his nest of equipment and multicolored lights. But most of it was always the music itself, rushing like a tidal wave out of the tall speakers. Yunlan stretched his arms over his head, feeling the vibration of it settle into his muscles and bones, and tipped his head back, laughing. This was what he came for.

A hand at the small of his back made him look around to see xiao-Wei smiling at him, small and warm, unmoved by the sudden dive into high volume but pleased by Yunlan’s pleasure. Xiao-Wei’s thumb stroked up and down Yunlan’s spine, through the fabric of his worn t-shirt, and he gave Yunlan a little push toward the crowd out on the floor.

Oh well. It wasn’t like he’d expected getting xiao-Wei out onto the floor to be easy. Yunlan nodded agreeably and threaded his way between laughing, shouting, breathing bodies until he was in the thick of them, breathing along with the beat and the surge of motion from one body to another.

And if he put a little extra effort into the sinuous twist of his hips, well he did want to get xiao-Wei out here eventually.

One song and then another pounded through him, and he gave himself over to the rhythm of them until he could feel it vibrating down his spine, until he could nearly taste each singer’s rage and joy in the heavy air. The press of other bodies all around him, moving to the same beat and the same emotion, made his whole body feel warm and loose, made it easy to give and turn with the crowd, to laugh when a pair or group got energetic enough to demand more space. It made him notice at once when space suddenly opened up around him. He looked around for a moment, puzzled, before he spotted the reason. Shen Wei was coming towards him.

No.

Shen Wei was stalking towards him.

His stride was deliberate and unhurried, each step coming down with such absolute confidence that Yunlan felt like the ground should shake from it. His expression was smooth, but everyone between him and Yunlan was crowding back out of his path and Yunlan couldn’t blame them. Shen Wei’s eyes were fixed on him and nothing else, so intent Yunlan thought anything between them might burn from the heat of it. Shen Wei didn’t make the smallest threatening gesture, but the leashed potential for sudden action rolled out from him like smoke curling through the air.

Yunlan took a step forward to meet him, because oh fuck, yes.

Shen Wei lifted a hand to slide through Yunlan’s hair and down the back of his neck, caressing and unmistakably possessive when his grip tightened. Yunlan gave with it easily, stepping into Shen Wei and reaching out to curve his hands around Shen Wei’s hips, tugging until Shen Wei moved with him, and Shen Wei’s lips curled in answer to Yunlan’s wild grin. They were so close Yunlan could feel the brush of Shen Wei’s breath against his cheek. And for all that Yunlan was the one guiding their steps and the flex of their bodies as the bass of the next song came up, fast and heavy, Shen Wei kept that last little bit of air open as they moved, controlling the space between them as effortlessly as he’d just controlled the space around them.

It made Yunlan so hot he could barely think.

When Yunlan went out to these things, he gave himself up to the sound and the space. He let the rhythm of the music and the rhythm of the crowd blend together into one thing, and let that thing pound down his spine and move him. Shen Wei moved with him, now, but he cut through the crowd like a knife through water, slid between the other bodies on the floor without a hitch, every step smooth and certain, aware of every movement around him. Instead of becoming a part of the club’s rhythm, Shen Wei made the club’s rhythm a part of him.

And the whole time, he never looked away from Yunlan. Didn’t let go. Didn’t let the breath of space between them close. It was that easy display of control, even more than the strength of Shen Wei’s hand on his nape, that made Yunlan hard and breathless with desire.

He tightened his hands on Shen Wei’s hips and breathed into the tiny space between them, trusting his lover to see the words his lips shaped, “Xiao-Wei, please.”

When Shen Wei finally closed the distance to catch his mouth in a slow kiss, Yunlan’s knees nearly gave out from the rush of heat through him. When Shen Wei drew back and tipped his head toward the door, Yunlan nodded fervent agreement. Shen Wei smiled and slid his hand down Yunlan’s back to curve around his waist, unmistakably possessive, and turned toward the door. Even caught up in the pounding bass and throaty vocals of the song just starting, every club-goer in his path cleared their way with no more than a look from Shen Wei.

Yunlan was seriously wondering if he’d make it to the door without coming in his jeans.

The cool evening air, once they got past the outer door, helped clear his head a little. All that really did, though, was make him very clearly aware of how hard he was, desire for the man beside him burning like fire through his body. He was also increasingly aware that they were in a nice, dark alley between buildings, with no one else present. Yunlan contemplated this for a moment before mentally wadding up his never-much-used sense of caution and throwing it over his shoulder. He turned to xiao-Wei, hands sliding up his back to press him closer, and leaned in to kiss him, just as heated and wet and persuasive as Yunlan knew how. The way xiao-Wei pulled him in closer, arms tightening around him, was promising, and Yunlan murmured against xiao-Wei’s ear, “Right now?”

The sound xiao-Wei made was nearly a growl, and he stepped into Yunlan, pushing him back against the concrete block wall of the building. “Right here?” he asked, low, lips brushing Yunlan’s as he spoke.

“Oh fuck, yes,” Yunlan agreed fervently, shuddering with the feel of being caught between Shen Wei’s body and the unyielding wall. He loved this, loved being the one thing that could turn the collected and reserved Shen Wei so fierce and intent. Loved feeling the weight of Shen Wei’s attention, knowing he was at the center of it.

The shadows didn’t hide the slow, pleased curve of Shen Wei’s mouth. “All right.” His hands slid down Yunlan’s arms, lifting them up. Yunlan’s eyes widened as long fingers wrapped around his wrists and pinned them against the wall over his head. Heat shot down his spine and tightened between his legs, and the sound he made didn’t have actual words in it.

“Shh,” Shen Wei told him, and caught his mouth in a slow kiss. Yunlan moaned into it, softly, opening up for the way Shen Wei’s tongue filled his mouth. He’d never actually said that it turned him on when Shen Wei was commanding, but he’d figured Shen Wei had probably noticed; looked like he’d been right. Shen Wei gathered his wrists in one hand, grip still immovably firm, and stroked the other down Yunlan’s body, slow and caressing. Yunlan whined when that gentle pressure settled between his legs, and jerked sharply against Shen Wei’s hold when Shen Wei squeezed him through his jeans. Shen Wei’s grip on his wrists didn’t even shift, and Yunlan moaned out loud.

“Yes, that’s good.” Shen Wei’s fingers flicked open Yunlan’s jeans and slid inside to wrap around his cock, stroking him slowly. Yunlan was panting for breath, now, dizzy with how good it felt to be pinned against the wall and fondled, to feel the weight of those dark eyes fixed on him.

“Xiao-Wei,” he managed, and broke off with a gasp as Shen Wei’s fingers tightened around him.

“Hush, my own.” The velvety, caressing note in Shen Wei’s voice lay over steel command, and the heat winding up Yunlan’s spine cranked tighter. “I have you.” His thumb circled over the head of Yunlan’s cock, slow and firm, and Yunlan whimpered. Shen Wei took his mouth for another kiss, and murmured against his lips, “You’re so magnificent, my Yunlan. Come for me.”

Wound up to the breaking point from the whole evening, Yunlan couldn’t have resisted that order even if he’d wanted to, and right now all he wanted was to let go and let himself be caught by Shen Wei’s hands. He groaned into Shen Wei’s mouth as pleasure rolled through him like waves crashing down, heavy and unstoppable, shaking him apart in Shen Wei’s hold, raking down his nerves until it finally left him stunned and panting, leaning against the wall.

Shen Wei made a distinctly satisfied sound into his mouth, kissing him one more time, slowly, before finally loosening his grip. He eased Yunlan’s arms down again, hands running up them to rub his shoulders. “All right?” he asked softly.

“Oh yeah.” Yunlan shifted to lean against him, laughing breathlessly into the curve of xiao-Wei’s neck. “Wow. We should come here more often, if it gets you that riled up.”

Xiao-Wei huffed against his ear, arms sliding around him. “I wouldn’t say I was ‘riled up’.”

“I would. And it was amazing.”

Xiao-Wei was quiet for a moment, one hand curling back over Yunlan’s nape. “You are very… compelling, when you let that much of yourself show openly. I wanted all of that to be focused on me.” His voice was soft, a little halting, and Yunlan wound his arms tighter around xiao-Wei.

“Yeah,” he agreed, just as softly. “That’s exactly how I felt, too.” He smiled, feeling the thread of tension through xiao-Wei’s shoulders ease. “You know I like it, that you want me this much. And this much of me.”

Xiao-Wei’s hand tightened, and his voice turned raw. “All of you. I want everything you are, and have been, and will be.”

Yunlan let himself melt into that hold with a tiny, contented sound, treasuring up the certainty of being wanted so completely, for exactly what he was. “You have it. Everything I am is yours.”

Xiao-Wei turned his head to press a kiss to Yunlan’s temple. “Thank you, my heart.”

Yunlan would have been happy to stay like that for a bit, but it was getting colder now the sun was down, and a lick of chill breeze across some very delicate parts made him shudder and hurry to do his jeans back up. “Want to continue this at home?”

Xiao-Wei laughed softly, eyes bright and pleased in the dimness of the alley. “That sounds like an excellent idea.”

As they walked back to the Jeep, though, Yunlan tucked away the thought of going out more often to think about later. Or maybe alternate methods of riling Shen Wei up a little. He couldn’t help wondering what expression it would put on Shen Wei’s face if Yunlan equipped their bed with some nice padded cuffs.

Xiao-Wei’s sidelong look, as Yunlan started the car, told him he wasn’t hiding his smirk well at all, but that was all right. Xiao-Wei was the one who wanted all of him.

The one he didn’t need to hide from.

End

The Release of Thunder

Zhao Yunlan had never been a big fan of meditation. His mind tended to have a lot going on, and he’d always found it way harder than everyone else seemed to think it should be to quiet his thoughts unless he had something else to focus on. He could meditate with his punching bag just fine, but sitting down? Not very well.

He had yet to decide whether focusing on the change in his own senses was easier or harder than his moving meditations. The changes were not insignificant, but they were subtle enough that he had to hold still to focus on them—unless he was faced with something as intense as, just for example, a gateway to another realm. Since there was not going to be one of those in his apartment unless xiao-Wei was in a tearing rush to get to or from home, Yunlan was currently stretched out on the couch with his eyes closed, mentally poking at his sense of the world around him.

The apartment building was filling up with quiet life as the evening drew on, a little weight in his senses like a stone held in his hand. But not hard like a stone—lives were bright and a little skittery, like sparks on water. Taken together, though, all those little bits became a glare of brightness that flowed and pooled across the plain at the foot of the mountains, themselves a much deeper weight.

Which was actually really disorienting, because Shen Wei, currently wiping down the kitchen counters less than four meters away had almost as much weight in his senses as those mountains. The moment Yunlan let himself focus on xiao-Wei, the depth and brilliance of his presence overshadowed most of the rest of the city. The first time he’d done this with xiao-Wei nearby, Yunlan had been stunned, wondering how he could possibly have not noticed before, how he could see anything but xiao-Wei every time he looked around. After weeks of practice with his own perceptions, though, Yunlan thought he might know why.

Shen Wei’s presence was deep and vast, but it didn’t reach outward much. He stayed wrapped tight in on himself, only a few layers unfurling even for the SID or his students. That little bit floated out like the silk layer of his black cloak—only so far and no further before it settled close again. More of him unfolded for Yunlan, especially when they were alone, but even then the feel of him in Yunlan’s senses stayed taut, poised to coil in again.

Wary.

It was giving him a bit of memory clash, because everything he’d seen in his current life said that of course this made sense. Xiao-Wei seemed to have a lot of people just itching to stick a knife in his back at the first opportunity, plus the whole secret identity thing. Of course he wouldn’t give himself to the world easily. At the same time, there was a very persistent memory echo that said the shape of xiao-Wei in his senses was wrong. That it should be reaching out to touch every new thing, brightening with the pleasure of simply tasting what the world was.

The knowledge that that was how xiao-Wei used to be made Yunlan’s throat tight, made him twice as determined to stay by xiao-Wei’s side and give him a partner who could guard his back. And the more he got reacquainted with his own power, the more it made him wonder if he could maybe do something more to help.


Shen Wei glanced around the kitchen, letting the order of it soothe him—one of the tactics he’d used over the years to stay sane. He still liked the simplicity of keeping order in his surroundings, even though the real source of peace was finally back in his life again. He stepped around the attached table, lower than the one in Yunlan’s apartment which he approved of, and felt a helpless smile taking over his face at the sight of Yunlan stretched out on the couch, the feel of Yunlan’s attention curling around him. He liked that familiar weight, and it still didn’t happen as often these days unless Yunlan was thinking about it.

“Hey.” Yunlan’s eyes were half open, and he held out a hand. “Come here.”

Shen Wei crossed the room to wrap his fingers around Yunlan’s hand, sitting on the edge of the couch beside him. “Yes?”

Yunlan made a dissatisfied face and tugged him further down, nudging him around until Shen Wei was stretched out on the couch with him, resting against his chest. Shen Wei was laughing by the time Yunlan seemed content with their arrangement. “Better?” he asked, sliding an arm behind Yunlan and settling against him.

“Much.” He could hear the answering grin in Yunlan’s voice, and that was reason enough for him to tuck his head into the curve of Yunlan’s shoulder and lie quiet with him for a while. The slow slide of Yunlan’s fingers through his hair was an even better reason.

The rise of Yunlan’s power around them, in the middle of that peace, startled him.

“Yunlan?” He started to look up only to hesitate as Yunlan’s arms tightened a little around him, hand pressing his head gently back down.

“Will you do something for me, xiao-Wei?” Yunlan asked softly, lips brushing his forehead, and he settled a little more at the feel of Yunlan turning toward him, curling around him.

“Anything. You know that.”

Yunlan’s voice was still soft but also a little wry. “Yeah, I know. But this one might be kind of hard.” Shen Wei felt the breath he took, felt the almost-actual weight of Yunlan’s power fold closer around him. “Will you relax for me? Just for now; let me worry about the rest of the world, and making sure we’re safe, and all that, and… just relax for a little while?”

Shen Wei held very still, trying to deal with the sharp conflict between his desire to say yes to Yunlan and his reflex resistance to the very thought of lowering his guard like that. Yunlan’s hand rubbed up and down his back, slow and easy.

“If you can’t it’s all right. But xiao-Wei…” Yunlan’s power surged up around them, heavy and deliberate, “I’m here. I’ve got this.”

If there was one being in all the world who he could trust that to be true of, it was surely Yunlan, especially if he was willing to purposefully reach for that much of his power. The hand resting over Yunlan’s heart tightened in the fabric of his shirt, and Shen Wei took a slow breath. “You’ll keep watch?” he asked, low.

Yunlan’s hand covered Shen Wei’s, green curling around his fingers. His voice was just as low, but far more certain. “I will.”

Shen Wei closed his eyes and nodded, trying to breathe out the tension of his body, to let Yunlan’s solid warmth under him, wrapped around him, take his weight. Bit by bit, he let himself stop listening to the sounds of the building around them for one out of place, listening instead to the steady rhythm of Yunlan’s heart under his ear. As his body eased, Yunlan held him closer, one hand sliding up to curve around the back of his neck. Focusing on that touch helped. Slowly, Shen Wei managed to relax physically, and with each little bit, each layer of waiting tension unwound, Yunlan gathered him in, every line of his body promising protection. When Shen Wei laughed, against his shoulder, it was unsteady.

“You already do so much of this. Why—?”

Yunlan didn’t even let him finish the sentence. “Because you never get a chance to stop doing this. There’s so much weight on you. Do you know how rarely you even sit without being braced?”

Shen Wei blinked. “I suppose… not very often.”

“Almost never, unless we’re alone together, and not even then if you’re thinking about work.” Yunlan’s hand tightened on his nape, kneading the muscles there, fingers warm and steady on his skin. As far as he’d already relaxed, it drove a gasp out of Shen Wei. “Shh,” Yunlan whispered against his hair. “Let me?”

Shen Wei closed his eyes and pressed closer, feeling rather unsteady without his awareness spread out and ready. “All right.”

Yunlan shifted, settling Shen Wei a little more comfortably over him, and worked his hands slowly up and down Shen Wei’s back, not digging into the muscles but stroking along them, sure and easy. It felt very good, and it was getting easier to relax against him. To let the warmth of Yunlan’s presence sink into him.

Actually… that was more literal than he’d thought. Now he was paying attention to more than the fight to release some of his vigilance, he could feel the slow caress of Yunlan’s power, his intention nudging at Shen Wei’s own tight-coiled potentiality. He stirred against Yunlan, startled. “What…?”

Yunlan’s power tightened around him, tucking in around the corners and edges of his being. “I’ve got you, xiao-Wei,” Yunlan said softly, against his hair. The taste of his power, the push toward actuality, turned fiercely protective, the weight of it sheltering. “I promise.”

His hands slid up and down Shen Wei’s back, not minding when Shen Wei stiffened again, flinching back from the very idea. “Yunlan…”

Yunlan’s power built higher around them, deeper and more solid than stone itself, in Shen Wei’s senses, heavy enough with Yunlan’s intent on what would be to make even Shen Wei breathless. “I know,” Yunlan said, achingly soft. “I wasn’t there, for so long. There was no one to guard your back or take your hand. But there is now.” For all the ferocity that Shen Wei could taste in the almost-actuality around him, it was gentle wherever it touched him, still coaxing and tender. He pressed his forehead against Yunlan’s shoulder and took a slow, unsteady breath in and out.

It felt so good.

Bit by bit, Shen Wei relaxed the tautness of his attention, the waiting whiplash of his power that the past few years had only pulled tighter. Yunlan made soft, encouraging sounds, one hand kneading the back of his neck. He could feel Yunlan’s own power doing something very similar—curling under each loosening of Shen Wei’s potential action as he let it ease further back into potential, tasting of warm invitation. And all the while, the sense of Yunlan’s readiness to act, to protect, stayed wrapped around him, certain as stone and even more immoveable. It made easing down from his own edge of readiness easier, but Shen Wei was still shaking against Yunlan before long, half with the release of tension and half with constant half-formed urges back toward vigilance.

“Shhh, easy, easy,” Yunlan murmured, holding him close, taking the sharp flexes of Shen Wei’s power against his own without stirring. “I’ve got you.”

“Yes,” Shen Wei whispered against his shoulder, agreeing and accepting, because as difficult as the process was, he was dizzy with the rush of release, with the feel of his very being flowing more freely along the contours of the world around him. Gradually the tremors eased, as they lay together and he felt the poised potential of Yunlan’s power folded around him like mountains sheltering a valley, and he let out a long, slow breath, eyes drifting closed. The brightness on the other side of his lids was soft, late afternoon sun glowing gold off the wood of the floor and the pale walls. The velvety moisture lingering in the air from the recent rains lay soft against his skin.

It had been a long time since he’d actually noticed such things.

Slowly, halting because he hadn’t done this just to touch and taste for so very long, had kept himself contained so carefully, Shen Wei reached out with his power—not just his sense of the world, but his capacity to change what he touched. Beyond his skin. Beyond arm’s length. Beyond the room. He flinched back reflexively at the taste of human lives, bright and rich with the generative core of their natures, but Yunlan curled closer around him, catching his recoil.

“It’s okay, xiao-Wei,” he said against Shen Wei’s ear. “You won’t hurt them, not any more.”

Shen Wei pressed closer, and took another breath. “All right.” He leaned into the steadiness of Yunlan’s support as he reached out again, letting the depths of himself slowly unfurl into the world. The city rang in his senses like a song, so many notes together that it became a complete thing of its own, and oh, he remembered this, reaching out to taste the way lives lived together blended like cooking spices into something rich and new, leaning against Kunlun’s support to keep from drinking any of them down all the way. Yunlan’s touch ran deeper now, less overwhelming but more complex, woven deeper into the world. The change reminded Shen Wei with every breath that he needn’t fear what his own touch would do to other lives, and he let himself reach further, light-headed with that freedom.

“Yes,” Yunlan whispered against his hair, cradling him close. “This will always be yours.”

Already unstrung, that promise was all it took to overwhelm him completely, and Shen Wei pressed against Yunlan, gasping for breath as shock and desire and release shook him. Yunlan held him tight through the tangled surge of emotion and response, and when Shen Wei could think in a sensible order again, the taste of his power still hovered around them, sheltering.

“Always,” Yunlan reiterated. Shen Wei laughed, faint and unsteady, because he could hear absolute intransigence in that quiet tone. It had already become so familiar. “All right,” he agreed, softly.

Yunlan made a satisfied sound, hands sliding slowly up and down Shen Wei’s back, and Shen Wei settled against him, content for now to be held. Perhaps, in time, it would even be something he could get used to.

The thought was almost as warm as Yunlan’s arms around him.

End

The Conflict of Water with the Heavens

“Yunlan?”

Zhao Yunlan looked up from his screen, a little startled. That was Li Huiliang’s voice, and Zhang Shi was usually careful to call him ‘Chief’ at work. “Yeah?” he asked, trying not to sound too obviously wary.

She stopped hovering in the door, at least, and came to hold out a folded sheet of paper. “This came for you. It’s from your father.”

After a long, still moment of wrestling down the sharp tangle of anger and love and disappointment and trepidation—which hadn’t gotten the littlest bit less tangled in the past year and a half—Yunlan reached out and took it. “Thanks.”

“He wants to have dinner with you.”

Yunlan opened his mouth to note that Zhang Shi still didn’t seem to know the meaning of ‘private’, and then sighed and shut it again. At the moment, it was her job to open everything and know everyone’s schedule. “Thanks.”

She hesitated, looking like there was something she wanted to say too, but finally shook her head, patted his shoulder silently, and left.

After another minute to brace himself for whatever cutting additions there might be to the dinner invitation, Yunlan unfolded the letter. “Seven o’clock, know it’s a slow month—as if, you’ve forgotten the paperwork already old man?—bring…”

Yunlan broke off, nearly choking on air in sheer surprise, and stared at the characters right there in black and white.


Xiao-Wei let them get home, at least, before he laid a hand on Yunlan’s shoulder, just inside the door, and turned Yunlan gently to face him. “Yunlan. What happened, today?”

Yunlan ran his hands through his hair. “It’s… It’s my father. He wants me to come for dinner.” For the first time in over four years. “And he wants me to bring you.”

Xiao-Wei’s brows rose. “To a family dinner?”

“Apparently.” Yunlan pulled the letter out of his jacket and handed it over. Xiao-Wei took it and read as he moved into the living room, passing it from one hand to another as he shrugged out of his jacket. Yunlan focused on the grace of the motion to distract himself from the lowgrade confusion and anxiety that had made up his day since the letter arrived.

“Hm.” Xiao-Wei glanced back over his shoulder and Yunlan took the moment to admire the sharp line of his cheekbones. “You did tell him he should decide for himself what he thinks, these days. Perhaps he has.”

The tangle of Yunlan’s emotions bit down again, right through his attempts to distract himself. He gave up and went to wind his arms around xiao-Wei, hoping for comfort instead. Xiao-Wei gathered him close, resting his temple against Yunlan’s. “Do you want to refuse?” he asked, softly.

Yunlan was quiet for a moment, weighing his feelings, even if he couldn’t quite disentangle them. “Not quite.”

“Then I’ll come with you,” xiao-Wei said, simply. Yunlan relaxed a little into that unquestioning support.

“Yeah. All right.”


Yunlan thought he might actually be experiencing vertigo, the feeling of disorientation was so strong at seeing his father in shirtsleeves, bringing plates to the kitchen table. It felt like ten years ago, when his father was still trying to provide, even if most of the food was carry-out. It felt like eight years ago, and a rather obligatory congratulation dinner when he graduated—which, in retrospect had almost certainly been Zhang Shi. It felt like five years ago, and a ream of sharp, useless, advice on how to handle the Division. Always his father still in his work clothes, and the bright kitchen table with the dark dining room a door away. Didn’t Yunlan have enough problems with old memory, these days?

At least he retained enough sense to watch xiao-Wei. There was such a world of culinary disdain in the momentary look down his nose at the rather limp greens and peppers that Yunlan almost laughed.

Almost.

“So,” he said, picking out a small piece of honey pork and an equally small bit of rice, “what’s the occasion?”

His father swallowed his own mouthful, sharp eyes fixed on Yunlan. “I’ve been doing a little research about this thing you apparently used to be.”

“The whole god thing?” Yunlan examined a bit of pepper and decided he was getting spoiled by xiao-Wei’s cooking; it didn’t look appetizing at all.

“Mm.” His father took a quick drink, setting his glass back down precisely in place. “If the bits of legends that still exist mean what I think they do, it was a piece of Kunlun that was misappropriated to create ghosts. Dixingren. A part of him that was… spilled, and the spill consumed in the creation of a mockery of life.” The man seemed to be ignoring or maybe not even noticing how white xiao-Wei’s knuckles were getting around his chopsticks, though Yunlan was sure keeping an eye on that. His father leaned forward, intent as if he had a suspect in front of him. “If you are Kunlun, how can you not hate that? That theft of what you were?”

Yunlan sat back, eyeing his father thoughtfully. He thought it might be a genuine question, however aggressively it fished for one answer. He slanted a look over at xiao-Wei, and after a long moment the hard line of xiao-Wei’s mouth eased just a little and he nodded. Always the teacher, Yunlan reflected fondly; even being justifiably furious didn’t stop xiao-Wei from wanting to help people learn. He took mental hold of that fondness, like a guideline running between present and past, and reached for memory.

What he sank into was amusement.

“It was a gift, not a theft,” Yunlan murmured, closing his eyes for a moment to weigh that knowledge in his mind, and the tickle of a laugh that came with it. “And it was me. I don’t see why anyone was surprised it took an unexpected turn. Shen Nong, yeah, he was pissed off, but then he liked to pretend that none of us had any of the world’s darkness in us.” Yunlan opened his eyes with a snort of laughter, in complete agreement with his past opinion of this. “Such bullshit.”

Xiao-Wei reached out to touch Yunlan’s knee under the table, smiling soft and brilliant, the way he did when they managed to share a memory. “You all the way down,” he murmured, reminding Yunlan of the truths they’d found on their little vacation up in the mountains, and Yunlan couldn’t help smiling back. It was getting easier to believe that, as he got more used to thinking of Kunlun’s power as his own, but it still helped to hear xiao-Wei say it. He was calmer than he’d felt all day, when he looked back at his father.

“That answer your question, old man?”

His father was sitting so still he might have been turned to stone. “Then you’ve always…”

“Always been me?” Yunlan prodded, when he trailed off. “Seems that way.” The flash of what he swore was frustration, over his father’s face, was no more than he’d expected, but xiao-Wei stirred, beside him. He was looking thoughtful, when Yunlan glanced over.

“Souls are always what they are,” xiao-Wei said quietly, watching Zhao Xinci with dark eyes. “But living changes everyone, whether dying is involved or not. I am not, now, the same man I was ten thousand years ago. Neither is Zhao Yunlan. Neither are you the man I first met, Zhao Xinci.”

Zhao Xinci’s grip on his chopsticks tightened. It had always been the hands both of them showed tension in. “And you don’t think that’s a contradiction?” the old man asked, voice sharpening.

This time the certainty that rose in Yunlan felt so intensely his own, his own then and now, that it stole his breath and it was a moment before he could say, “Living things are always a contradiction. There is no answer that will always be right or always be wrong.”

“Nonsense,” his father snapped, and then paused right along with Yunlan because xiao-Wei was laughing. Very quietly, but definitely laughing.

“You have no idea how many times I’ve heard you have this argument. Once Legalism emerged as a philosophy, there were whole lives you devoted to arguing against it.” Shen Wei’s eyes flickered between them. “Even when you’d been taught another way, it was always care, for and in the moment, that you came back to as your basic principle.”

Yunlan started to answer and then stopped, attention caught by the way his father’s hands loosened and rested on the table. Bits of information snapped together in his mind to form a whole—the course of the discussion, his father’s question about Kunlun, Zhang Shi’s ability and inability. He spoke out of the shape of that sudden knowledge. “Zhang Shi could never change what you are. If he could, he wouldn’t have had to change what you did.”

His father’s head jerked back like he’d taken a blow, expression darkening. He’d never liked how much Yunlan relied on his intuition, his ability to connect the pieces and see. Yunlan had stopped giving a damn around ten years ago, and he was more than willing to press the issue this time since it was more than just him in the line of fire. “That’s why you wanted to see both of us, wasn’t it? To try to judge how much of me changed, and use Shen Wei’s knowledge of Kunlun to check your conclusion. That’s why you asked about the lost soul-fire like that; trying to provoke him so he’d speak without thinking. That’s why you didn’t like it when he spoke of how you changed. You’re afraid Zhang Shi changed what you are.”

His father’s expression went blank, like a board someone just wiped clean. Yunlan clapped a hand over his eyes and groaned. He was right. For fuck’s sake. “Did you ever consider just asking?” he demanded, dragging his hand down his face, utterly exasperated. His mother had said once that his father was very good at figuring people out but not nearly as good at dealing with the people themselves. Personally, Yunlan thought she’d been too generous.

“Of course not, when one of the people he would have to ask is me.” Xiao-Wei took a small sip of his water, the picture of composure if you didn’t see how tight his jaw was.

“Are you surprised I wouldn’t trust one of your kind?” Zhao Xinci cut back immediately, always on the attack when it was about Dixing, and Yunlan’s temper finally broke.

“You have a right to your own pain,” he snapped, “but you don’t have the right to make everyone else act like it’s theirs, too, just so you don’t have to admit that it’s yours!”

His father’s expression tried to blank again, but this time his brows flinched together the way they did when he was thinking about his wife. Yunlan suspected he was sounding a bit like her; she was certainly where he got most of his understanding of emotions from, including the understanding that he had some, a fact the old man seemed to like ignoring. He made an inarticulate sound of frustration, scrubbing his hands back through his hair.

A hand slid over his shoulder, gentle, and he looked up to see xiao-Wei watching him, focused completely on him, now, and ignoring his father like the man wasn’t there. He could see the offer in xiao-Wei’s eyes perfectly well, and shook a finger at him. “Don’t you dare. I am not listening to you say it doesn’t matter; it does.”

“Not this much,” xiao-Wei said, so quiet and sure that Yunlan was pretty sure he’d have been able to hear his own heart breaking for it, if his blood weren’t singing in his ears from how pissed off he was.

“Yes, this much.” Yunlan stood, catching xiao-Wei’s hand and pulling him along. “Great dinner, Dad, we’ll have to do this again. ‘Night.”

His father had stopped looking blank and was now sitting back in his chair, brows raised in a considering sort of look. “Good night,” he answered, slowly, like he’d just seen something he wasn’t sure he understood. Actual love, probably, Yunlan thought savagely.

Yunlan didn’t let go of xiao-Wei until they were at the Jeep, by which time xiao-Wei had stopped looking startled and started looking patient. Yunlan stifled a growl and took a breath. “You are not the reason that my father and I don’t agree,” he said, firmly, “and you making allowances for him won’t fix anything.”

Xiao-Wei leaned against the Jeep, arms crossed. “I’m the ruler of Dixing, and the one responsible for guarding the border between realms,” he pointed out. “I think I am the reason, actually.”

“You are not. He was an asshole who neglected his family before Zhang Shi.” Yunlan flexed his hands open and closed a few times, bleeding off what frustration he could, and made himself reach for calm; it was the only way he was going to win this argument. “He was also always someone who believed in rules and laws over personal connections. That’s why he can’t admit what he’s doing, what he’s trying to find out, maybe not even to himself. Not because he hates Dixingren; because he’s letting his personal feelings override Ministry law and policy.”

Xiao-Wei pushed away from the Jeep and came to rest his hands on Yunlan’s shoulders. “While you believe people are the most important,” he finished, softly. “But I don’t need you to confront your father for my sake, Yunlan. Truly.”

Yunlan couldn’t help a soft snort, because xiao-Wei knew him so well and still didn’t see it. Of course he didn’t. He stepped closer, running a hand up xiao-Wei’s arm to settle at the back of his neck, and spoke almost against xiao-Wei’s mouth. “What if it’s for my own sake?”

Xiao-Wei’s eyes were wide and dark. “What?” He sounded like he’d lost the thread of what they were talking about, which had been at least part of what Yunlan intended by touching him. He wanted xiao-Wei to really hear him. “You’re right. My father and I have different priorities, and at this point I think we always will.” He stroked a thumb gently down xiao-Wei’s neck. “I argue with him because I can’t agree and still be myself.”

Xiao-Wei leaned his forehead against Yunlan’s. “You can’t say this one wasn’t more intense because of me, though.”

“It was more intense because the old man was being especially wrong,” Yunlan corrected, and then smiled, feeling the truth of his next words all the way down. “And I wouldn’t care, even if it were because of you. Who I am, who I choose to be, is the man who loves you.” This close, he could feel the catch of xiao-Wei’s breath.

“Even…” Xiao-Wei cut himself off almost at once, but Yunlan could fill in the rest easily enough.

“Even over family,” he agreed, low and steady. “Zhao Xinci was the one who chose to deny what family should mean. He gets to live with the consequences.” He leaned in to kiss the protest he could feel coming off of xiao-Wei’s lips and added, “You already give me what I need, xiao-Wei. You are my history and my origin, and if I ever wanted kids, well there’s the whole rest of the Division.”

That made xiao-Wei laugh, even if it was a little unsteady. “All right.” His hands came up to cradle Yunlan’s face. “If that’s so, if you’re sure… then may I speak to him in your defense?”

It was probably very bad of Yunlan to spend a moment savoring the glorious mental image of Shen Wei’s cold temper taking Zhao Xinci apart. He did it anyway. “…just don’t actually kill him?” he finally answered, more than a little distracted.

“I did say speak,” xiao-Wei pointed out, and kissed Yunlan gently, hands sliding down Yunlan’s neck and over his chest. “Thank you. It’s been… difficult to hold back, sometimes, since I first saw the two of you actually in each other’s company.”

“And yet you’d have let him step all over you,” Yunlan grumbled, and glared briefly at xiao-Wei’s careless shrug. “All right, then, fair is fair. Let me speak in your defense, when he’s being an asshole.” Which would be all the time.

Xiao-Wei smiled, soft. “You do that already, Yunlan.”

“And you don’t get to try to stop me.” The streetlights made it hard to be sure, but Yunlan thought xiao-Wei might be blushing a little.

“If you’re sure this is what you wish,” xiao-Wei agreed, slowly.

All Yunlan’s lingering irritation from dinner melted at the reminder that that really was the most important thing, to Shen Wei. He leaned in to kiss xiao-Wei and murmur against his mouth, “Thank you. Home?”

Xiao-Wei drew back, reluctantly enough to make Yunlan think briefly about the possibility of making out against the side of the Jeep. “Yes.”

As Yunlan pulled out into the evening traffic, thinking about their apartment and their bed, he realized with a start that the acid tension that had usually followed a ‘family’ dinner, since his mother’s death, really was gone. He could turn his head all the way to check his blind spot and everything. Which didn’t mean he was going to go courting any more such meals, of course, but did make him smile and reach a hand over to rest on xiao-Wei’s knee. Xiao-Wei glanced over and smiled back, small and pleased, settling his hand over Yunlan’s. Maybe, Yunlan thought, they should have a real family dinner when they got home.

He liked that thought.

End

The Radiant Thunder

Shen Wei

It took most of a day to get up into the mountains near Dragon City, and to the currently empty retreat facility the University kept. Shen Wei had been there before, shepherding various classes to and from the biosciences observation center a little further north. It was a fairly familiar area, by now, which meant the wave of nostalgia that hit him as they unpacked the car took him by surprise.

Yunlan looked up as he paused. “You okay?” When Shen Wei hesitated, he set down the bag he’d just hauled out and came up behind Shen Wei, arms sliding around his waist. “Air too thin?”

Shen Wei snorted, though he also leaned back into Yunlan. Of course it felt nostalgic; Yunlan was with him this time. “I’m perfectly fine. It just… it reminds me, being up here with you.”

Yunlan’s arms tightened. “Yeah. I can feel some of that, too,” he said, softly. “The feel of this air, and having you near.”

Shen Wei had to close his eyes, feeling his breath shake as he drew it in. He’d never thought he could ever have that again, his lover’s knowledge of what had been. If he could have this memory of sweetness between them, he didn’t care how many of the details Yunlan didn’t know.

Except the ones relating to how to defend himself. Those were clearly necessary.

He lifted a hand to reach back and thread through Yunlan’s hair. “We should finish unpacking.”

“And get settled in?” The curve of his mouth against Shen Wei’s neck suggested what Yunlan would consider ‘settled’.

“Certainly,” he returned, perfectly mild. “I would suggest we begin with meditation.”

Yunlan huffed against his ear. “The one thing I’m not having any trouble at all remembering is that you have an evil sense of humor.” He did let Shen Wei go and grab the duffle again, so Shen Wei didn’t think Yunlan objected too strenuously to getting some work done, first.

Once they’d unpacked everything, though, he could see Yunlan hesitating. There was true uncertainty in the way he started to speak and then stopped, pressing his lips together again. Shen Wei immediately gave in and came to close his hands around Yunlan’s face, leaning in to kiss him, tongue stroking softly over his lower lip. The catch of Yunlan’s breath was sweet to hear, but more reassuring was the way his shoulders loosened as he slid his hands around Shen Wei’s waist. Yunlan obviously noticed it in himself, too, because he murmured against Shen Wei’s mouth, in between quick, soft kisses, “I don’t know why. This is just more of what we’ve done before, right?”

“I think so.” Shen Wei let his hands slide slowly down Yunlan’s throat and over his shoulders, savoring the way his lips parted at the touch. “You haven’t had trouble remembering anything once you’ve reached for it.”

Yunlan paused again, eyes dark and distant for a breath. “Maybe that’s what I’m worried about.”

Shen Wei ruthlessly throttled a surge of sharp disappointment. Yes, he would be far more comfortable if Yunlan were better able to draw on his own power to defend himself, but Shen Wei was perfectly capable of keeping on as he had been. “Do you wish not to, then?” he asked, evenly.

Yunlan studied him for a long moment and finally snorted, one corner of his mouth curling up, though the smile was more wry than amused. “That would just land us back where we started, wouldn’t it?”

Shen Wei dropped his eyes, silent. He hated giving Yunlan answers he didn’t wish to hear. “I’m sorry,” he finally said, softly. “I just… can’t. I can’t watch you die because of what I am, not again.”

“Xiao-Wei.” The aching softness of Yunlan’s voice made him have to swallow hard, and he looked up slowly as the warmth of Yunlan’s hand curved around his cheek. Yunlan’s eyes were dark again, but steady. “Never again,” Yunlan said, certain as he might have said the sun would rise. The tightness in Shen Wei’s chest eased a little at that, and he turned his head to press a kiss into Yunlan’s palm, and whispered against his skin, “Thank you.”

“Come to bed?” Yunlan coaxed, and Shen Wei smiled.

“Yes.”

Yunlan didn’t always have the patience to let Shen Wei undress him, but this time when Shen Wei ran his hands gently up under Yunlan’s t-shirt, Yunlan smiled and lifted his arms to let Shen Wei tug it off. Shen Wei folded it over the back of one of the room’s two arm-chairs and stepped closer to spread his hands against Yunlan’s chest, slow and caressing, and kiss him. Feeling the reality of Yunlan here with him, under his hands, eased the lingering twinge of long hurt and hunger in him, filled empty places with warmth again.

He nudged Yunlan down to sit on the side of the bed, creasing the smooth white spread. He knelt to loosen Yunlan’s boots and pull them off, and then his socks, fingers stroking over the hollow of Yunlan’s ankle, the arch of his foot. It was, he thought, this slow, careful touching that made Yunlan flushed and uncertain, sometimes, when Shen Wei undressed him, but he always leaned into Shen Wei’s hands. Tonight he was doing it even more than usual, leaning forward to meet Shen Wei as he knelt up to kiss Yunlan again, hands sliding up Shen Wei’s arms. Shen Wei pressed closer, letting his arms tighten around Yunlan, stroking his tongue against Yunlan’s, coaxing.

“You are everything that is precious to me, Zhao Yunlan” he murmured against Yunlan’s mouth, and savored the feel of Yunlan relaxing against him. This was one of the most different things, now, how much Yunlan liked being reassured of how he was loved. Shen Wei had to swallow sharp anger over the cause every time he thought about it, and only the knowledge that Yunlan wouldn’t like it if he took direct action was saving Zhao Xinci’s skin, but he didn’t object in the least to how often he could say these things and feel Yunlan ease against him in response.

He slid Yunlan’s jeans down his legs slowly, and smiled at how Yunlan leaned back on his hands, relaxed enough to show off for him. He loved the bright flickers of whimsy his lover had gained in this life, loved how Yunlan laughed as Shen Wei prowled up onto the bed in answer, pressing him back among the scattering pillows.

“You’re overdressed now,” Yunlan told him, laughter still brightening his eyes as he slid his hands down the lapels of the suit jacket Shen Wei had worn out of town, in deference to the Chancellor’s fond notion that this was a working trip and Shen Wei would be writing the start of his next article up here.

“Am I?” Shen Wei murmured, genuinely thoughtful, because sometimes Yunlan liked it if he kept his work clothes mostly on.

Yunlan’s eyes went wide and dark, and he made an inarticulate sound. Shen Wei smiled; yes, this was one of those times. “Maybe just a little,” Yunlan managed, suddenly breathless, fingers stroking down the length of Shen Wei’s tie.

“Why don’t you take care of that, then?” Shen Wei suggested, leaning down to catch Yunlan’s mouth again. He kissed Yunlan slow and easy, taking the opportunity to taste him thoroughly while Yunlan’s fingers tugged loose his tie and left it hanging, unbuttoned his jacket, followed the line of his shirt buttons down to undo his belt and pants. That seemed to be all Yunlan wanted undone, because his fingers stroked over the line of Shen Wei’s cock through his boxers, sending a heavy curl of heat up his spine, before dipping through the fly to draw him out.

Shen Wei growled softly at the teasing, and pressed one thigh up between Yunlan’s legs, rubbing fine wool very gently against his bare cock. Yunlan groaned and grabbed for his shoulders again, rocking up against his thigh, and Shen Wei nipped softly at his lower lip, satisfied. When Yunlan tipped his head back, offering, Shen Wei promptly gathered Yunlan up against him and bent his head to bite gently up and down Yunlan’s throat, enjoying the way Yunlan gasped with each bite, arching up under him. He loved that Yunlan enjoyed this, that he could give free rein to his possessive urge to mark Yunlan’s skin and know that it brought Yunlan pleasure.

Yunlan moaned, hands clenched in the fabric of Shen Wei’s jacket. “Xiao-Wei, fuck me. Fuck me now.”

Shen Wei stilled, staring down at Yunlan, heat washing over him in a tingling sweep. “Just like this?”

“Fuck yes.” Yunlan flailed an arm out for his jeans, still draped over the side of the bed, and rummaged out a foil packet to slap into Shen Wei’s hand.

Shen Wei laughed and leaned down for another kiss, fierce and deep and delighted with his lover. “All right.” He knelt back long enough to tear the packet open and squeeze out a palmful of slick to stroke over himself. Yunlan watched him, eyes dark and hot, sprawled out against the bed like an invitation.

Which was undoubtedly the case, since Yunlan knew quite well what it did to Shen Wei to see him so relaxed in Shen Wei’s hands.

Yunlan made an approving sound as Shen Wei slid his hands down Yunlan’s thighs to catch his knees and spread him wider. He reached up to drape his arms over Shen Wei’s shoulders as Shen Wei leaned over him, smiling up at Shen Wei, warm end encouraging. Shen Wei needed a breath for self-control in face of that warmth before he pushed into Yunlan, slow and steady pressure against the tightness of his entrance until the muscles finally eased and Yunlan groaned, relaxing under him. Shen Wei’s breath cut into quick, hard gasps at the slow slide into fierce heat, grip turning bruisingly tight around Yunlan’s thighs as he forced himself to keep it slow.

Yunlan was panting for breath, too. “Oh… oh yes, xiao-Wei…” He moaned as Shen Wei slid all the way in, hands stroking over his shoulders, trailing down the line of his jacket where it fell open over Yunlan’s spread thighs. “Mm, yes.”

Shen Wei caught most of his breath, smiling at the way Yunlan was nearly purring. “Good?”

Yunlan smiled up at him, lazy and pleased. “Really good. Fuck me now? Please?”

“Anything you want, my own. You know that.” Shen Wei shifted enough to run a hand gently through Yunlan’s hair, and Yunlan turned his face to nuzzle into Shen Wei’s hand.

“I know,” he agreed, softly.

Shen Wei slid his hands under Yunlan’s hips and lifted him up, drawing back only to drive in again, hard. Pleasure surged up, and his groan echoed Yunlan’s.

“Feels so… good,” Yunlan gasped, voice breaking over each thrust. “So good… when you’re with me like this.”

Shen Wei’s own voice was rough and husky when he answered. “I will always be with you.” The way Yunlan relaxed into his hands made it very difficult to keep control, and he drove into the heat of Yunlan’s body a little harder. Yunlan smiled up at him, bright and lazy.

“You’re so beautiful, xiao-Wei,” he said, low and breathless. “Just seeing you like this makes me so hard.” He stroked a hand down the dangling line of Shen Wei’s tie and wrapped his fingers around his own cock, stroking himself slow and hard, displaying himself as Shen Wei ground his hips into the curve of Yunlan’s ass. Heat coiled tighter up Shen Wei’s spine in answer, and he leaned down to catch Yunlan’s parted lips and kiss him, deep and fierce.

“Yunlan,” he murmured against Yunlan’s mouth, soft and coaxing, and gasped as Yunlan’s body tightened sharply around him.

Yes,” Yunlan answered on a low groan as he bucked up into Shen Wei’s thrust, coming undone in long shudders. Shen Wei tightened his hands on Yunlan’s hips and fucked the tightness of his body, hard and fast, until the pleasure of it burst through him and he drove in deep, arching over Yunlan, breath broken into hard gasps.

They both settled slowly from the sharp edge of sensation, and Shen Wei eased back to shrug out of his jacket before stretching out with Yunlan. Yunlan pressed close, and Shen Wei gathered him in with a contented sound, running a hand slowly up and down Yunlan’s bare back, tracing his fingers down the lines of long muscle. Yunlan ran his fingers down the buttons of Shen Wei’s shirt, undoing them to spread his hand wide against Shen Wei’s chest, and Shen Wei smiled, cuddling him closer.

He still wondered, at the back of his mind, what had alarmed Yunlan, because this had started as a need for comfort. He’d gotten to recognize that particular need fairly well, he felt. But the other thing he’d gotten to know well was how tight Yunlan would close up if he pressed the question before Yunlan wanted to talk about it. So he let the question rest and just held Yunlan, freely enjoying the feel of his lover lying quiet and relaxed against him.

Zhao Yunlan

Yunlan had never been very enthusiastic about breakfast, as a meal, and had pretty much done away with it as soon as he’d moved out on his own. Shen Wei’s disapproval of this had started to reverse the trend, though, and Yunlan was coming to admit that breakfast had some uses. Xiao-Wei almost never sprang heavy discussions on him until after they’d eaten, for one thing. This morning, xiao-Wei even let both of them get through their respective tea and coffee before he set his cup down with a sigh.

“I wish I knew the reason for this difficulty. Turning aside my power seemed to come to you so easily, I hadn’t thought we’d need to work on it.” Xiao-Wei looked up at him, mouth pulled into a tight line. “I’m sorry.”

Yunlan immediately set down the cup he’d admittedly been using as a delaying tactic. “None of that was your fault.” He paused, judiciously. “Except for the property damage, but even then…” Xiao-Wei looked a bit like he wished he was wearing his glasses so he could adjust them, and Yunlan smiled; distraction successful. Xiao-Wei had a bad habit of taking on all the responsibility, in Yunlan’s opinion. Thinking about that pulled a sigh out of him, too, though. “I think it was easy because it was you. I never have…” he waved a hand as if to catch words for what was still a bizarre feeling when it happened, “arguments with myself, when it’s about you.”

Xiao-Wei smiled, small and private and warm in a way that still made Yunlan’s breath catch to see directed at him. When xiao-Wei held out his hands to Yunlan, blue curling around his fingers, it really was the most natural thing in the world to take them and let that extra depth inside Yunlan reach out in turn. It felt good—close and intimate and easy, and his voice was a little husky when he asked, “What, you don’t believe me?”

“I always believe you,” xiao-Wei answered softly and, just when Yunlan was about to melt, added, “except about antique books.” Yunlan sputtered, but the bright amusement in xiao-Wei’s grin really did kind of melt him and in the end he just pouted at his lover. “If that’s the difference, though,” xiao-Wei continued, ignoring the pout, “you just need to spend more time sparring with Chu Shuzhi and Zhu Hong. That’s manageable.”

Yunlan knew he hadn’t completely concealed his twitch when xiao-Wei’s hands tightened gently around his, and the lingering amusement in xiao-Wei’s eyes turned back to concern. Yunlan sighed and gave in. “It makes me a little nervous, I guess, using my power against other people. I never quite know what’s going to happen, and feeling at ease doesn’t mean I should be at ease, here and now.”

Xiao-Wei’s thumbs stroked over his knuckles, which made him realize how tight his hands were on xiao-Wei’s. When he tried to loosen his grip, though, xiao-Wei wouldn’t let him go. “I thought it would be better if I didn’t push,” xiao-Wei said, quietly, “but if this is the case… let me show you?” Yunlan raised his brows and xiao-Wei smiled. “Let me show you more of what you are?”

Yunlan hesitated for a long moment, but xiao-Wei had a point, and Yunlan had promised. “All right,” he said, finally.

He followed Shen Wei outside, and then off the retreat property entirely, up the mountain until they were scrambling up rock and ducking the branches of scrub trees. When they finally broke out into a clear field, Yunlan glanced down at the roofs of the retreat center a significant distance below and felt completely justified in asking, “Just how dangerous is this going to be?”

Xiao-Wei swiped his hands through his hair, taking it back off his face. He looked quite unfairly beautiful, flushed from the climb and gilded by the early sunlight, and even the hint of mischief in his smile couldn’t entirely stop Yunlan’s thoughts from wandering away from demonstrations of power and toward kissing the red curve of his lips.

“Not very, unless someone gets in between us.”

That pulled Yunlan’s attention back quickly. When xiao-Wei held out his hand and shadowy blue curled and snapped into a familiar glaive, a reflex chill shot down Yunlan’s spine. It was the chill of altitude, of high, thinning air where the blue of the sky darkened, now, rather than the chill of death, but it still sent his own hand reaching out to curl around…

…around what?

Yunlan jerked to a halt, blinking at the wisps of green around his fingers. What was he doing?

“Don’t stop. You know this,” xiao-Wei said, soft and coaxing, even as he spun his glaive behind his shoulders. Yunlan bit back a yelp of protest, because he did know that move, and for all it looked pointlessly showy it was designed to bring a staff weapon swinging around with all the momentum of its length brought to bear, and he’d seen that blade cut through steel. And it wasn’t that he thought xiao-Wei would ever hurt him, but a sparkle of mischief was still in his lover’s eyes, and it sparked an answer from the power whispering through Yunlan’s bones, spun that taste of stone and water out into…

…a staff, wood hard and solid against Yunlan’s palms as he caught the end under the sweep of xiao-Wei’s glaive, shifted a step in and spun the incoming blade up and over and down to slice into the stony ground at their feet. Past and current reflex both sent him back a step to free the engaged end so he could swing the other over and down. Xiao-Wei’s glaive misted away only to snap back into being between his raised hands and catch the crushing shoulder strike before Yunlan had to pull it.

“Okay, now that’s just cheating.” Yunlan was a little breathless with the rush of the exchange, and a little shaky with his uncertainty about his own certainty—worse this time, maybe, because some of his present self was just as certain as his old self.

Xiao-Wei stood perfectly steady under the weight of both their weapons, smiling at Yunlan past them. “Not if we’re both doing it.” He probably felt Yunlan’s faint shift back through the staff, because his smile softened. “Yunlan. You won’t hurt me; I promise. And this is something you know now, as well as you did then.”

Yunlan blinked. “Wait, how did you know that?” It had actually been a while since he’d trained much with staff, certainly longer than xiao-Wei had been living with him.

“You aren’t a man to keep weapons around for show,” xiao-Wei said, simply. “And there’s still a short and a long staff in your workout room.” While Yunlan was busy being warmed by that easy faith in him, xiao-Wei shifted his weight and slid Yunlan’s staff along his glaive and off to one side, spinning full circle to bring the blade sweeping back around.

Yunlan was laughing as he swept his staff to the side to deflect it upward and snap the iron-shod end toward xiao-Wei’s ribs.

He’d never asked to spar with xiao-Wei before. A few of his teachers, over the years, had been from traditional lineages, however much his father had disapproved of such ‘outdated attitudes’. In every movement the Envoy made, Yunlan had recognized the original shape of what those styles still held a hint of. Xiao-Wei had not trained for health or strength or self-defense. Xiao-Wei fought to disable and kill, every move brutally focused and nothing held back. He was beautiful to watch, and never careless with his strength, but Yunlan hadn’t been entirely sure xiao-Wei even knew how to pull his blows, when he had that sword in his hand.

The answer was obvious now, as they spun around each other, weapons sweeping through the air fast and sure, but carefully leashed. Even beyond than that familiar, caught-back tension… xiao-Wei was laughing. When Yunlan spun his staff over his wrist in a blatant intimidation move, xiao-Wei downright smirked at him. Yunlan wasn’t actually surprised when xiao-Wei answered with a burst of shifting blue force that Yunlan had to step wide around, straight into the next cut from xiao-Wei’s glaive.

He was a bit surprised when his own response was to throw up a green-wreathed hand to stop the blade and give him time to swing his staff out and around. But only because of how smooth it felt—not an echo, this time, but like the flex of his muscles, hot and now and real. It was so easy, to lean into that smooth stretch and meet xiao-Wei on his own level, to meet that twist of force and intent with his own, like another pair of weapons spinning and weaving through each other.

The clearing was quite a bit wider, and the ground even more rough, by the next time they paused. Yunlan could feel sweat trickling down his spine, about the only place his t-shirt wasn’t sticking to him, and he was definitely going to have a huge bruise across his thigh, where xiao-Wei had gotten through with the flat of his blade. Probably a few more he wasn’t feeling yet, too. Across from him, xiao-Wei was in similar shape, panting for breath, hair ruffled wildly, left arm held just a little stiffly. When their eyes met, they both started laughing.

Xiao-Wei opened his hand and released his glaive back into a brief swirl of blue. Yunlan straightened slowly, planting his staff upright to lean on it a little as he stretched. “That looked easy, but somehow I don’t think it is.” He ran his thumb down the hard, seasoned wood of the staff. “So how do I put this away again?”

Xiao-Wei came and laid his hand over Yunlan’s. “Here. Can you feel…?”

Already extended a ways beyond his skin, it was easy this time to feel the tug back and in and away. Yunlan opened his hand and let the staff be potential instead of realization, again. Xiao-Wei’s smile softened, and his hand lingered on Yunlan’s.

“That looked almost exactly like it used to.” And then his smile slid away and Yunlan swore internally, because he obviously hadn’t been able to conceal his flinch. “Yunlan?”

Yunlan looked down, running his free hand through his hair, and held a rapid debate with himself. Could he put this off again? Probably. Would Shen Wei still be increasingly worried if he did? Yes.

Fuck.

“It’s just… every now and then I wonder if you want Kunlun back,” he said as casually as he could, not looking up.

“I do have you back.” Shen Wei sounded like what he was worried about now was whether he’d hit Yunlan on the head and not noticed.

Yunlan took a slow breath to keep his voice even. “Except I’m not. I’m not Kunlun, even if I remember some things. I’m Zhao Yunlan.” And that had never really been good enough.

Cool hands closed around his face and lifted it, and Yunlan’s breath caught at the look on Shen Wei’s face. His lover looked perfectly at peace, eyes warm, smile small and serene.

“You are yourself, just as you always have been,” Shen Wei said, so softly it froze Yunlan in place. “For over ten thousand years, you have lived and fought and grieved and loved, and every life you have lived has made your soul what it is today. From that soul grew Zhao Yunlan, the man who leads his people with wisdom and cunning.” Shen Wei leaned in and kissed him, very gently. “Who burns boiling water and doesn’t know what a dresser is for.” He kissed the faint sputter of protest off Yunlan’s lips, smiling. “Who has compassion in his heart, even for those he was taught to hate.” He stroked his thumbs along Yunlan’s cheeks, eyes holding his, dark and serious. “That man, that soul, is the one I love, just as I always have.”

Yunlan had to swallow before he could find his voice, struck breathless all over again by the enormity of that love. “Xiao-Wei.”

Xiao-Wei’s smile turned brighter. “Exactly. Didn’t you tell me that was your name for me?”

“Yeah.” Yunlan reached out to settle his hands on xiao-Wei’s hips. “I guess I did.”

Xiao-Wei took a step closer, right up against him, and kissed him again, slower this time, deliberate and sensual. “I’m yours, Zhao Yunlan,” he murmured against Yunlan’s mouth. “All of me, for all of time. Remember that.”

Warmth curled through Yunlan, breathless and sweet with that promise, sinking down and down and relaxing something he hadn’t been entirely aware he was keeping tensed. And suddenly he could feel xiao-Wei, feel the immense potential of him as clearly as the body in his arms, vast and sharp and chill as the thin blue of a winter sky.

He could feel the weight of the mountain under their feet, rolling up toward the sky, and the leap of water running down, reaching through the plains. He could feel xiao-Wei reaching out with him, power and presence skimming along his like the slide of xiao-Wei’s tongue against his, sweeping down here and there in a wet, coaxing kiss that sent the waters rushing faster. He could feel the sharp, wild tingle of delight and desire, where xiao-Wei wrapped around him, and the vibration through both their bodies as thunder rumbled.

Thunder?

Yunlan drew back with a blink from the rush of sensation and glanced upward just in time to get a raindrop right between the eyes from the suddenly dark sky above. “Hey!”

Xiao-Wei leaned against him, burying a laugh in his shoulder, and Yunlan could still taste xiao-Wei’s dizzy joy along the edges of himself. Yunlan caught him closer, breathless. How had he ever closed that off? “Xiao-Wei…”

“This,” xiao-Wei said, against his ear as the rain started coming down seriously. “When we did this, that’s when I knew you were trying to get me into bed.”

Yunlan recalled what he’d asked, back the first time xiao-Wei had wrapped his power around Yunlan’s, and laughed. In comparison, yes, that had been more like xiao-Wei leaning against his shoulder on the office couch. This was… he let the flow of presence and potential twined between them surge up in his senses again and shuddered with the intensity. “Yeah.” He leaned in to kiss the rain off xiao-Wei’s lips. Xiao-Wei’s fingers slid into his hair, starting to be tangled with the wet, and he made an impatient sound against Yunlan’s mouth. Chill closed around them, and Yunlan laughed again as the sweep of xiao-Wei’s power dropped them directly onto their bed at the retreat center.

Fortunately, their clothes hadn’t gotten wet enough to make them hard to get off.

Yunlan spread a hand against xiao-Wei’s bare chest, pressing him back against the sheets. “Let me?”

Xiao-Wei relaxed under him, easy and smiling, palms sliding down his ribs. “Of course.”

Yunlan straddled xiao-Wei’s hips and reached back with slick fingers to fondle xiao-Wei’s cock, grinning at the way xiao-Wei moaned, feeling long fingers tighten on his thighs. The answer was always ‘of course’. He knew xiao-Wei would give him anything he asked—at least his head had always known it. He’d certainly tested it often enough. Now, with the weight of xiao-Wei’s power still laced through his, the slide of xiao-Wei’s presence across his like skin across skin, he thought the rest of him might know it, too.

He shifted back, one hand guiding xiao-Wei’s cock against him, and let out his breath, deliberately relaxing into the hard stretch as he sank down. It felt hot and good and immediate, the perfect balance for how stretched out his senses still were, and his groan wrapped around xiao-Wei’s. It was so good to plant his hands against xiao-Wei’s chest and move with him, rolling his hips down as xiao-Wei rocked up to meet him. “Fuck, yes,” Yunlan gasped, eyes half closed.

Xiao-Wei’s hands slid up his thighs and over his hips, open and caressing, and his eyes were dark with heat as he looked up at Yunlan. “My own.” It was a statement, as much as an endearment, and Yunlan felt it stroke through him, heavy with xiao-Wei’s intent. It wrung a low moan out of him, and he ground down onto xiao-Wei’s cock, welcoming the way his muscles stretched around that hardness because it grounded him, made the whole weight of sensation into pleasure.

“Always,” he returned xiao-Wei’s promise, shuddering as it resonated through them both and outward. The curve of xiao-Wei’s lips was slow and satisfied, and Yunlan felt the sweetness of it stroke down his nerves. He felt the deepest, oldest parts of him open up to that sweetness as he rode the thrust of xiao-Wei’s cock, letting the movement roll through his whole body.

He could feel xiao-Wei’s body pulling taut, under him, feel the edge coming in the urgency of xiao-Wei’s hands on him. He wanted that, too, wanted to stay together for the end of this, so he slid a hand down to wrap around his own cock, gasping with the new layer of pleasure.

Yunlan.” Xiao-Wei’s voice was rough, on his name, and the hot weight of his eyes on Yunlan made him grin, breathless.

“Yeah.” And fuck but Shen Wei was gorgeous like this, flushed and alive and abandoned to the pleasure building between them, hair damp with sweat and falling over his forehead, eyes fixed on Yunlan, dark and devouring. Yunlan thought maybe that sight alone would be enough to undo him—that sight and the knowledge that he was the reason for it. Him now, all of him, and not any ghost in xiao-Wei’s memory. One more stroke of his hand down his cock, in time with the rock of xiao-Wei’s hips, and he was gone, groaning out loud as the heavy pleasure winding through him caught fire and burst down every nerve, body wringing even tighter around the thickness of xiao-Wei’s cock. Xiao-Wei’s moan was low and velvety and unrestrained, and the sound of it sent another shudder down Yunlan’s spine, sent him reaching for xiao-Wei with all his senses, hands and heart and all, glorying in how tightly they were twined together. When the rush of pleasure eased, he slid down to sprawl over xiao-Wei, panting for breath and laughing, entirely pleased to feel xiao-Wei’s arms wind around him.

“Thank you,” xiao-Wei murmured against his ear.

Yunlan leaned up on his elbows to blink down at him, combing his fingers through xiao-Wei’s hair. “For what?”

Xiao-Wei smiled up at him, small and sweet. “For reaching back to me.”

Yunlan froze for a moment, really thinking about the overwhelming intimacy and sweetness of touching the way they had been. Of how it might feel to have that and then think it was lost. The very thought made his throat tight and his voice husky. “Xiao-Wei.” Xiao-Wei promptly pulled Yunlan back down against him.

“Stop blaming yourself. You didn’t know. And I didn’t care, as long as you could bear my presence without harm.” His hands slid up and down Yunlan’s back, slow and caressing. After a long moment, Yunlan let himself relax into them, into that unending care that was the reason he put up with xiao-Wei’s occasional high-handedness.

“You’re welcome, then,” he murmured against the line of xiao-Wei’s throat, and couldn’t help laughing at the satisfied sound xiao-Wei made.

Yunlan snuggled closer and let the flow of their power, over and around and through each other, comfort them both.

Shen Wei

When they stepped out of the retreat center that evening, Shen Wei stopped short, startled.

He’d expected some effect from the way their potentiality had laced together and swept out from them like a wave breaking; he’d felt the sliding shift as his own had tipped into actuality, and the answering surge as Yunlan moved with him. The storm that had drenched them before he’d taken them back inside had been of Shen Wei’s own making.

He hadn’t quite expected this, though.

The slope of the mountain glittered with pockets of hail, and more than one patch of scrub was scorched and smoldering, lightning-struck. He could see patches of dark stone and rubble, freshly sheered off the mountain’s weathered faces. He could still hear the rush of water running off, even hours later, and the streams running down to the plain below were white with froth. At the same time, he could hear more birds than he had when they’d gone out in the morning, and the wind off the mountain was gentle for all that it was chill with the approach of evening.

Beside him, Yunlan cleared his throat. “Did, ah. Did we do that?”

“Yes.” Shen Wei glanced over and smiled at Yunlan’s blush. “I’d honestly forgotten just how far our reach goes when we’re together like that. I expect the whole eastern quarter of this range will be… more awake.” He cast a rueful look at the storm front only now spending itself out, well beyond Dragon City. “I hope they got the flash flood warnings out in time.”

Yunlan’s mouth twitched twice before he gave in and folded up on Shen Wei’s shoulder, laughing. “And the Minister wanted to get us out of town so he could release the news calmly!”

“No one in the city will see it as anything but a freak storm,” Shen Wei pointed out, with the benefit of considerable experience in what humans did and didn’t notice.

“For now.” Yunlan straightened up, still snickering. “Do you want to bet no one will remember, once news starts getting around about us?”

“Not particularly,” Shen Wei admitted, sliding a hand around Yunlan’s waist. “Will you mind?” Having finally figured out what had been bothering—and apparently inhibiting—Yunlan, he wanted to be careful of it.

Yunlan’s smile for him was sweet. “No. You’re the one who matters, and I believe you when you say it’s me you want.” He turned to drape his arms over Shen Wei’s shoulders and murmur against his lips, “I believe you all the way down.”

Shen Wei drew him closer and kissed him, slow and gentle. “It’s you,” he agreed quietly, and smiled. “You all the way down.”

The depth of Yunlan’s presence reached for him, and he reached back, letting his power curl around Yunlan’s, and heard Yunlan echo his small sound of contentment. They leaned together in the courtyard of the retreat center, quiet and at ease. Let people talk, when that time came, Shen Wei decided. It would mean the breaking of some very old habits, but Yunlan was right.

This was all that mattered.

Zhao Yunlan

Their first day back at work they were nearly mobbed at the front door.

“Are you both okay?” Da Qing demanded, leaping out of Lin Jing’s arms to pounce on Yunlan and dig his claws into yet another jacket. “We could feel the earthquakes from here!”

“Not to mention the storm.” Lin Jing, at least, seemed more concerned with blotting his new claw-scratches than interrogating his boss.

“Shen da-ge?” Zhu Hong put in, glancing back and forth between them with a frown of genuine concern instead of the mock-glare the team saw more often. “Is everything all right?”

Xiao-Wei glanced over at Yunlan, eyes a little wide, which was about how Yunlan felt. “You, ah. You all noticed?” Yunlan essayed, not admitting exactly what they might have noticed just yet. He was kind of hoping one of them would tell him.

It was lao-Chu who rolled his eyes, just as if he hadn’t been hovering right behind Zhu Hong. “Half the Yashou noticed the storm wasn’t natural, and pretty much all the visitors from Dixing. We got a couple questions coming in from them.”

That pulled xiao-Wei right back into the swing of his responsibilities, which Yunlan couldn’t very well protest but certainly could regret a bit. “Please reassure them that nothing is wrong,” xiao-Wei said firmly. “There was merely some spill-over in the process of re-acclimating to my power being unbound.”

There was a pause while the team looked at them, and then at each other. Yunlan sighed. He liked that he had a team of smart people, good investigators who could put pieces together, but sometimes it was also a pain in the ass.

“Some spill-over, huh?” Da Qing transformed, apparently just so that he could waggle his eyebrows meaningfully. He ducked out of range, laughing, before Yunlan could swat him. Lin Jing was snickering, and xiao-Guo was blushing, and Zhu Hong was very obviously stifling laughter, mouth crimped up at the corners and eyes dancing. He Niu rolled his eyes at all of them and turned for the stairs with the air of the only adult in the whole room, and Zhang Shi was grinning like she was considering taking Yunlan out for a congratulatory drink. About the only good thing was the faint color on xiao-Wei’s cheeks, which never failed to make him look twice as delicious as usual.

Which was, actually, perhaps not the best thing to be thinking right this moment.

Yunlan ignored the heat in his own face and waved his hands at them, shooing them toward the desks. “Don’t you all have work do to?”

They scattered, nearly all of them laughing, now. Yunlan supposed it was good that they thought this was funny and not alarming, but neither he nor xiao-Wei could quite look at each other as they headed back toward his office.

Once the door was closed behind them, it was actually Shen Wei who managed to lay hands on his composure first, looking over at Yunlan with a faint huff of laughter. “Back to work, hm?”

“Back to normal,” Yunlan agreed, rolling his eyes.

Well, it wasn’t like he hadn’t known they were all assholes when he hired them.

Xiao-Wei paused, though, like he’d heard something else. “Yes?” Suddenly he looked hesitant again, chin tucked down as he stretched out a hand, shifting blue curling around his fingers.

Oh.

Yunlan reached back, because there was no way he could not reach back to xiao-Wei, even if the delicate brush of nearly-actuality made him think things that were very inappropriate for work. It felt like xiao-Wei, after all.

And it felt like himself, too.

He stepped closer and brushed a soft kiss over xiao-Wei’s lips. “Yes,” he agreed again, and then had to catch his breath at the brilliance of xiao-Wei’s smile. “See you this evening,” he added, just because it was still a kick to be able to say it so casually.

Yeah, he understood why this made xiao-Wei so happy.

“Until then.” Xiao-Wei closed the office door behind him with a faint chime of glass.

Yunlan dropped into his chair and gave himself a moment to smile at the ceiling before he started on his mail. His past was still going to take some getting used to, but he felt like he was finding his balance, now. Like maybe all that weight wasn’t not-him. It was a bit like he’d felt right after the Lamp, and yet different. Less like he was Kunlun, and more like Kunlun was him.

Yunlan thought he could live with that.

End

Sinking in the Deep Waters

When Guo Ying knocked on the door of Zhao Xinci’s office, his Director of Supervision looked wary. Guo Ying wasn’t surprised. He’d taken time to prepare himself for this meeting, and that had included some necessarily vague discussion with both the psychologists the Ministry kept on retainer. While he hadn’t been comfortable giving them any details, they’d both been firm that someone who’d suffered any breach of personal integrity—body or mind—would resist any interference in his coping methods. Guo Ying wished it wasn’t necessary to interfere at all. Unfortunately, Zhao Xinci’s resurgence of hostility toward Dixing was having a serious impact on attitudes among Guo Ying’s other Directors and upper administrators. It wasn’t that he didn’t think Zhao Xinci had a right to his anger; he just couldn’t afford to let it shape Ministry actions.

“Do you have a moment for a word?”

Zhao Xinci eyed him for a long moment, but finally sat back with a sigh. “Come in, Minister.” He pushed up to his feet and came around to the set of chairs in front of the desk. The action was promising, even if Zhao Xinci’s apparent resignation wasn’t very.

Ying closed the door and joined him. “Have you had a chance to think about what Zhao Yunlan said in our meeting last week?” Because he was watching for it, he saw Zhao Xinci’s momentary grimace, and added dryly, “I know the two of you approach things very differently, but it seemed he had a point.”

That pulled a half smile out of Zhao Xinci. “We do. And I continue to think that Yunlan relies far too much on intuition.” The smile tilted. “Sometimes he does get results, with it, I admit.”

Guo Ying sighed and leaned his elbows on his knees, looking down at his laced fingers. “Lao-Zhao, you have a right to be angry. More than angry. I would never deny that.”

Zhao Xinci leaned into the opening immediately. “And Zhang Shi is an example of one of their least harmful.”

“I would actually call him one of the more insidious.” That made Zhao Xinci still, watchful, and Guo Ying nodded to himself. The Director was still trying to deflect attention from that personal cost. “I asked about his past. The Envoy cautioned that memory has been an unreliable thing in most of his kind, but from what they can tell Zhang Shi really did sneak out among humans thousands of years ago and was recruited by Ma Gui.”

Zhao Xinci’s eyes sharpened. “Recruited? As an agent to oversee Dixing Affairs?”

“That’s what it sounds like, yes.” More quietly, Guo Ying added, “I don’t think either of our peoples has a monopoly on questionable ethics.” Which he was hoping to steer his Director of Supervision away from. Zhao Xinci’s eyes flickered aside for a split second, which was encouraging. At least the man did still know that what he’d done wasn’t always righteous. Zhao Xinci huffed a faint breath.

“Perhaps, but it’s Dixingren powers that increase the impact.”

“Any power increases the impact,” something Guo Ying had become sharply aware of when he took over as Minister. “Weapons. Political power. You’ve seen a great deal of that, in your career, haven’t you?”

“And we control access to those things, don’t we?” Zhao Xinci returned.

“So tell me about what we should be doing to screen visitors from Dixing.” Zhao Xinci’s mouth tightened, and Guo Ying shook his head. “Lao-Zhao, they exist. We can’t pretend they don’t. But we can put policies in place to reduce the risk, just like we screen people who want to join the Armed Police.” Quieter, he added, “Help me think about how to keep the things you’re worried about from happening again.”

Zhao Xinci’s hands tightened on each other where they were laced on his knee, and he was silent for a long minute. “We need to be able to see their Register,” he said, at last.

Guo Ying restrained an urge to do a small, undignified dance of victory in his chair. “I will bring that up with them immediately.”

Zhao Xinci scrubbed his hands over his face. “I’ll write up a report for you, on measures that might help. How likely do you think it is that we’ll be able to institute them?”

Guo Ying smiled and reached into his jacket for the letter that had come that morning. “Read this.”

Zhao Xinci unfolded the letter, and his eyes slowly widened as he read. He glanced back up at Guo Ying, brows raised. “Did you request this?”

“No.” Guo Ying sat back, increasingly sure that this would, as he’d hoped, be the thing that started dragging Zhao Xinci’s response to Dixing back toward rationality. “I don’t know whether the idea came from your son or from the Envoy himself, but it was a surprise to me, too.”

The letter was a copy of an official sentence. Zhang Shi would never take another host; when her current body could no longer sustain life, she was sentenced to die. The order was witnessed and accepted by Zhang Shi herself.

After a long moment staring at the paper and not looking like he was seeing much of it, Zhao Xinci asked, “Can I keep a copy of this?”

“There was an extra copy included. I brought that one to leave here.”

Zhao Xinci closed his eyes with a faint snort. “Black-robed bastard always was too sharp for anyone else’s good.”

“A good quality in an ally,” Guo Ying pointed out as he stood. “I’ll look for your report within a week, Director Zhao.” As he stepped out into the hall, he reflected on the fact that Zhao Xinci was apparently still more willing to think well of the leader of a race he hated than to think well of his son. That was going to continue to be a headache. On the other hand, it confirmed Guo Ying’s own decision to use Zhao Yunlan as his lever, rather than Zhao Xinci. He needed compassion for the policies he hoped to put in place.

On the other hand, Zhao Xinci’s sharp political acumen was still a useful tool also. Perhaps it was time for Zhao Xinci to rotate to a different Directorship—one a little less likely to make other administrators bow to his views. Public Relations, perhaps; he certainly managed those well enough within the Ministry. But only, Guo Ying thought firmly, after the revelation of a couple of gods in the city had already been managed. That was going to be the biggest headache he had, for a while, he was sure.

Or maybe he should just put Zhao Yunlan on the air and let him talk; it had worked last time.

Guo Ying chuckled as he headed back to his own office, turning over plans for the future that seemed to have a better chance, now, of combing out some more of the tangles that the Ministry had lately fallen into.

End

The Heavens’ Gracious Restraint

Shen Wei glanced over his shoulder at Yunlan’s rather set expression as they climbed the stairs to Li Huiliang’s small apartment. “You really didn’t need to come.”

“Unless you want to make this a purely Dixing-internal matter and send Zhang Shi back, yeah I do.” Yunlan jammed his hands a little deeper into his jacket pockets. “You know the Minister won’t count you as SID oversight. Besides, he’s the one of them that I actually like at least a little bit.”

Which was exactly why Shen Wei hadn’t wanted Yunlan to be present, but once Yunlan had started confronting his father, he didn’t seem to want to stop. It was starting to make Shen Wei nervous, wondering where it would end and whether Yunlan’s heart would still be in one piece by then.

Zhang Shi opened the door quickly, at his knock, brows rising as she saw both of them waiting. “Did something come up at the Division?”

“No.” Shen Wei let the weight of his responsibilities settle over him, and saw the reflection of it in the half step back Zhang Shi took. “Things have come to my attention that must be addressed.”

Zhang Shi was still for a moment. “I see.” She stepped back and gestured them in. Yunlan took one of the chairs, but Shen Wei shook his head at the silent offer and went to stand at the window, looking out.

“How often have you taken a host without consent?”

“At least half of them,” Zhang Shi answered promptly. “I’m sure you know how easily humans die. Sometimes death took long enough for me to ask the next one, but often not. And there were only a few I was sure enough of to ask before that point; anything else would have risked my purpose.”

“Was Ma Gui really that ruthless?” A glance over Shen Wei’s shoulder showed that Yunlan was leaning back with his legs stretched out, looking more casual than his thoughtful tone suggested. “The version the Lamp showed didn’t seem like that.” He cocked his head at Shen Wei. “Or did the Lamp mess with Zhang Shi, too?”

Shen Wei knew the sound he made was too harsh for amusement. “A little, I’m sure, but most of the damage was done well before that. This century was hardly the first time death has swept this land, but I’ve never tasted such madness in the very air as there was here for a while. Ghosts have… had no generative, ordering principle of their own. It swept my whole people into chaos along with the humans it touched. There aren’t more than a score who came through that with memory and personality intact.” He glanced at Zhang Shi, who was rubbing her hands down her arms as if cold. “I have no doubt it affected Zhang Shi as well, even protected by a human host. As for Ma Gui… no. But obsession is part of our nature.”

“Oh come on,” Yunlan protested. “I’ve never seen you act like that!” He was frowning a little, though, as if his own thoughts nagged at him, and Shen Wei managed a faint smile.

“Not often, no. But consider who it was that gifted me with part of a different nature.” The flicker of amusement drowned quickly under the weight of his own memories. “Even so, it took a very long time before I could pay attention to anything but the path of your soul and lives.” His eyes fell on Zhang Shi again, and she looked up as if she felt the weight. “Do not think I don’t know how that imprint of purpose gripped you. But that is one of the reasons ghosts were barred from this world.”

Zhang Shi stood straight, hands clasped before her. “I understand.”

“Then answer me,” Shen Wei ordered, quiet and level. “Did you ever cause the death of a host?”

Her chin lifted. “I did not.”

The chill fear he’d felt ever since he’d heard Yunlan say Zhang Shi had forced Zhao Xinci eased. He would not have to execute his lover’s sometime father, at least. “During the invasion two years ago, did you influence the will of your host, rather than simply block him?”

Zhang Shi’s eyes did not fall. “I did,” she admitted steadily. “Zhao Xinci is a strong-willed man, and he was fighting too hard for me to reliably block his actions.”

Yunlan closed his eyes for a breath, turning his head away. It was an expression that said he’d thought so but still didn’t like to hear the confirmation. Shen Wei weighed Zhang Shi’s unruffled, unrepentant calm and stifled a sigh.

“I do not discount your reasons, but you will continue to be the kind of trespasser I cannot ignore if you take a host again.” He straightened, holding her gaze. “My judgement, then, is that you may not take another host. This body will be your last. Do you agree to this?”

Zhang Shi flinched at his words, but regathered herself quickly. “Your gift to your people at least makes that a new beginning rather than a final end. I will abide by your judgement, my Lord Envoy.”

Shen Wei nodded, as satisfied as he could be with this balance. “Then you may remain in this world.”

Zhang Shi relaxed from her straight, waiting posture into a relieved smile and gave him a quick bow. “Thank you, Lord.” Yes, as much hold as the purpose she’d imprinted still had on her, he’d thought it would be like that. And perhaps the value of the family she’d been part of, however covertly, was part of that relief as well.

As if he’d heard the thought, Yunlan looked up from his clasped hands and asked, quietly, “Were there other times you pushed him like that, before the end?”

Zhang Shi hesitated. “Not like that, no, but… Two minds, two beings, in one body means there’s constant pressure, constant contact between us. It was actually very disorienting when we separated and I didn’t feel that any more.”

Shen Wei watched Yunlan hesitate for a long moment, expressions chasing each other across his face. Shen Wei thought he saw understanding and also something like horror before Yunlan closed his eyes again and took a slow breath, in and out. “You miss him, huh?” he asked.

Zhang Shi smiled, tight and crooked—a smile Shen Wei had seen a few times on Zhao Xinci’s face. “He’s not an easy man to get along with, I know, but… yes.”

“No, I think I get it.” Yunlan pushed himself up out of his seat and reached out to rest a hand very briefly on Zhang Shi’s shoulder. “I’m glad you’ll be able to stay.”

Zhang Shi’s smile eased into something gentler. “So am I.”

Shen Wei got them out the door as quickly as possible, attention more on Yunlan’s disquiet than his own parting words. “Yunlan?” he asked softly, as they reached the Jeep. Yunlan stopped and leaned against the side with a tired-sounding sigh, arms tightly folded.

“What a mess.” He looked up as Shen Wei turned to block view of him from the sidewalk. There was a helpless quirk to his smile, as if he’d gotten stuck halfway through trying to be reassuring. “After however many thousand years, and who knows how many hosts, I still don’t think Zhang Shi really gets what it means for a human mind—hell, for any other mind—to be constantly encroached on like that. The old man must have felt like a hostage situation in his own head for a decade and a half. And yet Zhang Shi is still the one of them I don’t actually resent.”

Shen Wei stepped closer and slid his hands over Yunlan’s shoulders, a little hesitant, glad when Yunlan let his head fall and rested his forehead on Shen Wei’s shoulder. “When I first saw how upset you were by mention or sign of your father,” he said softly, running his fingers through Yunlan’s hair, “I thought it was something smaller. The anger of a child at an absent parent, perhaps. I thought it was a shame, because I had seen that he did care for you. When you took over the SID, he requested my presence simply to ask me to stay away from you as much as I could.” Yunlan made an irritated sound against his shoulder.

“Tried to tell me to stay away from you, too, when the other way around didn’t work.”

Shen Wei’s smile was rueful as he curved his hand protectively over the nape of Yunlan’s neck. “Yes. And I thought that was an overreaction, but at least a caring one. It wasn’t until we confronted Wang Xiangyang and I saw you together, saw the way Zhao Xinci chose to try to keep you from offering yourself in his place, that I started to understand how long and harshly he must have discounted all your strengths.” He gathered Yunlan closer and said softly, against his ear, “Don’t be angry with yourself about this. Zhang Shi was the one who showed you at least some warmth, even if it was at Zhao Xinci’s expense. I have to admit, he’s the one of them I have less anger for, myself, even though he’s the criminal of the two.”

Finally, the tight line of Yunlan’s shoulders eased a little, and he reached out to wrap his hands around Shen Wei’s arms. “I really am glad Zhang Shi is staying,” he admitted, low. “Knowing he approves feels kind of like having my dad’s approval. I just kind of hate that I still need that, and that it doesn’t change, knowing Zhang Shi has a really broken moral compass.”

The sharp clarity of Yunlan’s vision, even into himself, put a purr into Shen Wei’s voice. “You are magnificent, Zhao Yunlan. Never doubt that.”

That made Yunlan laugh a little, and when he lifted his head his smile was wry but warm. “In your unbiased opinion?”

“In my extensive experience,” Shen Wei corrected, smiling back. And that was quite enough time spent on Yunlan’s one and a half fathers. “So, shall we go finish packing?”

“Yeah, all right.” The head shake Yunlan gave him said he knew perfectly well he was being diverted, but he still pulled out his keys and got in. Shen Wei opened his own door, satisfied for the time being.

And all the while, he carefully kept his mind turned away from his lingering suspicion of who, exactly, might have told Yunlan how to rekindle the Lamp. It would have been an abuse of his authority to let that suspicion influence his official judgement. As for his personal judgement, Yunlan wished for Zhang Shi to stay. As long as Zhang Shi served faithfully, as a member of the SID, Shen Wei would stay his hand.

He thought that he and Zhang Shi probably understood each other, on that point.

End

The Innocence of Thunder

One

Shen Wei enjoyed the quiet times in his life, the times when he had no miscreants to chase down; when the humans were calm, not indulging in wars of conquest or moving their seat of government again; when his chosen profession had no crises and he could let himself be soothed by completing the small, daily tasks. He enjoyed those times very much, but he didn’t take them for granted. He’d lived long enough to know, with absolute certainty, that catastrophe would be back around sooner or later. The current quiet felt… provisional, to him. Fear still breathed faintly through the streets of the city, even after two years, feeding on the lingering aftermath of the chaos his brother had created. It was fear of just the kind that madmen and fools had all too recently seized on to set the whole country ablaze, careless of how they killed their own so long as they could hear acclaim in the people’s screaming.

So he kept his voice calm, in class, and graded his students’ work carefully, and made his smile easy and welcoming when someone tapped on his office door. He visited his own realm every week or two and paced the streets, let himself be seen, let his people approach close enough to taste the difference in his nature and know he was still their ruler, even so.

And a part of him waited, alert.

His office phone rang while he was signing off on his grade sheet for the new term’s first test, and he tucked it against his shoulder as he wrote the date. “Yes?”

“We have a problem.”

The sharp tension in Yunlan’s voice made him straighten, letting the pen drop as all his attention refocused. “What is it?”

“Can you come by the Division?”

A significant problem, then. “I’ll be right there.” Shen Wei caught up his bag and made for the doors, stride just a bit quicker than would be casual.

When he arrived at the SID offices, he found Li Qian sitting at the long table, both hands wrapped around a mug of tea so tightly her knuckles were white. Yunlan perched on the table itself beside her, eyes dark and serious when he glanced up at Shen Wei. Shen Wei sighed and leaned his hands on the table, feeling very tired. Of course it would be this.

“There were other samples, weren’t there?”

Li Qian winced. “I thought the lab’s security would be enough,” she said, voice low, not looking up from her tea. “I had Lin Jing overhaul it, when I took over. The samples from the serum experiment are locked with a sixteen character randomized passcode and a mechanical key that had to be signed out from building security.” Now she looked up, face drawn. “Professor Shen, those were the failed samples. There’s at least a sixty percent chance that anyone injected with one of those will die immediately.”

Which left a better than one in three chance that the recipient would not die, at least not quickly, but become something considerably more troublesome than a simple corpse. Shen Wei glanced at Yunlan in question and got a small nod. “The safe was opened, not broken, so it was likely a human who took them, given the security measures,” Yunlan said, quietly. “The regular police think it was probably one of the technicians Ouyang dismissed, maybe one with a grudge. They’re looking into that.”

And the Minister probably wanted the SID involved in case the thief, or possibly a test victim, wasn’t exactly human any more. He smiled faintly at the question in Yunlan’s level gaze. Of course Yunlan would see the moment of opportunity, and yet never press for it to be taken. It wasn’t a hard decision, though; Li Qian was his student, and he owed her what understanding he could give. He reached out to rest a light hand on her shoulder. “The situation will be taken care of. But that this has happened probably means I should tell you something I’ve been meaning to sooner rather than later.”

Curiosity eased the worried tightness of her mouth. “Yes, Professor?”

“Two things, really,” he amended. “This is the first.” He straightened and reached inward for his power.

This was different, since his nature had changed again. Before, he had used the part of him that was from Kunlun to wrap human form around the voracious void at the core of his being. That void was displaced, now—filled with Kunlun’s (Yunlan’s) second gift—but the chill of it was still part of him, and one he still did not care to let the humans around him feel. He still kept human form wrapped around it, but more lightly. Releasing human form, now, was less like turning his being inside out, and more like drawing aside a curtain.

Frost-edged blue swept over him and settled into his familiar robes, and the weight of his glaive in his hand.

Li Qian was staring, eyes wide. “I thought you must be Dixingren,” she finally said, very softly. “But… Really… the Black-cloaked Envoy?” And then she blinked, frowning. “But so long ago… the Ministry’s records say the treaty is thousands of years old. Is it an inherited title?”

Shen Wei smiled down at her, quite proud. Li Qian had always been one of his brightest students, in this ‘life’. “It is not. And that’s the second thing.” He watched her tiny frown of concentration deepen, could nearly see conclusions snapping together behind her eyes. She looked up at him, glanced at Yunlan and back, and then she sagged back in her chair, hands closing tight on the arms.

“What…” she swallowed hard and whispered, “what did we make?”

Yunlan’s smile was crooked. “Really, xiao-Wei, you have such smart students.”

Shen Wei drew human form around him again, settling that veil over the shadowy well of his power. “I do, yes,” he answered calmly, pulling up a chair beside Li Qian’s. As he’d hoped, the approval of her teacher calmed her a little. “The serum experiment’s results force development of latent potential. You know this already.”

She took a deep breath and sat up straight again. “Yes. I’m honestly still not certain of the mechanism, though. It was purely empirical science, for the most part. The theory behind it… well, the biochemistry is solid, but as for how increased excitation actually instrumentalizes…” she lifted her hands in a distinctly frustrated shrug.

“That is the place where known biology crosses with matters of the spirit.” Shen Wei smiled at her disgruntled expression, amused. “After ten thousand years, I have still never heard other words to describe that element. Though perhaps there will be more, soon.” He spread one hand open. “Consider the Yashou. The matter they are made of is fluid, changeable from one form to the other, yes?”

“And Dixingren sometimes, too,” she murmured, focused again. “Though I’ve never seen an energy conversion equation that looked balanced. But what does that have to do with spirit?”

Lin Jing’s voice came from behind them. “If ‘spirit’ is the crossover point where awareness imposes form on energy, isn’t that what balances the equation?” Lin Jing popped out from behind the stairs, as they all turned, with a sheepish smile. “I couldn’t help listening in. Am I right?”

Li Qian’s mouth quirked. “I’m going to kidnap you back for the lab, if you’re not careful,” she teased, still a little wan but rallying.

Shen Wei simply nodded. “I believe that’s part of it, yes. There is a level other than the cellular, on which living things produce energy. The soul itself is a generative element. That I can tell you for certain, having experienced existence both with and without.”

Li Qian opened her mouth, and then closed it again and rubbed a hand over her forehead. “I… all right. All right. Accepting that, for now… are you saying that the experimental results have an impact on this… this spiritually generative aspect of a person, also?”

“Exactly.” Shen Wei folded his hands and leaned forward, faint amusement fading into grim sobriety. “And not by developing awareness to deal with that degree of potentiality, of capacity, but by forcing the connection wider. So far, only two people have been able to handle that. One is Guo Changcheng, who is the purest soul I have ever encountered and who shaped his power wholly to compassionate ends, ignoring any other possibilities. The other is Zhao Yunlan, who has been this before.”

Before… Wait.” She held up a hand, eyes closed for a moment, clearly ordering her thoughts and questions. “This?”

“Gods,” Lin Jing put in, bouncing down onto the couch with a gleeful grin.

Li Qian sputtered for a second over that, before glaring at him and telling Yunlan, “I take it back. You can keep him, Chief Zhao.”

Yunlan chuckled, leaning back on his hands. “I suppose I’d better. But it’s true, even if the terms seem like what you should find in a children’s story. I’m still getting used to it, myself.”

Gods.” She scrubbed her hands over her face.

“It’s not what you’re used to,” Shen Wei agreed evenly. “Not what you’re taught, any longer, not even as moral metaphors.”

She reached for her tea and took a sip, looking down at it. “Ten thousand years,” she said, low. “Truly? You’ve watched over us all for that long?”

“Yes.”

She took a deep breath and looked up at him, eyes a little wide but steady. “Then please, Professor Shen. Teach me what we’re not taught any longer.”

He smiled slowly, immensely proud that this student of his could take such a large step into the unknown, and glanced up at Yunlan. Yunlan nodded firmly.

“Well then, let’s start with the history of Kunlun…”


Li Qian felt dizzy and overstuffed with the amount of new information she was trying to fit into her worldview. Grateful, and privileged to hear it right from the source, but also a bit dizzy.

It didn’t help when Professor Shen, escorting her out of the SID headquarters, said quietly, “I’m sorry.”

She blinked up at him. “For what?”

He paused, and his eyes were dark when he looked down at her. “For not keeping you under my protection longer. If it had been a different year, I would have fought harder to keep you enrolled. I knew anyone I mentored might catch Professor Zhou’s attention, and I might have realized that having had one of the Holy Tools in your possession would ensure it.”

Even a year later, Professor Shen’s astonishing care for his students still made her feel warm right through. The idea of being under the protection of the Black-cloaked Envoy was a little more daunting, but… it was still Shen Wei, wasn’t it? The same one who lectured and challenged and coaxed, who encouraged and drove anyone who entered his classroom but also held them safe for that hour or two—or more, if they worked with him outside of class. “Everything you taught me has protected me,” she said, simple and sure.

That lightened his expression into the faint, wry smile she was more used to. “Then thank you for being such a good student.”

Li Qian ducked her head, pleased. “I’ll let you both know, when I have the conversion estimates worked up, and a better idea of how much power someone injected with those results might gain access to.”

She hoped, as she slipped out the door, that she’d have them before Professor Shen and Chief Zhao had to face whoever the thief had been. But she also had to admit that she was much less worried, now, about how the SID would deal with whatever they found.


When Shen Wei came back in, he found Yunlan with his feet up on his desk, considering four different profiles on his screen.

“Do you think whoever took it knows the risks?” he asked, flipping a pen through his fingers to tap against his knee every few revolutions.

“We’ll know when we see whether they took it themselves or gave it to another.” Shen Wei leaned a thigh on the edge of Yunlan’s desk, watching him more than the screen. “Yunlan. Be careful, if we get into a fight with this person. You have far greater power, now, but you don’t seem to think of it unless you’re already concentrating on using it.”

Yunlan grimaced, flexing his fingers around the pen. “I know. Some things, the things that are most like me now, are right there, but most of it—most of Kunlun—is kind of wadded up in the back of my head until I go digging.” He looked up at Shen Wei with a crooked grin. “You’re right there, everything I know about you, or ever knew. But all that power? Not as much.”

Shen Wei softened helplessly at the confirmation that he was first in Yunlan’s thoughts, but Yunlan’s continuing reluctance to use his own power still worried him. “Would it be easier if we went outside the city to practice a little?” Away from anyone who might see or interfere or be injured.

Yunlan looked thoughtful. “It might. I don’t want to be out of touch right now, though. We can wait until after this case is wrapped up.” Apparently he noticed the frown Shen Wei was trying not to let show too clearly, because he took his feet down and leaned forward, hand on Shen Wei’s knee. “I’ll be careful, honest.”

Shen Wei had some fairly dark thoughts about what Zhao Yunlan considered sufficiently careful, but doubted that was going to change quickly. He laid his hand over Yunlan’s and said quietly, “All right.”

He hoped they weren’t both going to regret that he didn’t insist.

Two

Shen Wei stepped softly through the industrial park on the western outskirts of the city, at Yunlan’s shoulder. Most of his attention was on the outward flow of his power and senses, feeling along that flow for the eddy of another power’s presence. He spared a little attention, though, to cast a sardonic eye over the regular police team walking ahead of them. Despite Yunlan’s best efforts, two of them, the oldest two, were still casting uncertain looks at Chu Shuzhi and even up at the straight-winged shadow of Ya Qing above.

“The old man just couldn’t stand not interfering, could he?” Yunlan muttered.

“You dealt with it as well as can be done, before they’ve seen our work first hand,” he murmured back.

Not that Yunlan had wanted to. When their senior officer, Ma Heng, had protested sending SID agents in with the police team tasked to investigate the lab technician Luo Qiang, Shen Wei had seen Yunlan start to smile, start to muster a jest to pass the protest off with, and he’d caught Yunlan’s eye and shaken his head. If Yunlan chose to challenge his father’s influence in the Ministry, he couldn’t rely on that camouflage any longer. Yunlan had paused with the tiniest of sighs before straightening up. “Lao-Ma, your own people have determined Luo Qiang is the suspect most likely to have taken the Institute’s specimens,” he’d said, quiet and level, and Shen Wei had seen how Ma Heng shifted back on his heels, startled. “The SID has no intention of trying to take over your investigation. But if Luo Qiang is the thief, and if he or another victim has ingested a sample, your men will be in danger. Containing such danger is our job. I’m asking you to let us do it, if necessary.”

“Well… I suppose…”

Yunlan had finally smiled at that and clapped the older man on the shoulder, but even then the smile was closer to the small one he used around his team than the beaming mask he used with the rest of the world. “Don’t worry! We’ll stay back unless it becomes our business.”

Shen Wei smiled a little himself and nudged lightly against Yunlan’s shoulder, remembering the adroit reassurance, strong-arming, and appeal to procedure that had left Ma Heng nothing to do but agree. Yunlan eyed him sidelong.

“You enjoy it that much, huh, getting to watch someone else have to play politics?”

“I enjoy that much being able to watch you show a little of your true strength,” Shen Wei returned, and studiously ignored the faint hitch in Yunlan’s stride.

The more he paid attention to the moments of surprise that answered the faintest praise, the more seriously he considered doing something permanent to Zhao Xinci.

The police team ahead of them spoke quietly to the night guard at Luo Qiang’s new employer, and the most junior fell back to Yunlan and Shen Wei, looking grim. “The night guard confirms that Luo Qiang has been working late often, and that he hasn’t left yet this evening. We’re going in to question him.”

“We’ll be right behind you,” Yunlan assured him and waved up at Ya Qing, pointing toward the building. She dipped a wing and took up a circle over the roof.

“I notice you haven’t tried to actually recruit her,” Shen Wei murmured, teasing.

“That’s up to Zhu Hong!” Yunlan smirked at Zhu Hong’s rather alarmed look as she joined them, along with Chu Shuzhi and xiao-Guo. “If she wants a consultant of her very own, it’s up to her to convince Ya Qing.”

Zhu Hong smacked his shoulder, hard, and looked away with a huff as Chu Shuzhi joined in smirking at her. “She’s one of my Elders; the SID doesn’t need to have any official claim on her.”

“You’re getting better at judging that kind of balance,” Shen Wei told her, quietly approving, and suppressed a smile at how she blushed. She used to do that over Yunlan’s notice, and he had to admit he approved of the shift in her focus to pride in her leadership ability.

They followed after Ma Heng’s team, through the wide halls of the offices and into the long chemical labs that made up the product research section. Passing down a hall of tall windows that looked onto an interior courtyard with a few trees and benches scattered in it, they could see the only lab with lights still on, on the other side of it. He exchanged a long look with Yunlan, silently agreeing that they were presenting far too obvious a target for anyone who might be watching out.

“Have a bad feeling that’s going to backfire on the old man,” Yunlan said, very softly.

“Probably unintentionally,” since Shen Wei doubted Zhao Xinci had meant for whatever disparaging words he’d spoken to Ma Heng about the SID to make light of the possible danger, “but yes.” He shot a quick, warning glance at Chu Shuzhi, who nodded and nudged xiao-Guo out to the side, flanking Yunlan and Shen Wei.

Presence flashed cold and heavy in Shen Wei’s senses and he barely had time to call, “Down!” before every floor-to-ceiling window around the courtyard shattered.

Fortunately for Shen Wei’s cover with the rest of the Ministry, catching objects was a skill he’d enlisted the entire office to drill Yunlan in. It had resulted in a great deal of silliness defended as “Professor Shen’s orders” but it also meant that green-laced force shot up in front of them all like a cliff face against the avalanche of broken glass thrown at them. Crouched behind that shelter, Chu Shuzhi flexed his fingers, strings starting to gather between them, and xiao-Guo pulled his baton out of his bag and held it tight. Zhu Hong drew in a long breath between parted lips and abruptly reared back. “That’s a Dixingren!”

“You’re sure of that?” Yunlan asked, slowly lowering his hand and power as the last of the glass dropped to the floor.

She nodded firmly. “The scent is really clear.” And then she paused, frowning, and added slower, “Unusually clear.”

Shen Wei drew in a sharp breath and his eyes locked with Yunlan’s, just as wide as his own felt. “Not a victim. A partner.” Luo had given the stolen sample to someone who already had power. No wonder the presence in his senses was so heavy.

“What better way to get revenge on Ouyang?” Yunlan agreed, and reached out to squeeze Ma Heng’s shoulder. “Get back, you and your men; back behind some concrete, if you can. This just became the SID’s business.”

“We can still back you up,” the man insisted. Shen Wei appreciated such staunchness. Perhaps Ma Heng didn’t need to be added to the office’s ‘going to be trouble’ list after all. Yunlan shook his head, though.

“The only thing you’ll be able to do is shoot him. He’s broken the rules of entry from Dixing but he hasn’t killed anyone. Let’s not have it be us that make it life or death, hm?”

Shen Wei stifled a sigh. It wasn’t that he didn’t approve of Yunlan’s desire not to kill his people; he did. He just approved Yunlan’s continued wellbeing more strongly.

Ma Heng beckoned his men back, if reluctantly, and Shen Wei stepped carefully across the glass at Yunlan’s side.

There was a man waiting for them, on the other side of the courtyard, and Shen Wei heard Yunlan’s breath draw in harshly. A welter of uncontrolled threads of power spun around the man, shadow twined with eye-hurting shades of red. “Is that as bad as I think it looks?” Yunlan asked, low.

“It’s not much under his control,” Shen Wei agreed, “and… I think whichever result he took has forced the potential of his soul as well as adding to his power as a ghost.”

“Out of control, unstable, possibly crazy, with two different types of power,” Yunlan summed up with a sigh. “Wonderful.” As they edged deeper into the manicured square of grass and trees, he called, “I don’t suppose you’d like to come with us quietly?”

The man gave them as unbalanced a grin as Shen Wei had ever seen on one of his people’s faces. “When I have the chance to strike down the one who keeps us penned?” Tendrils of his power flicked at Shen Wei like a cat’s paw striking, and he deflected them calmly, considering their weight. It was nowhere near his own strength, but heavy enough for what had been more punctuation than a serious attempt to harm.

Yunlan spread his hands wide, a gesture that never failed to make Shen Wei tense up, in the field. “Oh come on! We’ve got a visiting process all set up, why not use that?” Under cover of his expansiveness, Chu Shuzhi drifted further off to the side, angling toward a clear path of attack.

“As if we don’t know what happens to anyone who trusts your laws,” the man spat. “As if Lan-jie wasn’t killed that way!” Shen Wei had one moment to remember the case of Luo Lan, and the very pointed discussion he’d had with Zhao Xinci about lines of custody and spheres of authority afterwards, and then things happened very quickly.

Chu Shuzhi’s burning blue strings wrapped around their opponent only to snap as black and red heaved against them, and Chu took xiao-Guo with him as he dove aside from the return lash of power. Another arm of it crashed down on Shen Wei, and this time he had to brace himself, hands raised to guide his own power as he pushed it back. The storm of red and black surged forward again immediately, this time straight for Yunlan.

And for one split second, Yunlan froze, hand twitching up and then toward his jacket, hovering empty of either gun or power. In that tiny breath of hesitation, their opponent’s power struck him, threw him back with an audible thud against the trunk of a tree.

The world seemed to freeze around Shen Wei, crystalizing around a single thought. He should have known. He should have expected this, and thought ahead, and been sure to drill Yunlan to catch another’s power just as surely as he did objects. He should have known.

The faint rustle as Yunlan dropped, boneless and silent, to the ground snapped the frozen world into shards, splintering in the rising surge of his rage, and Shen Wei reached deep into himself for the well of his power, restraint abandoned.


Zhu Hong started to dodge out from behind the minimal cover of a bench to drag the Chief around to the other side of the tree, only to stumble to her knees as a crushing weight of power exploded through the courtyard and outward. Qing-jie’s alarm call pulled her eyes up to see the crow diving for the roof as dark clouds poured across the whole sky like ink spilled into water. A sharp crack and actinic glow yanked her gaze back down to where Shen Wei stood, rage black in his eyes and the harsh set of his jaw, hand reaching out to call his glaive to him. When the butt of it struck the ground, frost raced outward all around, and threads of lightning licked out from the foxfire glow around him to follow. A rising cyclone of wind caught up shards of glass and pulled on steel beams until the building around them groaned.

Every instinct, both human and serpent, told Zhu Hong to freeze. To huddle still under the weight of that world-shattering fury and hope it passed her by. The last gasp of sensible thought, though, drove her creeping through the grass to Zhao Yunlan, because if he was seriously injured then all that was left was to pray Shen Wei’s wrath spared Zhao Yunlan’s own team. If he was dead… Zhu Hong’s hand was shaking as she reached out to feel his pulse, and she flinched helplessly as lightning split the air and the man they’d come for barely managed to scream before the scent of scorched meat blew over her.

Zhao Yunlan’s pulse beat under her fingers.

“He’s alive!” The rush of wind and crack of thunder drowned her out, and she drew in a deeper breath to shout it again before the cold, cutting wind and lightning dancing around Shen Wei destroyed the whole industrial park. The attempt strangled when she saw the small, black form diving straight down the throat of the cyclone around them to land at Shen Wei’s feet, rising into Qing-jie’s human shape, black gown whipping around her on the wind.

“Enough!” Those burning black eyes fell on Ya Qing, and Zhu Hong could see how she flinched back half a step before stiffening her spine; she’d never been more impressed with her lover than she was in this moment. Qing-jie raised her voice again, insistent. “The one you protect is safe!” She pointed toward Zhu Hong and Zhao Yunlan, who thankfully chose that moment groan and stir.

Shen Wei’s eyes closed, and Zhu Hong could see the long breath he drew in. As he released it, the wind slackened. Another breath and the clouds thinned, only heavy and gray now instead of that terrifying, lightning-laced black. When Shen Wei opened his eyes again, Zhu Hong thought there was sense in them, and relief made her hands shaky as she propped Zhao Yunlan mostly upright. She could see Qing-jie’s feathers and cloak trembling from across the courtyard.

Shen Wei finally released his glaive, and his words dropped into the falling quiet. “You have never lacked for courage, Ya Qing.”

Qing-jie bowed silently, and Zhu Hong only waited until Shen Wei had come to take the Chief from her before scrambling to Qing-jie’s side. Sure enough, she was shaking harder than Zhu Hong. “Are you all right?” Zhu Hong asked, anxious.

“I am.” Qing-jie leaned on her. “I would rather not do that again, though.”

Zhu Hong hugged her tight, uncaring for any watching eyes as lao-Chu and xiao-Guo and a few police slowly emerged from shelter.


Shen Wei helped Yunlan to his feet, unable to keep his hands from patting him down, heart still beating fast and hard. “Are you sure you’re all right?”

Yunlan waved one hand, though he kept the other clamped on Shen Wei’s shoulder. It made his attempt at insouciance only mildly convincing. “Just some bruises, I’ll be fine.” His brows rose higher the longer he looked around the scorched, frozen, and wind-battered courtyard. “Well. I guess now we know what shape your power takes most easily. Storm, huh?”

“You were injured,” Shen Wei pointed out acerbically. “What would you expect?”

“Not quite this much violence, maybe?” Yunlan eyed a cracked steel support beam. When he looked back to meet Shen Wei’s tight-lipped glare, though, he stilled for a long moment and then glanced aside. “Guess I should be more careful, then.”

“I would appreciate it greatly.” Shen Wei blew out a breath and made himself ease back from the edge of temper that panic had pushed him up on. “You will never not be the most important thing to me,” he added, more softly, “but I will try to restrain myself, yes. I… wasn’t quite prepared for how much more power I truly have to draw on, now.”

Yunlan glanced over his shoulder and grimaced. “Is our suspect still alive?”

“Yes. For now,” Shen Wei bit out, and had to yank his temper back down again. “Though he could probably do with a hospital visit.”

“All right.” Yunlan rubbed the back of his head gingerly. “I could maybe do with a checkup myself, I suppose.” He turned to check on everyone else and his mouth curled up, rueful and amused, when he got to the police team. “And then we’d probably better visit Minister Guo.”

Shen Wei pulled his brain back into line, along with his temper, and sighed as he contemplated the abrupt change in the shape of their campaign within the Ministry, with his identity revealed. “We’d better go in ready to tell him who you are, as well.”

Yunlan’s glance was as sharp as ever, even if his balance seemed shaky. “Mm. You think we can work him around that quickly, from panic that the Zhao he was hanging his hat on is outside his control to appreciation that he’s got more than just a Zhao in his corner?”

Even with his growing concern, as Yunlan leaned more heavily on his shoulder, a part of Shen Wei relaxed into the warm comfort of a partner whose thoughts matched his. “He focuses on the bigger picture, whenever he has a chance to. It’s why he chose you for his side, after all.”

Yunlan made a thoughtful noise and pulled out his phone to take pictures of the scene, especially of the torn construction materials and trees. Shen Wei smiled helplessly at Yunlan’s instinct for the most dramatic presentation possible and glanced around the courtyard. Chu Shuzhi was over by their criminal with a rather green looking xiao-Guo, taking the precaution of trussing the man up with ties. Shen Wei approved. Zhu Hong had righted a bench for Ya Qing and was on her own phone, demanding emergency vehicles. Ma Heng was edging towards them with white showing all the way around his eyes. Shen Wei nudged Yunlan gently, so he’d stop snapping pictures and notice.

“Xiao-Zhao,” Ma Heng started, keeping his eyes fixed on Yunlan, voice rather thin. Yunlan smiled at him as calmly as if he dealt with such destruction every day, which was… less untrue that Shen Wei really wished, given the last few years.

“Lao-Ma. We’ll take care of custody for this suspect, since he falls into our area. Are any of your men injured?”

“No, but…” He twitched as Shen Wei stirred, and Shen Wei took care to keep his voice low and soothing, the way he would for a student who was anxious over an exam.

“Did your men find Luo Qiang here?”

Ma Heng blinked, shaken at least a little out of his fear. “I… no?”

“Please make sure a search for him is started, then. If this man was mad enough to attack me, he may have been mad enough to kill his own collaborator.”

Ma Heng nodded slowly, eyes skittering around the courtyard. “Yes, of course. We’ll keep looking.” He seemed to rally a little, as Shen Wei made no move to strike him down, and waved an arm around as he turned back to Yunlan. “But what was that?! Who…? What…?” His glance kept flickering toward Shen Wei.

Yunlan held up a hand. “That’s not general knowledge, I’m afraid. I’ll be sure to ask the Minister to address it for you, though, since you were right in the middle of our work, this time.”

“The Minister knows?” Ma Heng seized on that implication, looking hopeful.

Yunlan held up his phone, still showing his last photo of the courtyard. “I’ll be reporting to him as soon as the hospital lets me go.”

Ma Heng slumped a little in obvious relief. “Right. Yes, of course. I’ll take care of informing the company, xiao-Zhao, you go on.” He bustled off, fortunately before Shen Wei lost control of the bubble of laughter in his chest.

“You’re very good at talking around the truth. I’ll have to remember that.”

Yunlan’s lean against him turned a little less heavy and a little more deliberate. “It’s a talent.” And then he winced at the sound of approaching sirens, immediately quelling Shen Wei’s amusement.

“Zhu Hong.” She jumped as if he’d stuck her with a pin instead of called her name, eyes wide as she looked around, but she wasn’t shaking any more when she came over. Shen Wei gave her a steady, approving nod, and her spine straightened a little more. “Can you deal with the scene, here? I’d like to get him over to the hospital.”

She took a good breath. “Yes. I’ll take care of the rest.”

He paused, considering her, and tipped his head toward where Ya Qing sat on her salvaged bench, looking composed once again. “Thank Ya Qing for me. You chose well, in the one who will support you.”

Zhu Hong instantly forgot the remainder of her nerves and ducked her head, blushing pink.

“Call Cong Bo, while you’re at it,” Yunlan added over his shoulder as Shen Wei turned them around. “Tell him to make sure there are no leaks from the police side. Yet.”

“Yet?” Shen Wei asked, keeping an arm around Yunlan as they threaded their way back through the halls.

“I might suggest some of the information go out that way. Did you see how Cai Peng and Ye Xiuying were looking at you?” Yunlan smiled. “Once they got over the first shock, I think they kind of approved.”

Shen Wei looked over at him, brows lifted and Yunlan elbowed him lightly.

“It’s not just my personal maniacs that can appreciate you, you know. What else was the past eight months worth of campaigning about?”

“I was under the impression it was to reduce fear of my people,” Shen Wei noted dryly.

“That too, of course.” Yunlan smiled at the catch in Shen Wei’s stride, perfectly serene. Shen Wei tried, as they emerged into a parking lot increasingly crowded with emergency vehicles, not to be visibly flustered by the curl of pleasure at Yunlan’s regard, so familiar and so dearly missed for so long. Yunlan leaned into him a little more and murmured against his ear, “You said it yourself, didn’t you? You’ll always be the most important thing, to me.”

Shen Wei was aware the paramedic was giving him a rather odd look as she escorted them toward one of the two ambulances. He really couldn’t help the brightness of his smile, though.

Three

By the time they got to the Ministry, both temper and pleasure had settled a bit and Shen Wei felt prepared, if not exactly ready, to deal with politics. He watched Minister Guo carefully for any signs of distress, but the worst he saw was a hard swallow or two as Guo Ying looked through Yunlan’s pictures of the destroyed courtyard. He was not, therefore, surprised when the Minister passed over protestations of ‘impossible’ or questions of ‘how’.

“Why was I not informed this was a possibility?”

Shen Wei exchanged a swift glance with Yunlan and returned his tiny nod; this was as good an opening as they would get. He settled back in his seat, legs crossed, and rested his folded hands on his knee, reaching for professorial rather than otherworldly authority. “I could have told you of that, at least, yes. Or rather, I could have told you a half lie. The truth is something it will be very difficult for you to believe, Minister Guo; that would have been so even before your kind burned your own history. It’s been thousands of years, now, since scholars started to believe that because gods no longer walk the world to be seen, they never existed at all.”

Guo Ying jerked back in his chair. “Are you claiming to be a god, as well as the Envoy?”

“I am, yes.” Shen Wei smiled faintly, aware that Yunlan was having a certain amount of fun watching this. The Minister, on the other hand, was starting to look a little wild around the eyes. “I did say this would be difficult to believe. It may help, though, if you consider: what is a god?”

“That… But…!”

“A soul. A spirit. A personality. A body,” Shen Wei continued calmly. “Gods have same parts of being any other living, thinking creature has. But in them, far more than in humans or ghosts, those parts are mutable, answering to the will. And the potential power bound up within them is… well.” He waved a hand at the phone still clutched in the Minister’s hand. “As you see. That was actually a fairly mild response, as these things go.”

Guo Ying scrubbed a palm over his face, took a breath, and visibly pushed aside his shock. “Leaving the details aside, two things about this concern me. One is, as you say, the potential power and potential catastrophe walking around the city.” He stared down at the phone again and added, with a distinct edge of disbelief, “Teaching university classes.”

Yunlan snickered and, at the Minister’s brief glower, turned his laugh into several unconvincing coughs. Shen Wei leaned a little more firmly against his shoulder; he suspected the painkillers the hospital had given Yunlan were taking effect, though he also had to admit that Yunlan didn’t have much respect for authority on the best of days. Fortunately, the attentive look Shen Wei turned on the Minister was a bit more convincing. Guo Ying, demonstrating a pleasing degree of wisdom, focused on him.

“The second concern is the political issue of having a foreign head of state working within the Ministry.”

“I guess we could always take you off the official payroll,” Yunlan suggested, eyes still bright with amusement.

To Shen Wei’s interest, Guo Ying flapped an impatient hand. “That’s not the problem. ‘Consultant’ can cover a lot of ground, and we’ve done this once with Chief Elder Zhu Hong already. The problem is that this needs to be documented, with scopes of authority laid out, and approved at the highest levels of our government. Anything else is asking for very serious trouble at the lower levels.” He straightened up and continued as formally as if they were, indeed, meeting in their most official capacities, “Is there anyone who can confirm your identity, for the record, Your Eminence?”

“Aside from every one of my people now resident in the city?” Shen Wei asked, a bit dryly, but shook his head at the Minister’s frustrated expression. “I know you need someone not under my direct influence.” He glanced at Yunlan, questioning. There was one possibility, but that one came with his own problems. Yunlan took a slow breath, looking down at his hands, and finally nodded. Shen Wei quietly rested a hand over Yunlan’s as he turned back to Guo. “Zhao Xinci has known my identity for some time.”

The Minister’s eyes narrowed just a little. “Did he.”


Guo Ying had long considered Zhao Xinci the exemplar of a specific type of career Ministry employee. He was only modestly talented; he got results through persistent and methodical work, rather than through brilliance. He was also intensely loyal to the Ministry itself, valuing proceedure and the Ministry’s reputation above all else. Guo Ying had never considered that entirely admirable, though he was aware many other members of the Ministry did admire Zhao Xinci for it.

So Guo Ying had been careful, when he’d become Minister. He’d taken Zhao Xinci’s smiling support with a grain of salt. And when Zhao Yunlan had finally stepped up to oppose his father’s anti-Dixing agenda directly, Guo Ying had placed his trust with the one of them he knew to hold ferociously to integrity and compassion. That hadn’t changed the fact that Zhao Xinci was his head of the Supervisory Bureau, though, so when Zhao Xinci stepped into his office today, Guo Ying nodded courteously.

“Director Zhao, thank you for joining us.”

Zhao Xinci’s glance turned hard for one small second, as it passed over Zhao Yunlan and Shen Wei, but smoothed again into a warm smile. “Of course, Minister. How can I assist?”

Guo Ying passed over the by-play, the way he’d been doing all year. “It has become necessary to have a member of the Ministry confirm Shen Wei’s identity. Would you be willing to do so, for the record?”

Zhao Xinci’s smile abruptly froze, and his head snapped around to direct that cold look at Shen Wei. A crinkle ran down Guo Ying’s spine, seeing Shen Wei’s polite patience fall away, in turn. Watching Shen Wei’s eyes turn hard, he realized just how much care the man had been taking to be courteous and accommodating.

“You said this would never need to go beyond the SID,” Zhao Xinci said flatly.

“You forget yourself,” Shen Wei cut back, cold. “Was that treaty made with you, or even the Office of Dixing Affairs, as was? It was not. I said that knowledge of my identity need not go beyond the SID, as things stood.” He spread his hands flat against the table, and Guo Ying didn’t think it was entirely his imagination that there was a flicker of light around them. “Do not think that you ever had control over me, Zhao Xinci. My first bargain was never with you.”

That caught Guo Ying’s attention on the political level again, and he held out a quieting hand toward Zhao Xinci and reached for formality to lay over the tension in the room like a fire blanket. “May I ask who it was with, Your Eminence, as this appears to have some bearing on Dixing and human relations?”

Some of the chill faded from Shen Wei’s bearing, and he inclined his head gracefully to Guo Ying. “You may. When Kunlun, god of mountains, sacrificed himself to create the Lamp and make way for returning human life, I bargained with Shen Nong to see his soul reincarnated as a human. My part of the bargain was to guard humans from my own kind, even to the destruction of every one of us should the seal between realms break again.”

Guo Ying jerked back in his chair, honestly shocked by the brutality of such a demand. “That seems… extreme.”

“Only sensible, surely,” Zhao Xinci murmured, and Guo Ying suppressed a passing urge to gag his Director of Supervision with his own tie. Was it really necessary to antagonize an apparent ally with the kind of power it was clear Shen Wei wielded?

Shen Wei didn’t even shrug, though, merely flicked his fingers dismissively. “From the viewpoint of the god who most loved humanity, after Nuwa herself, yes. The nature of my kind, in and of itself, was inimical to humans.”

“That’s changed now, though,” Zhao Yunlan put in quietly, completely focused on Shen Wei, even to the exclusion of his father for once, which caught Guo Ying’s attention. “That old mistake is healed. Your bargain is fulfilled.”

The iron hard line of Shen Wei’s shoulders eased just a little, and he smiled faintly at Zhao Yunlan. “Almost. When there are methods in place to regulate interaction that don’t require the threat of my power to secure… then perhaps I will think it done.”

Guo Ying relaxed, himself, at this calming of the atmosphere, at least until he noticed the hard look Zhao Xinci was giving his son. “You don’t think it a bit presumptuous to declare an end to someone else’s agreement?” the Director asked.

Zhao Yunlan and Shen Wei both went very still, and tension wound itself back up Guo Ying’s spine as he tried to anticipate how they might react, and once again damned Zhao Xinci’s intractable distaste for Dixing and the powers of its people. Shen Wei quietly turned his hand palm up, and Zhao Yunlan closed his eyes for a long moment. When he opened them, Guo Ying found himself frozen by the weight of his gaze, a bottomless depth that wasn’t calm but was knowing.

“That bargain was made for my sake. I am not apart from it.”

Guo Ying felt like he’d physically tripped over something, the conclusion that presented itself was such a shock. Which was, perhaps, why his normal grasp on diplomacy deserted him and he actually said out loud, “Ah. Two gods on my payroll, then?”

Apparently it was the right approach, though, because the momentary smile that flashed over Shen Wei’s face was wry, perhaps even sympathetic, and the weight of Zhao Yunlan’s quiet certainty melted into a sheepish grin. “Yeah, well, apparently dying and being re-formed out of pure energy will do that to you sometimes.”

Guo Ying blinked. “Dying?”

Zhao Yunlan paused, mouth open for a moment, and then stared at the ceiling. “Ah. We hadn’t gotten around to mentioning that part, had we?”

“Yunlan!” Zhao Xinci snapped, abruptly tense. And it seemed that the intimidating weight of Zhao Yunlan’s presence hadn’t dissipated so much as been set aside, because it fell back around him like a cloak as he turned to stare at his father for a long, silent moment.

“Zhang Shi was wrong to ever take a host without their consent,” he said at last. “Even your pragmatism has limits, and you were already wounded by that intrusion when you lost Mother to another Dixingren.” Zhao Yunlan’s eyes were dark and heavy and old, holding his father’s. “I know that he probably influenced you far more strongly than you ever admitted, during the crisis two years ago. But you’re free of that now. Isn’t it time you decided for yourself what it is you think and feel?”

Zhao Xinci was pressed back in his chair, shoulders stiff, jaw set.

This sounded like a far deeper problem than Guo Ying had ever thought lay behind Zhao Xinci’s hostility to Dixing. If so, though, he absolutely needed to know the full story, and Zhao Xinci did not look the slightest bit willing to tell it. “Director Zhao,” Ying said, softly, “I think I need to speak with these gentlemen alone. Please write up that affidavit confirming the Black-cloaked Envoy’s civilian identity, will you?”

Zhao Xinci composed himself with the kind of speed Guo Ying didn’t entirely believe. “Of course, Minister.”

Guo Ying waited for the door to close quietly behind him before turning back to his increasingly complicated visitors. “Perhaps,” he requested, a bit tightly, “you could tell me the whole of this story from the beginning?”

Shen Wei and Zhao Yunlan exchanged another long, speaking look and nodded to each other.


Shen Wei let Yunlan tell most of the story, this time. A quick glance between them agreed on it: what they needed now was a human’s perspective on what it meant to change one’s nature as Yunlan had. That was the perspective closest to Guo Ying’s heart, and the viewpoint most likely to make sense of what might otherwise seem utterly alien—Yunlan’s power, Zhang Shi’s centuries of interference.

Thinking about how this fit into their campaign helped distract him from the tangle of his emotions: worry over Yunlan’s tension from the moment his father had entered the room; immense irritation with Zhao Xinci; the shock of breathless warmth, hearing the weight of their past in Yunlan’s voice; calculation of just what penalties he might need to bring to bear on Zhang Shi, and how much of that story he might get from Yunlan. He needed to think about all of those, but not in the middle of a meeting with the human Ministry.

When Yunlan had finished, the Minister clasped his hands tight before him on the table and asked quietly, “This came to you because of your past and the Lamp. That I can understand, even if it still seems strange. But what is happening to Changcheng?”

Yunlan passed the question to Shen Wei with a glance. “The same thing that’s happened to humans from the beginning,” Shen Wei answered, just as quietly. “This is a door that has always been within all of you. Sometimes humans have found the key to it by long virtue and reflection. Sometimes you’ve stumbled through it by accident, and a life lived so intensely in one direction that the weight of it pushes the door open. Professor Ouyang found, not a key, but an axe. The people he injected found the door broken down without any of that preparation.” Shen Wei opened a hand toward the man sitting at his side, quiet and a little wrung out if Shen Wei was any judge. “Zhao Yunlan had other memories to rely on, to help him when that happened, yes. But your nephew was not wholly without such aid. Guo Changcheng had his own purity of purpose and spirit, and those have brought him through the change safely. Be at ease, Minister Guo. Your nephew will be well.”

Yunlan leaned forward, hands clasped loosely on the table, every line of his body projecting reassurance to support Shen Wei’s words. “We’re not saying it’s all going to be easy. The gift he found in himself isn’t a light one. But he’s still one of my people, and I keep my people safe.”

The Minister looked up at that, caught by something in Yunlan’s words. “Yes, you do,” he agreed, slowly, and finally sat back. “That’s the essential heart of my job as well. If I can trust you to take care of your part…”

Yunlan gave him a firm nod, eyes steady on his. “I will, Minister Guo.”

Guo Ying returned it. “All right, then.” He took a breath and turned back to Shen Wei. “Your Eminence. I have to admit that it’s extremely irregular to employ a foreign head of state in the Ministry. But we’ve made use of legal fictions plenty of times in the past, and I have to offer my compliments on just how solid a legal fiction Professor Shen Wei is. If your people will also be willing to abide by the fiction, I believe this can be made to work.”

“My people are extremely adaptable,” Shen Wei noted, dryly. It was a massive understatement, given their lack of any internal ordering principle until this very year. If this was how he meant to go on, well, there was no better time to establish the precedent. He glanced at Yunlan, meaning to voice the question, only to smile wryly and let the breath out unused. Yunlan looked back at him, unwavering support in his steady gaze. “I will convey this news to the Regent, and to my people living as citizens here.”

“All right, then.” Guo Ying held out his hand. “Thank you for your support, Professor Shen.”

Shen Wei huffed a soft laugh, amused by the man’s mix of forthright honesty and pragmatism, and reached back to shake his hand. “My pleasure, Minister Guo.”

“Good. Now.” Guo Ying ran his hands through his hair. “Please get out of town for a week or so, both of you, while I figure out how to break this news to the rest of the Ministry.”

Yunlan laughed and pushed upright. “Sure thing, Minister.” Shen Wei smiled and followed him.

As they made their way through the halls of the Ministry headquarters, Yunlan gave him a sidelong glance. “So. We never did get to have a honeymoon, did we?”

“We never did find time to train you properly in using your power, either,” Shen Wei countered, a fact that was now weighing harder than ever on his mind.

“Dual purpose trip?” Yunlan offered in a hopeful tone. “Out of the city somewhere?”

“I suppose that would be acceptable,” Shen Wei allowed, and rolled his eyes a little at the cheery arm Yunlan draped across his shoulders as they stepped out the front doors, and the way it made the building guards smirk. They were always amused by Chief Zhao teasing the reserved Professor Shen, and Yunlan seemed to like putting on that show. Shen Wei didn’t actually protest, of course. He’d never really been able to say no to Yunlan.

As far as he could tell, the entire world had much the same problem, so he didn’t worry too much about it.

“So, just us this time?” Yunlan asked, as he started the car. “No kids along?”

“I believe that’s traditional, yes.” Shen Wei leaned back against the seat, reaching for all the small, familiar things to settle himself again. The rumble of the Jeep’s frankly overpowered engine. The way Yunlan shrugged himself more comfortably into his seat. The habitual flick of Yunlan’s eyes over the dash and mirrors, ending on Shen Wei himself.

“Are you all right?” Yunlan asked quietly, hands resting still on the wheel. “Usually it’s me losing his temper with the old man, not you.”

Shen Wei closed his eyes for a moment, feeling the spark of his own potential-nearly-actual along his skin, power still roused up and only barely waiting to be used. He suspected it would take a while to calm all the way. “I will be.”

“Hey.” The warmth of Yunlan’s hand on his cheek made him look around. Yunlan was smiling, small and soft, the intimate smile that was just for him. “I won’t leave you again.”

Shen Wei jerked taut before he could stop himself, fear leaping up from where it lurked in the back of his mind, as soon as it was named. “Yunlan…”

“Shh, shh, xiao-Wei.” Yunlan leaned across their seats, thumb stroking gently over Shen Wei’s cheek. “Listen to me. I promise I will do everything in my power to stay with you. All right?”

Shen Wei searched the bright eyes so steady on his own. “Everything?” he asked softly. Today had demonstrated very clearly that Yunlan wasn’t entirely comfortable with his own regained capacity.

Yunlan’s smile turned a little crooked, but he didn’t look away. “Everything. I promise.”

Zhao Yunlan made very few promises, Shen Wei had noticed, and never lightly. He took a slow breath and let this one settle into his heart and mind, let it soothe back the bared edge of fear. “All right.”

Yunlan leaned in a little further and kissed him, sweet and warm, before settling back and putting the car in gear. “Good. So where should we go?”

Shen Wei cast a thoughtful look up over the roofs of the city to the mountains, remembering what they’d said a few weeks ago about places Yunlan might be comfortable practicing with his power. “I think I know of a place we can use.” And maybe the idea of a ‘honeymoon’ was a good one, after all. Perhaps, away from both of their jobs and people and responsibilities for a while, they could find some peace that was for themselves and not just other people.

He hoped so. Even Yunlan’s promise couldn’t immediately unwind the fear from ten thousand years of watching humans die with such terrifying ease.

Not immediately, but with a little time… maybe.

End

Contemplate the Wind Above

Shen Wei

Shen Wei leaned with his head propped on one hand and watched Yunlan sleep. Watched, on another level, the deep weight of him reach out to the world around them, touch the weave of the world with the same soft affection as he’d always had.

Watched how the brightness of Yunlan’s potentiality reached out to Shen Wei, in particular, now.

He loved the familiarity of that brightness and power, loved it with the wild relief of feeling his past finally, truly, connected to his present. But sometimes, as tonight, watching how Yunlan reached for him first and foremost also made him think about his brother.

He wished Kunlun’s gift could have been completed a little sooner.

It was a vain wish, of course. Cohesion had never been a significant part of his brother’s make-up, and his being had unravelled swiftly at death. It had taken Shen Wei’s assistance to stay together even as long as he had. And perhaps a new beginning wouldn’t even have helped; no one knew better than Shen Wei that madness had been at the core of his brother from the start.

And yet…

Ye Zun’s fractured awareness had seized such immediate hold of the story-seed Shen Wei had given to the Holy Tools. Such a firm hold that Shen Wei was fairly sure Ye Zun’s own part of that story was at least half his brother’s own making. Shen Wei had tried to work with that, at the end, to give his brother as much comfort as might be had, to assure him that he’d always had Shen Wei’s love. Even if that wasn’t quite the truth.

In the early days of their existence, Shen Wei hadn’t known, yet, what it was he was seeking. What he’d been trying to feel, beyond hunger. And by the time he’d known, he’d been with Kunlun. It hadn’t been the truth back then, but then… Ye Zun wouldn’t have wanted Shen Wei’s love back then, he didn’t think. In their early days, all Ye Zun had wanted was to be one being with Shen Wei. As if that would stop the hunger.

The story-vision wasn’t the truth of their beginnings, but it was the truth of the two of them now, perhaps. And so he couldn’t help but wonder—might a new beginning have changed his brother, the way one after another after another had changed his lover, made the shape of his love so much more human?

Or perhaps it had truly taken complete dissolution to make peace enough for Ye Zun.

Either way, he couldn’t change it now, and so he did what he always did on these nights and curled closer around Yunlan, closed his eyes and let the warmth of Yunlan’s presence and attention to him—even asleep—ease him down into sleep, himself.

Zhang Shi

Zhang Shi completed her evening routine, as best she’d been able to reconstruct Li Huiliang’s habits, by watering the plants on her tiny balcony and brushing her teeth. She still had to think about each action, a little. This had all been so very much easier when she’d had a host to deal with routine things, and she was very glad she’d had a year of being Zhao Yunlan to figure out how to fall asleep, to wake up, to get dressed, to think about all of that, before moving to Li Huiliang’s body. It had been a long time since she’d last been a woman, after all, and all of that at once would have been very trying to deal with. So many little things were just so much easier when Zhang Shi had a host to take care of them.

On the other hand, the lack of pressure on her mind was an undeniable relief. He hadn’t realized how loud a host was until he’d convinced Xinci to push him into Yunlan’s body.

That had been a loud argument inside and out. Worth it, though.

To be sure, he hadn’t thought so immediately. The first few months had been full of floundering as he had to feel all the little urgencies of a body first-hand. Sometimes it had felt like solid weeks of nothing but swallowing and pissing. But once he had some attention to spare, he’d realized that those things felt so all-encompassing exactly because he wasn’t having to argue, to coax, to lean, to try to steer another mind and will.

When it had really sunk in that the only thing he was feeling was his own emotions, wants, needs… well, fortunately he’d been at home with no one else to notice a couple hours of crying.

And now she wasn’t even having to be Zhao Yunlan. She didn’t even have to be Li Huiliang. The feeling was honestly a little alarming, which was why she’d stuck to what of Li Huiliang’s habits she could make out from her surroundings. That little bit of structure was comforting.

She wondered, often, how Xinci was doing. If he’d felt as adrift, that first little while. She thought maybe he hadn’t, and the thought hurt a little. He hadn’t sought out his ‘son’ any more after Zhang Shi had been Yunlan than before, at least. Honestly, the man could be so stubborn! Gifted with a brilliant child, and all Xinci could see was how messy the boy was—physically, mentally, procedurally. It was the same inflexibility Zhang Shi had had to push against their whole time together, never more than during the crisis of Ye Zun’s invasion, and he hadn’t quite realized how exhausting it was until he was out.

So maybe Xinci also felt relieved not to have to argue all the time. Relieved to be rid of her.

She sighed as she pulled on pajamas. They’d been such good partners, when they weren’t arguing! And often even when they were, for that matter. She missed him, exhausting as he’d been, missed being connected to another heart.

At least she could still watch over their son, though, and probably a good deal better now. That was a comfort, and not a small one.

She pulled the covers up, and made a pleased little sound at the soft drape of them around her body. Her body alone, and she really did enjoy that, now.

Zhang Shi closed her eyes and composed herself for sleep.

Ya Qing

Ya Qing was a Crow and crows were known, among other things, for their senses of humor. So she chose to find amusement in the fact that she and Zhu Hong only had compatible sleeping habits when in human form.

Even then, it took a little negotiation.

Ya Qing settled back against the pillows, combing her fingers through Hong-er’s hair, and smiled at Hong-er’s contented little murmur as she snuggled closer in her sleep and wrapped her leg a little more snuggly around Ya Qing’s. Her little serpent liked nothing better than to be wound around something warm. She’d been a bit flustered, at first, to wake up nestling between Ya Qing’s breasts, but she’d also understood very quickly that Ya Qing needed her arms free.

It wasn’t the kind of understanding Ya Qing had ever expected from another tribe, especially from someone as young as Hong-er, but of course that was what made her little serpent special. It wasn’t that Hong-er had a brilliant mind or great learning; she could be stubborn and short-tempered and petulant when thwarted. But she had an instinct for putting puzzles together, even living puzzles, and she hated like fire to fail.

Ya Qing found the combination delightful.

She knew Hong-er’s uncle, cranky old snake that he was, was still suspicious of her reasons for partnering with Hong-er, but honestly it was very simple. Zhu Hong had ambition.

It was astonishingly hard to find that trait in the Yashou. Perhaps it was the perspective of beasts, that focused on the now rather than the future. For years, Ya Qing had thought she might actually be the only one. At first, she’d thought Hong-er’s reluctance to accept the judgement of the sacred branch was just another sign that she’d been correct about that. It hadn’t taken more than two conversations, though, to understand that the part Hong-er actually objected to was having that victory chosen by someone else. No sooner was the girl acclaimed than she turned around and started over from the beginning. Presenting ideas. Making alliances. Persuading others to her support. Stubbornly making her way through every step she’d normally have needed to walk to be considered a candidate for leadership.

Ya Qing had found it a pleasure to watch.

She didn’t know where it would lead them, but she was comfortable in the certainty that it would not be into a bad bargain or over treacherous ground.

Besides, it would probably be amusing.

She pressed a kiss to Hong-er’s hair and settled deeper into the soft pillows, smiling.

Zhao Yunlan

Yunlan listened to Shen Wei’s breathing even out into sleep and turned his head on the pillow to give his lover a wry smile.

He’d tried asking, once or twice, what xiao-Wei was brooding over on the nights he woke and watched over Yunlan for a while. That had gotten him a whole lot of evasion, which usually meant xiao-Wei was trying to shield him from something, but this time Yunlan thought there was also some guilt xiao-Wei himself was feeling. He didn’t want to press too hard on that kind of pain, so he’d let it go, and usually just let himself drift right back to sleep if the weight of xiao-Wei’s attention woke him.

Tonight, though, he had some thoughts of his own keeping him awake.

In the months since they’d returned, he’d pretty much managed to go on as usual. The strongest of his memories as Kunlun mostly had to do with Shen Wei, which wasn’t much different from how he felt as himself. It was only now and then that something else would catch, like a nail snagging, and he’d suddenly be thinking and feeling something completely different.

The summer rains had been a bit of a trial, this year, as the city’s perfectly tame river kept dragging at his attention with the itchy feeling that it should be flooding.

Ironically, it had all been much easier right after the Lamp, when those memories had been most intense and pervasive. Everything had been changing, in those couple weeks, so it had made a kind of sense to accept this change too—to roll with it. As things settled down a little, though, the moments of feeling like someone else had gotten clearer edges on them. Yunlan wasn’t particularly interested in being anyone but himself, so he’d started pushing past those moments as quickly as he could. He had a feeling, though, that it wouldn’t work forever. There was too much power and bone-deep awareness of the world lying under those memories. He had a feeling there was a choice ahead of him, and coming up fast, like a rock in the middle of those flooding rivers he remembered. He could choose to lock the power down, lock it away, and likely most of the memories with it. He was pretty sure of that. Or he could choose to change. To become…

Well he wasn’t sure what, or who, and that was the problem wasn’t it?

Life was change, of course. But this big? Enough to make his own the vast weight of power he could feel waiting? What would he be then?

The one guiding light in all this was the man sleeping beside him. Xiao-Wei had lived like a human while still holding immense power, an immensity like the breadth of the sky itself. Yunlan could feel that. And xiao-Wei still smiled at kids running past on the street, insisted on a specific fabric blend for his shirts, and was a bit of a tea snob. When Yunlan thought of it like that, his own power seemed less of a potential threat.

Less wasn’t entirely, though, which led to nights like tonight.

End

Grace and Radiance

Yunlan slumped a little deeper into his desk chair and flipped to the next page of the long-and-only-getting-longer file on what he could only call Dixing tourism requests. Someone down there, and he darkly suspected the Regent, had declared that final decisions on who could come garden-viewing or shopping or whatever could only be made by the human Ministry, who had promptly passed the question on to the SID.

Which, all right, better him than his father. Yunlan appreciated that, he really did. But the paperwork.

Still, better him than his father. Yunlan crossed his feet on the edge of his desk with a sigh and signed off on yet another page, this one wanting to do a river tour, (who, thankfully, had no priors at all). With a little luck he could get this set done before—

“Yunlan?”

He looked up, startled, to see xiao-Wei in the door of his office, brows raised. A glance at the clock showed him it was already later than he’d thought. “Ah.”

Xiao-Wei now looked amused. “You lost track of time?” He stepped in, letting the door shut behind him, and came around the desk to glance over Yunlan’s shoulder, one hand on the back of his chair. “The requests, hm?”

“There are so many of them,” Yunlan groaned. “All of them with supporting paperwork. At this rate, we’re well on our way to having a copy of the Dixing Register up here!”

Xiao-Wei’s faint chuckle seemed a bit heartless, under the circumstances. “If there are that many, they’ll certainly still be here tomorrow.” He plucked the folder out of Yunlan’s hands and laid it on the desk, ignoring his sound of protest. “It’s time to head home.”

“If I wait until tomorrow, there will just be even more,” Yunlan pointed out, though he didn’t reach for the file again. It wasn’t like he was actually eager to wade through more paper.

“Then I’ll help you with them. Later.” Before Yunlan could really consider the pros and cons of that, xiao-Wei tilted his chair back further and leaned over him, one hand coming up to catch his chin. Yunlan’s breath caught sharply as xiao-Wei tipped his head up to meet his eyes. “Later,” xiao-Wei repeated, stroking his thumb over Yunlan’s lower lip.

“Ngh,” Yunlan said, articulately, and then pulled himself a little more together, though he couldn’t take his eyes off Shen Wei’s. “I should really finish these…”

Xiao-Wei smiled slowly, the smile with the predatory edge that never failed to make Yunlan hard. “Should I convince you, then?” he murmured, leaning down to take Yunlan’s mouth in a slow, thorough kiss. The wet slide of xiao-Wei’s tongue through his mouth put a shudder of heat down his spine. “Or perhaps I won’t wait at all.”

Before Yunlan could retrieve enough brain cells to quite process that, xiao-Wei straightened, hands sliding down his arms to pull Yunlan to his feet. The thought home, then and the faint hope that he wouldn’t get in an accident, driving this distracted, stumbled to a halt when xiao-Wei stepped around behind him, hands sliding lightly over his shoulders and pulling his jacket off.

“Um?” Yunlan started to turn only to be pulled to a halt by Shen Wei’s arm around his waist, pulling him back snug against xiao-Wei’s body, and the hand wrapped firmly around his wrist, stilling the questioning finger he’d started to raise.

“Just like this,” xiao-Wei said softly, against his ear. “Right here, over your desk. I like the thought of that. Do you?”

Heat rolled through Yunlan like a wave, at the very thought, so intense his toes curled. “Glass door,” he pointed out, with the last gasp of sanity.

“Looking at nothing but a brick wall,” xiao-Wei murmured against his neck. “Do you want it?”

Knowing that was the only question that truly mattered, to xiao-Wei, that Yunlan’s wishes were absolutely the only thing that would change his mind turned the rush of heat soft, melted Yunlan back against the steadiness of xiao-Wei’s body. “Yeah,” he said, husky. “I do.”

“Good.” Xiao-Wei lifted the wrist in his hold and pressed a soft kiss to the inside, which didn’t do a thing to help the whole melting feeling. When his hands slid down to undo Yunlan’s jeans and push them down off his hips, now, that did—both the relief and the surge of awareness that this was his office he was standing in with his ass bare and his cock hanging out. The thought, and the brush of fine, suit-grade wool against his ass, made him harder, if that was possible. Xiao-Wei made a pleased sound, palms stroking over Yunlan’s hips as those cool hands slid back up to his shoulders and pressed them gently down.

Yunlan shuddered as he was bent over his desk, weight sagging against the hard surface as he knees when a little wobbly with heat and anticipation. “Xiao-Wei…”

“Shh.” Xiao-Wei’s hands stroked up and down his back, easy and slow, until Yunlan relaxed under them, soothed down from the edge by the reminder of xiao-Wei’s care. “That’s better.” There was a smile in xiao-Wei’s voice. “It won’t do, if you’re tense.” A few faint crinkling sounds, and long fingers dropped an open foil packet on the desk beside him.

The thought of xiao-Wei carrying lube around in the pockets of his neat, tailored suits made Yunlan groan, even before those fingers rubbed over his entrance, firm and slick. When they pushed into him in one long, slow slide, Yunlan reached for the far edge of the desk, because he was pretty sure he was going to need something to hold on to.

Xiao-Wei’s hand slid up his spine to wrap around his shoulder, holding him in place while xiao-Wei’s fingers worked his ass open. Yunlan moaned, and went completely lax against the desk as xiao-Wei’s thumb stroked slowly up and down his nape. It was such a simple touch, but it felt just as intimate as the fingers actually inside him. Gentle, even as xiao-Wei drove his fingers in deep and twisted them sharply. It was all so very xiao-Wei, gentleness and ferocity both, and that was what left Yunlan sprawled over his desk, open and unwound and wanting.

“Mmm, xiao-Wei.” Yunlan turned his head a little, looking back over his shoulder with his very best come-hither smile. “Fuck me?”

Xiao-Wei smiled back, eyes dark with heat and focused on nothing but Yunlan. He leaned down to brush a kiss over the corner of Yunlan’s mouth, weight pressing him down for a moment. “Yes.”

A rustle of clothes, and another foil packet was dropped next to the first. Yunlan blinked at it, because xiao-Wei’s hand hadn’t left his shoulder. He spotted the tooth marks at one corner just as xiao-Wei’s other hand settled on his hip, holding him fast, and he moaned, low and open with the rush of heat as xiao-Wei pushed into him, slow and hard. He loved the thought that xiao-Wei didn’t want to let go of him, even that long.

Yes.” Yunlan panted for breath as the stretch of his body around Shen Wei’s cock sang through him, twice as hot for the careful strength of the hands that pinned him in place, over the desk. It felt so good, so sweet to just relax into those hands and feel xiao-Wei fuck him, moving hard and slow in and out of his ass.

“Yes, my own. Oh yes.” Xiao-Wei’s voice was breathless, and Yunlan purred to hear it. He loved knowing that he was what drove Shen Wei to discomposure, to impatience, to open possessiveness regardless of who might see or know. The pleasure of it curled down his nerves, as hot and heavy as every thrust of xiao-Wei’s cock into him. The faint roughness of xiao-Wei’s pants against his thighs, the brush of a crisp cotton shirt over his ass, made him groan, heat shivering up his spine with the reminder that xiao-Wei wanted him too much to wait.

Wait to start, at least. The slow, steady rhythm of each stroke, the slick drag and push into his ass, over and over, said that xiao-Wei fully intended to hold the end off for a while. Yunlan… honestly, he liked that thought, right now. Liked how it felt to lie spread out over his desk with xiao-Wei’s cock working relentlessly in and out of him, sensation rolling through him, slow and easy. Liked the tightness of xiao-Wei’s hands on his shoulder and hip, and the gentle stroke of a thumb, now and then, over his nape or hipbone. Liked the heavy weight of xiao-Wei’s eyes on him, and nothing but him.

“Xiao-Wei…” It came out as a moan, soft and slurred.

Xiao-Wei’s weight leaned down against him again, for a breath, and he murmured against the skin of Yunlan’s nape, “Shh. I’ve got you.”

It was that assurance that finally broke him, the sweetness of being absolutely certain that he could rest in xiao-Wei’s hands for a little while. He groaned out loud as pleasure swept through him like a summer storm breaking, fierce and hot, wringing him tight around xiao-Wei’s cock.

Xiao-Wei fucked him through it, both hands tight on his hips now, soft, breathless words tumbling over each other, yes and good and Yunlan. It made him positively purr with satisfaction, especially when xiao-Wei drove in deep and stilled, voice cutting off with a gasp. When his hands loosened on Yunlan’s hips, they slid up his ribs and down his back, open and so openly possessive it made Yunlan shiver, even as wrung out as he was. He was perfectly content to stay right where he was and let that slow caress ease both of them back down.

Finally, though, xiao-Wei drew back and Yunlan sighed a little at the rustle of clothes being done back up. Maybe he’d see about convincing xiao-Wei to take even longer about things this coming weekend—see exactly how long Yunlan could take it for. The thought made him smirk, and then wince just a little as cloth that wasn’t quite soft enough to be comfortable pressed between his cheeks. There was another of xiao-Wei’s handkerchiefs done for until laundry day.

“Are you all right?” Yunlan smiled at the concern in xiao-Wei’s voice, and pushed himself slowly upright from the desk.

“Very,” he declared, once his legs were holding him up again, though he leaned back against xiao-Wei for balance as he tugged his jeans back up. He felt xiao-Wei’s faint huff of laughter.

“Good.”

Yunlan turned to drape his arms over xiao-Wei’s shoulders and kiss him, quick and soft. “Very good indeed.” He grinned. “Even if no one came to look in on us.”

“Oh, Da Qing did.”

Yunlan froze. “…he did?”

“Briefly.” Xiao-Wei adjusted his glasses in the way that meant he was laughing behind that calm little smile. “You were quite distracted, at the time.”

Yunlan was torn right down the middle between horror at the amount of ‘humans in heat’ teasing he knew he was in for and the twist of heat that went through him, knowing he’d been seen while half out of his head from xiao-Wei fucking him. After a few tries at finding words, he gave in and just laughed, leaning against xiao-Wei. Xiao-Wei smiled, and the possessive glint in his eyes softened into warm satisfaction.

“So, shall we head home?” he asked, as if he’d just stepped into the office.

“Sure.” Yunlan leaned in to murmur against his ear, “And then maybe I’ll see how long it takes to get you hard again, with my mouth around your cock.”

The sharp intake of xiao-Wei’s breath and the way his eyes went darker were deeply satisfying.

It was very possible, Yunlan reflected, as xiao-Wei gestured him politely ahead through the office door, that the two of them deserved each other.

He liked that thought.

End

The Influence of Mountains

Yunlan was always careful, when he visited now-Minister Guo, to measure his smile for now-secretary Gao. Not too casual, not too bright; civil without being ingratiating; not showing his discomfort when the man fumbled between treating Yunlan like an unofficial nephew and like a division Chief. It was delicate and rather uncomfortable, and he could never help relaxing a little when the door shut behind Gao Jingfeng.

The fact that Minister Guo was the beneficiary of his relief wasn’t lost on Yunlan, but for now at least, that was probably a good thing.

“Good afternoon, Minister.” Yunlan nodded his thanks as Guo Ying gestured him to the seating arrangement and clasped his hands loosely between his knees, leaning forward, attentive. Just because he had a small personal allergy to looking respectfully attentive didn’t mean he didn’t know the body language. “What was it you wished to see me about?”

The Minister leaned back in his own chair and ran a hand over his hair. Unnerved, if Yunlan was any judge. “Well. We’ve received a petition from… well, from the Black-cloaked Envoy himself.” Ah, that explained it. “He asks that the treaty stipulations be loosened to allow for controlled visitation from Dixing, and eventually naturalization for those willing to live under human law.”

Yunlan nodded soberly. “I wondered if that might be coming, given what Professor Shen theorized about the change in the polarity of Dixing’s energy,” he said, just as if he hadn’t kibitzed over xiao-Wei’s shoulder as he’d been writing the letter. “Do you want the SID to handle the requests, or…?”

The Minister seemed to settle at this evidence that someone already had some plans in place to deal with the issue. “I want the SID to review the applications before sending them to my office for confirmation.” Yes, that was definitely relief. “I’d also like your people to keep an eye on visitors, but you mentioned having a limited group of field-ready agents?”

“I wouldn’t want most of the past year’s new staff in charge of what might be a delicate situation, no.” The Minister smiled his wry smile at that, which Yunlan took for a good sign of understanding what he wasn’t saying out loud. “I wonder, though, if this might be a good opportunity to extend what the Yashou patrol partners are already doing?”

The Minister sat back, eyeing him thoughtfully. “Partner your people with regular police to oversee visitors, and introduce the regulars to the idea of Dixingren that way?”

Yunlan grinned openly and hooked an arm over the back of the formal little couch. It seemed safe enough, now, and he did appreciate an intelligent boss. “Seems to be working so far, for the Yashou.”

“True enough.” The Minister looked down at his tented fingers for a long moment and finally nodded. “All right, we’ll try it.” When he looked back up, though, the gaze that fixed Yunlan was dark and serious. “I expect you to keep me informed of how it’s going, Chief Zhao.”

In other words, Yunlan thought rather darkly himself, make sure the Minister heard more than what Zhao Xinci’s continuing influence among the police might filter for his ears. He made his voice firm and certain. “I will, Minister.”

His father might be far better at playing ministry politics than Yunlan, but Yunlan had always been better at playing for winning outcomes.

One Month

The first official visitor from Dixing had flown straight past “visitation” to a trial of citizenship, and Zhu Hong personally thought it had been planned to stress-test Minister Guo’s nerves. It would have done hers, too, if she hadn’t already known the whole thing was a put-up. As it was, she stood straight and serious beside the middle-aged police lieutenant who’d been assigned as her oversight partner, and carefully bit back her smirk when the gateway between realms misted into visibility and the man startled back.

“Is that it?” Tan Xiao asked eagerly, from behind them.

“Be patient, Mr. Tan,” she admonished. “She’ll be here in a moment.”

A moment later, sure enough, translucent air parted around the tiny form of Zheng Yi, and the considerably more intimidating sweep of hooded black robes beside her.

“Who—?” Lieutenant Deng started to snap, hand falling to his sidearm. The Chief had warned her to be alert for that kind of reaction, though, and Zhu Hong stepped forward smartly and bowed.

“Your Eminence.” She waited for Shen Wei’s silent gesture to rise and turned to Deng. “Lieutenant, this is the Black-cloaked Envoy, the preeminent ruler of Dixing.” She trusted that her quick glare added an unspoken so mind your manners.

Deng Chao took his hand away from his sidearm, at least.

Shen Wei nodded, graciously ignoring the political gaffe, and then tipped his head at Tan Xiao. “You are Tan Xiao?”

Tan Xiao followed Zhu Hong’s lead and bobbed a bow. “Yes, your Eminence.”

Shen Wei set a hand on Zheng Yi’s shoulder. “This is more irregular than I would prefer, but Zheng Yi has been firm in her wish to return to you. I would not separate her from the family she has known.” He fixed a sharp stare on Tan. “Are you prepared to take responsibility for the care and upbringing of this child of my people?”

Tan Xiao nodded firmly several times. “I am, your Eminence. I swear I’ll raise her as my own little sister.”

Shen Wei nodded back, slow and measured. “And what provisions have you made to help her keep her power under control?”

Zhu Hong noted Deng Chao’s start of surprise and rolled her eyes. Did the Chief’s father really think they’d be caught out that easily, and not take precautions to ensure humans’ safety? Or perhaps, a second thought that sounded very much like Qing-jie added, he had just been working with a blunt instrument, in Deng Chao?

Tan, on the other hand, positively beamed, mostly at Zheng Yi. “I was researching it all this time, hoping.” Which was probably quite true. He pulled out a choker-length necklace with a delicate chain and a large silver oval at the front. “This should modulate the vibration produced by her power.”

He held it out and, after a glance up at Shen Wei for permission, Zheng Yi stepped forward to take it and fasten it around her neck, adjusting the smooth silver oval carefully against her throat. “Like this, Xiao ge-ge?” she asked, and her voice was soft, devoid of the terrifying, vertiginous edge Zhu Hong had heard before. Tan beamed wider.

“Just like that, mei-mei,” he agreed, and looked up hopefully at the Envoy.

“Are you sure this is your will, Zheng Yi?” Shen Wei asked quietly. She clasped her hands and nodded, small face serious, and he seemed to sigh. “Very well. I grant your care to Tan Xiao. These two,” he swept a hand out to take in Zhu Hong and Deng Chao, “will oversee your presence here. You may go to them, as well, if you are ever in trouble or wish to contact Dixing.”

Deng Chao blinked as if that had never occurred to him, and Zhu Hong suddenly saw how this bit of the game had been played. He was old enough to have children himself, or perhaps nieces and nephews. Most of the officers Director Zhao would have the strongest connection and most influence with would be that age, wouldn’t they? The Chief and the Envoy had blocked his very first move just by making the first entry case a child. She had to stifle a sigh of sheer envy, and remind herself to keep observing. Someday she’d learn to play the game like that, too.

She had to admit, though, Deng Chao wasn’t the only one affected by the way Zheng Yi lit up, and turned to hold up her arms, or the way Tan Xiao dropped to his knees to gather her close. “Welcome home, mei-mei,” he whispered against her hair, and Zhu Hong looked away from them, blinking back a little wetness in her eyes. Deng Chao’s gaze crossed hers as he did exactly the same. Yes, that was definitely the last of his resistance done for. He patted his pockets awkwardly until he came up with a scrap of paper and a pen.

“Here, Miss Zheng.” He held the paper out to her. “You can call this number, if you need us, all right?”

Her eyes got big, and she looked up at Tan questioningly. At his encouraging nod, she reached out and took the paper with a tiny, shy smile. “Thank you, Officer Deng.”

Deng Chao positively melted, and Zhu Hong marked off a complete victory on her mental scoreboard.

The SID one, Director Zhao zero. Maybe she’d make an actual scoreboard, back at the office.

Two Months

Guo Changcheng was excited by his latest assignment. He liked his regular job, of course, but there was no denying that Special Investigations only got called in when something had already gone wrong. A chance to introduce Dixingren who weren’t criminals to his city was a very nice change indeed.

His assigned police partner didn’t seem to agree, but Chief Zhao had told Changcheng that it might take a little while for the other divisions of the Inspectorate to get comfortable with the idea. To start seeing Dixingren as regular people, instead of scary stories or case reports of broken laws. So Changcheng smiled as warmly as he could at Officer Zhu Gang, even if the other young man just looked back at him with steely eyes, more suited to a member of the Armed Police than an urban sub-bureau.

Right on time, the smoky white circle of the gateway whispered into existence. Officer Zhu braced as if he expected something to charge through it, but before Changcheng could say more than a word or two to reassure him, the Envoy stepped through.

Changcheng had to admit, Professor Shen wasn’t very reassuring when he looked like this.

After a long moment of staring silently at Officer Zhu, though, and a brief nod at Changcheng, the Professor, or rather the Envoy Changcheng corrected himself conscientiously, stepped aside and two other figures emerged through the gateway. The visitors were a couple just this side of elderly, who promptly stopped and stared around with wide eyes.

“Oh my goodness, Tao-ge!” the woman said, clasping her hands together. “Just look at the trees! Oh, oh, and look, it’s a bird!” She sounded as excited as a child seeing pandas at the zoo for the first time, and her husband beamed and patted her arm before turning to bow deeply to Professor Shen.

“My Lord, thank you, from the bottom of my heart, for supporting our application.”

“Of course,” Professor Shen murmured, and spread a hand toward Changcheng and Officer Zhu.

The man looked around and beamed some more. “Of course, of course! Good afternoon, young men; is there paperwork to be done? We made sure to bring all of our copies of our application materials.” He pulled a substantial wad of papers out of his jacket and offered them.

Officer Zhu looked like he wasn’t quite sure what to do with all that fatherly goodwill and cooperation, so Changcheng patted his shoulder with a reassuring smile and stepped forward to shake Mr. Tao’s hand and glance through the papers just to be polite.

“That all looks in order, sir. Welcome to Dragon City!” He fished out one of the cards Hong-jie had told everyone to carry after she got back from her first assignment receiving visitors, and offered it. “I’m Guo Changcheng, and this is Officer Zhu; we’ll be your police contacts and oversight while you’re here. Please contact us at once if you run into any trouble.”

“Oh, how kind of you,” the woman exclaimed, and then lowered her voice and leaned closer. “The Lord Envoy did say some of your laws might be quite different from ours. I don’t suppose there’s an office we could consult about that, to make sure we understand what’s allowed?”

Changcheng traded a glance with Officer Zhu, who looked just as much at a loss as he was. “International Cooperation, maybe?” he suggested.

“Or maybe the Entry and Exit Administration.” Officer Zhu looked completely puzzled by two people volunteering to be taken down to the Inspectorate offices, which just went to show that Chief Zhao had been right. Clearly, a lot of the police only knew of Dixingren from the case files.

“We’ll figure it out,” Changcheng told the couple cheerfully.

Perhaps they should all carry a pamphlet on local regulations, along with the cards?

Three Months

Chu Shuzhi stood impassively by the gateway and waited, not bothering to glance at his police ‘partner’. One glance was all he’d needed to tell that someone in the Supervisory Bureau had gotten into the SID’s records on today’s incoming visitor. They’d sent the most senior officer yet, and the man had the no-nonsense look of someone with a warrant already in his pocket.

It was a good thing they’d gone light on the romantic details of that case. Shuzhi held back a smirk as the gate activated and Yuan Yi straightened up a little further. As the young woman they were waiting for emerged, he stepped briskly forward.

“Li Juan?”

Her eyes flickered back and forth between them. “Yes?”

“Dixing’s Envoy,” the lack of any respect in his language made Shuzhi’s fingers itch for his strings, “pushed hard for you to be allowed a visit. But in light of your criminal record, we want to keep this brief. You mentioned in your application wanting to see a…” he paused and leafed through the folder in his hand, mostly for effect Shuzhi felt, “a Ji Xiaobai, yes?”

She started forward a step, hands coming up to clasp tight against her chest. “Yes! Is he well?”

Yuan Yi gave her a very dubious look and said, quellingly, “I sent an agent for him; he should be here,” a call from down the road made him look around with a satisfied smile, “any moment. Let’s get this over with.”

Shuzhi was starting to have a hard time not smirking openly.

A much younger officer pelted up with Ji Xiaobai in his wake. “Here he is, sir!”

Ji Xiaobai didn’t say anything for a long moment, just staring at Li Juan who stared back, both of them wide-eyed as stunned deer. Yuan Yi was just opening his mouth when Ji Xiaobai stumbled forward another step and whispered, “Weiwei? Is it really you?”

A smile slowly took over Li Juan’s entire face. “Xiaobai.”

Visible relief swept through him, shoulders falling, hands opening. “Weiwei.” And then he cleared his throat and added, ducking his head shyly. “That’s… that’s not your name, though is it?” Ji Xiaobai smiled at her. “What’s your own name?”

Li Juan had her hands pressed to her mouth, now, tears starting to run down her cheeks. “Li Juan. I’m Li Juan.”

“Li Juan,” he repeated, so soft and caressing that Shuzhi was tempted to tell them to save that for in private. Yuan Yi was looking increasingly red in the face, though, and his eyes actually bugged out when Ji Xiaobai held out his arms and Li Juan flung herself into them and buried her tears against his shoulder. “Juan,” Ji Xiaobai repeated against her hair, and looked up at Yuan Yi with a brilliant, if rather damp, smile of his own. “Thank you, sir. Thank you so much!”

Yuan Yi had to make two tries before he managed to answer. “That… well…” He took another look at the couple clinging together, both of them laughing and crying at the same time, and sighed. “You’re welcome.”

“Here,” Shuzhi prodded Li Juan’s shoulder and handed over the pieces of the SID’s developing visitor’s kit. “He and I are your contacts and oversight; call this number if you get in any trouble. Review this pamphlet for local laws and regulations. And,” he finally let the smirk escape, “if you choose to apply for citizenship, follow the procedure on this form. Do that before the wedding, this time.”

Li Juan blushed red and looked up at Ji Xiaobai under her lashes. “I hadn’t thought… I mean…”

If Ji Xiaobai smiled any brighter, everyone watching was going to need sunglasses. “I waited. If you want, if you’re sure…” The details of her answer got lost in another flurry of hugging, but it certainly looked positive.

Shuzhi figured this would be another mark for the “total victory” column on the score board Zhu Hong had started keeping.

Four Months

Da Qing lounged in a corner of the municipal police offices and tried not to cackle out loud as a harried young officer tried to deal with Ye Huo and his backup band of followers.

“Look, the fact remains that all of you were breaking the law by taking part in an underground fighting ring…”

He was immediately drowned out (again) under the protests of Ye Huo’s followers.

“…only trying to help…”

“…saved us all!”

“…can’t just wave it off when…”

Ye Huo himself shrugged helplessly at the officer’s aggravated look, and turned (again) to try to calm them down. When the protests had died down to muttering, he said, “I’m perfectly prepared to pay the fine, of course. We all are; that’s why,” he gave the crowd a fairly stern look, “I let everyone come along.” He turned back to the officer with a calm and deliberate smile. “Perhaps you can help us with that now?”

The officer very obviously weighed the little details of procedure against the chances of another outburst, and quickly slapped a receipt book down on the counter. “All right, let’s get this done then.”

Da Qing snickered as Ye Huo shepherded his men up, one at a time, to pay their fines, and scolded the one who started to discard his receipt, and generally acted more like a mother hen than the champion of an underground arena. Once Ye Huo had paid his own fine, he offered a completed request for citizenship with a hopeful look. The officer eyed the lot of them darkly, but finally sighed and took it.

“I can’t guarantee this will be accepted, you know.”

“Of course not. Thank you for your assistance in letting us settle our debts, though. I appreciate it.” At Ye Huo’s meaningful look, the rest of them chipped in with muttered thanks also, and Ye Huo finally herded them out the door. The officer sat back with a faint groan.

“I did say you could let me handle it,” Da Qing mentioned, just to twist the knife, and got a scorching glare in return.

“Shut up and make sure they all get a copy of that law pamphlet your Division does up. Seems like he’s just about the only one who doesn’t need the reminder.”

Da Qing grinned. He thought he should get a total victory plus one on their score board, for that.

Five Months

Lin Jing felt that they were making progress on the whole “Dixingren are good” indoctrination process. He definitely expected today to move things along a little further. But he couldn’t say he was surprised that Yu Jun was looking a bit suspiciously at he and Xu Jian.

“Why are there two of you, today?”

Lin Jing gave the good Officer his best “I am a harmless geek” smile. “Because there are two visitors?”

Xu Jian rolled his eyes mightily. “Ignore him,” he directed. “He’s just a tagalong on this one. After all,” he slanted a sidelong look at Lin Jing, “we want to avoid personal bias.”

“Filtering initial approaches based on experience is not bias,” Lin Jing insisted for the nth time. “Recapitulation is all well and good for biology, but it just wastes lab time for us.”

Xu Jian’s eyes narrowed into a glare. “It is not recapitulation to give proper consideration to all avenues of research. One of these days you’re going to miss something obvious. And this time, it won’t be on purpose.”

Lin Jing winced. He’d known, when the Boss decided to keep Xu Jian, that eventually he’d get the whole story of Lin Jing’s part in the mess a year and a half ago. He’d also known Xu Jian didn’t believe in pulling his punches when science was on the line. He respected that; he honestly wished he’d had just a little more of that conviction himself, at the time. It still stung.

“Can we save the science argument for later?” Yu Jun asked, a bit dryly. “The gate’s open.”

Lin Jing whipped around to face it, argument forgotten, and held his breath as a figure darkened the white mist. No, two figures. They stepped through together, hands clasped, and Lin Jing couldn’t help the smile that took over his face, no matter how silly Xu Jian’s snort suggested it made him look. “Sha Ya,” he said, softly.

She looked good. Of course she did, she always looked good, but she looked healthy and happy, and even after Professor Shen had said she and a few others hadn’t been fully ‘digested’ and had mostly recovered, he hadn’t completely believed it until now. And she also looked maybe a little nervous, which was exactly how he felt too, and she was looking at him with wide eyes.

“Lin Jing.”

For a breathless moment they just stared at each other, and then Sha Ya took a deep breath, stalked forward, and punched him in the shoulder. Hard.

“You jerk!” she snapped, over his yelp and Hua Yuzhu’s sudden laughter. “That was the most embarrassing password ever!”

“Sorry?” he offered weakly. He maybe should have considered this possibility sooner, but at the time he hadn’t thought he’d ever see her again!

Sha Ya crossed her arms, glowering. “Also, the power ran out way too fast.”

That made him straighten up, startled. “It did? But I calculated that battery should last for…” He trailed off as her eyes slid to the side, and then really couldn’t help a completely soppy smile. “Oh. I can, um. Replace it. If you want.”

“You’d better.” She still wasn’t quite looking at him and just possibly had a hint of pink on her cheeks. Just a hint. “And show me more of those skies, too.”

He dared to step closer, reaching out a hand. “I will. Promise.”

She glanced at him and huffed a little. “All right, then.” She finally unfolded her arms and, after a long moment, reached out to rest her fingers in his hand.

Lin Jing folded both his hands around hers, so happy he could barely breathe.


“You know,” Officer Yu said, watching Lin Jing and Sha Ya holds hands and smile at each other some more, “some of the others told me that volunteering for visitor oversight was just asking to drown in syrup, and I didn’t believe them.”

“You should have.” Xu Jian might still be new to the SID, but he’d read the old reports and they were as thick with star-crossed lovers as they were with dangerous attackers. He doubted the Chief and the Professor would run out any time soon.

“Obviously.” Yu Jun sighed and turned to Hua Yuzhu, holding out a folder of papers. “Make sure she gets her half when she comes back down from the clouds, will you? Here’s our contact information, this is a brief overview of local laws, and,” he sighed again, casting a slightly aggrieved look over his shoulder at the previously dangerous criminal who was now handing a ring back to Lin Jing and blushing, “here are the directions to apply for citizenship.”

Hua Yuzhu dimpled at him as she took the folder. “Thank you, Officer. I understand there will also be check-ins because of Sha Ya’s record?”

“The schedule is in there, too. Not,” Yu Jun added dryly, “that I think we’re going to lose track of her at this rate.”

Hua Yuzhu glanced over at the couple and giggled. “Not likely. I’ll make sure she sees it, though.”

Xu Jian noted the casual wave of acknowledgement Yu Jun gave that, and smiled, satisfied. He would definitely be able to report this one for the ‘total victory’ column.

Six Months

Yunlan draped himself backwards over a chair and contemplated at the SID’s running scoreboard cheerfully. “So, what percentages do we estimate, based on this?” he asked Xu Jian.

“Calculating in the frequency with which our oversight partners mention another member of the Ministry voicing favorable views, I think we have between sixty and seventy percent penetration, by now.” Xu Jian tapped the end of his pen against his notebook. “I imagine it actually helps that so many of rank and file in the other divisions are only just learning that Dixing is real.”

Zhu Hong tipped her head, frowning. “Does that mean we have lower penetration at the upper levels?”

“Exactly,” xiao-Wei agreed. “We seem to be doing reasonably well with senior officers who stayed in the sub-bureaus, but the upper levels of administration are where the Supervisory Bureau’s attitude has had the greatest influence.”

Zhu Hong nibbled on her lip and slowly ventured, “Can we work through the Minister, maybe, for those?” She ducked her head at xiao-Wei’s approving nod, and Yunlan leaned over against his shoulder, laughing.

“You just can’t resist teaching, can you?” Kind of the way Yunlan couldn’t resist teasing him about it, and watching his ears turn red. The fact that teaching was, in some way, xiao-Wei’s guilty pleasure was absolutely adorable. “The Minister’s policy will be our strongest lever, but we’ll have to be careful, too. If he thinks we’re using him, this all blows up.”

“We’re not, though, are we?” xiao-Guo asked, and fidgeted when the rest of the team turned to look at him. “I mean, we’re doing everything we can to make his policy a success, because it’s the right thing. Aren’t we?”

There was one of those pauses that happened whenever xiao-Guo knocked an entire conversation sideways by unthinkingly voicing the moral consideration underneath all the details. “Absolutely true,” Yunlan agreed, once he’d caught his mental balance again, and xiao-Guo beamed. Lao-Chu settled a hand on the back of his partner’s neck, looking satisfied.

When the staff meeting broke up, though, xiao-Wei caught his arm and said quietly, “The Minister will notice how much we didn’t tell him, if and when my identity needs to come out.”

“You’re a head of state,” Yunlan pointed out, because it was something that had entertained him ever since he first thought it out. “You outrank him.” At xiao-Wei’s exasperated look, though, he gave in. “I know trust is going to be an issue. But I think he’s sensible enough to understand why we didn’t just drop the whole package on his head at once.” Especially if they’d just dropped all the really heavy bits on his head at once.

Xiao-Wei smiled like he was trying not to, clearly following the thought and probably not wanting to encourage Yunlan. Yunlan smirked and leaned into his shoulder.

It wasn’t exactly that he was looking forward to what would probably be a fairly fraught conversation. It was just that he did look forward to xiao-Wei being able to be openly himself. From the way the thought resonated all the way down inside him, he thought that had probably been one of his goals for quite a long time. Xiao-Wei was an amazing man.

Yunlan was willing to reach for a fairly big hammer to make the rest of the world realize it.

End

Swallow the Mountain

A knock on his office door made Shen Wei look up, and he started to stand when he saw, not one of his students, but Yunlan in the doorway. “Is there—?”

“No, no, no problems today,” Yunlan assured him, strolling in.

After a moment of fruitless waiting for an expansion on that, Shen Wei sat back, brows lifting. “You usually wait for me at the Division headquarters, if there are no problems,” he pointed out.

Yunlan waved an airy hand. “Oh, nothing urgent. Just a little matter I wanted to consult our consultant about.” He hopped up to sit squarely on the desk, planting his boots casually on Shen Wei’s chair, on either side of his thighs.

“Ah, I see,” Shen Wei agreed dryly, and crooked his fingers at his office door, beckoning it closed and locked for good measure. He leaned back comfortably in his chair, looking up at Yunlan, just as mild and enquiring as possible when there was a bubble of laughter trying to escape his chest. “And what is this little matter?” Just as Yunlan was drawing breath, he wrapped his hands around Yunlan’s calves and suppressed a smile at the tiny hitch of breath that answered.

Yes, he’d rather thought that was the point of today’s visit.

“We have a new applicant who listed a biosciences degree from the University in their background. Shang Xie. Was he ever one of your students?”

Yunlan leaned temptingly close, elbows braced on his knees, and Shen Wei smiled, not bothering to soften the predatory edge. There’d always been a hint of wildness in Kunlun, for all he’d preferred peace and quiet—the intractability of stone and snowmelt—and he’d never feared this side of Shen Wei, in any life. “I would have to check my rosters to be sure, with just the name,” he murmured, stroking his fingers down the curve of Yunlan’s calf muscles and watching the way Yunlan wet his lips, slow and deliberate. “Did anything else about him stand out?”

“He sounded pretty laid back, but he had good grades.” Shen Wei slid his hands over Yunlan’s knees, thumbs stroking little circles against the insides, and pushed them ever so slightly wider apart. Yunlan’s eyes went dark and dilated, but his voice was still even when he added, “Graduated three years ago, I think.”

“Mmm, I think I do remember a Shang Xie about three years ago.” Shen Wei could hear his own voice sinking into a purr, and didn’t try to stop that either. After all this time, he didn’t have a great deal of control left, when it came to Zhao Yunlan, and he didn’t particularly care any more. “Not an outstanding student, but very precise.” He ran his hands slowly up Yunlan’s thighs, thumbs tracing quite precisely along the inner seams of his jeans. Yunlan leaned back as he did, hands catching the far edge of Shen Wei’s desk. Shen Wei stopped his hands just short of Yunlan’s increasingly evident erection and smiled up at him. “Shall I check my office records for his assignments?”

Not a lot of control, but plenty of motivation to pay Yunlan back for all those damn lollipops.

“No, no that’s not necessary.” Yunlan sounded gratifyingly breathless, now, and looked like a calligraphed invitation to debauchery, leaning back on his hands with his legs spread for Shen Wei. “I was just hoping to get a general feel.”

Shen Wei couldn’t help laughing at that slip (or perhaps not a slip) of the tongue. “Oh really?” He slid his hands just a little further up and ran his thumbs firmly over the bulge in Yunlan’s jeans.

“Nnh!” Yunlan tipped his head back, hands tightening on the edge of Shen Wei’s desk. “Oh yeah, definitely.”

“Well, then.” Shen Wei undid Yunlan’s jeans, fingers light, not looking away from the heaviness of Yunlan’s eyes on his. He didn’t look away until he leaned down and closed his mouth, softly, over Yunlan’s cock. At the sharp, wanting sound that jerked out of Yunlan, he drew back just far enough to speak, the soft breath of words directly against wet skin. “Shh. It’s still working hours here, you know.” The bitten-back moan that answered made him smile.

He wrapped his lips around Yunlan’s cock and slid his mouth down, slowly, and slowly back up, deliberate and caressing, watching Yunlan under his lashes, savoring the way he arched back over the desk, flushed and gasping for breath. Shen Wei made an approving sound and wrapped his hands around Yunlan’s thighs, holding them apart while Shen Wei took him in again, all the way down, and sucked firmly. Yunlan whimpered, pushing up against his hands, and Shen Wei smiled around him. He worked his mouth up and down, slow and wet, and took his time about it, which was only what Yunlan deserved—in every sense of the word.

Yunlan moaned for him, all the more intense for how soft it was, and Shen Wei let his hands slide up Yunlan’s thighs, over his hips, to hold him fast. And then, ever so delicately, he bit down.

Nngh!” Yunlan jerked in his hold again, but this time Shen Wei kept him still. Again and again, he closed his teeth lightly around Yunlan’s cock, working up the length of it, and then slid his mouth back down all in a rush, sucking hard.

A groan burst out of Yunlan as he came undone, arched taut over Shen Wei’s desk, and Shen Wei swallowed around him, drawing him out and out until Yunlan collapsed back on his elbows, panting hard. Shen Wei drew back and smiled, satisfied.

“Oh.” It took a few moments for Yunlan to find the second world. “Wow.”

Shen Wei laughed softly and stood up, holding out his hands. “Come here.”

Yunlan reached back, lazily, clasping his hands, and Shen Wei pulled him upright, gathering Yunlan into his arms. He made a pleased sound at the relaxed way Yunlan leaned into him. Against Yunlan’s ear, he murmured, “You know you can have anything you wish, from me. I would never deny you anything.”

“I know,” Yunlan agreed, just as low, lacing his hands behind Shen Wei and tugging him a little closer.

In other words, Shen Wei reflected a bit wryly, he knew it the same way Shen Wei knew Yunlan remembered him, now. He knew it, but old habit still made him hesitate sometimes before he spoke of shared moments from long ago. He spoke as softly as Yunlan smiled at him, every time Shen Wei mentioned those memories after all. “I don’t mind demonstrating, in the least.”

Yunlan laughed against his shoulder. “I noticed that.”

“I should hope so.” When Yunlan’s hold on him eased just a little, with the teasing, Shen Wei drew back far enough to meet his eyes. “Always.”

The promise eased the rueful edge from Yunlan’s laughter, softened his smile into something a little more peaceful. “Yes. Always.”

Shen Wei smiled back, warm with the satisfaction of Yunlan’s agreement, and set his fingers under Yunlan’s chin, tipping it up so Shen Wei could kiss him, deep and slow and thorough. Yunlan nearly purred into his mouth, pulling him closer again.

“I have students coming soon,” Shen Wei murmured against the fullness of Yunlan’s lips, sliding his hands down Yunlan’s back to stroke bare skin under his loosened waistband, “or I’d demonstrate for you further.”

Yunlan groaned, low in his throat. “You are coming straight home after that, right?”

“Directly,” Shen Wei promised, reaching around to tuck Yunlan in and do his pants back up. “You’ll be there?”

“Absolutely,” Yunlan said, husky. He slid off the desk and stole one more kiss before tugging his shirt straight, running his hands through his hair, and sauntering to the door.

Shen Wei took his seat again, and a good breath for composure, and didn’t let his smile escape at the little cascade of scandalized giggles and whispers from the hall, as Yunlan strolled out.

He rather looked forward to watching the Dean try to come up with a suitably indirect and polite way to tell him not to have sex in his office, at least during office hours. He looked up with a calm smile of welcome to greet his two o’clock appointment. “Mr. Wu, come in.”

He had spoken truthfully. He did hope, very much, that Yunlan’s hesitance to ask for things he wanted eased in time. But the deep current of possessiveness in Shen Wei’s heart hadn’t changed with his changing nature; he didn’t mind demonstrating as often as Yunlan desired.

He didn’t mind the least.

End

The Marriage of Lightning and the Lake

Now

Zhu Hong had been brought up as the precious daughter of the Snake tribe. Her uncle had spoiled her, especially after she lost her parents. Her older cousins had doted on her, and she’d never lacked for indulgent eyes watching over her. She’d been the uncontested princess of the children her own age, and ruled over her playmates with careless ease. She’d been taught the history and arts of her people until that had bored her, and then been allowed to go among humans for schooling in the greater world. When she’d stumbled across the Special Investigations Division while they chased a life-stealer, she’d decided she wanted to work for the Division Chief who’d taken the time to make sure she was safely away before closing on the culprit. She’d gotten her way.

Zhu Hong had perfected the pout, the winsome look, and the hard fist as tools to make the world go her way, and she knew exactly how to use them. As time went on, and she’d started wanting to be stronger, she’d honed her natural abilities until she could do almost what any of her fully-transformed cousins could. She’d learned human ways so well she could blend in as completely as she wished.

None of that told her the first thing about how to be Chief Elder of the Yashou people.

Then

“…never learned a thing about ruling, I never even took any classes on politics.” Zhu Hong twisted her hands together, pacing her uncle’s small outer room. “Is this really a good idea?”

He sat back in his chair, face perfectly neutral the way it almost never was with her. “Do you wish to abdicate, then?”

“No!” Zhu Hong bit her lip. She didn’t want to give up on the way forward Zhao Yunlan had probably hoped for, for the Yashou. But… “But if it’s the right thing for the tribes,” she said, slow and reluctant, “I should.”

An unimpressed sniff from the open door sent her spinning on her heel to see who would be eavesdropping on the Elder of the Snake tribe. Sheer black draperies stirred, just outside, and Zhu Hong stiffened. Of all the people she shouldn’t let overhear the slightest lack of confidence!

“You don’t need learning, for this, little snakelet.” Ya Qing didn’t look around at her, only stood with folded arms and her back to them. “We have that. What you need is wisdom.” Now she turned her head, and raked Zhu Hong head to foot with a cutting gaze. Another sniff. “I suppose you have enough of that to be going on with.”

As Zhu Hong stood there, stunned, the breath she’d taken in to protest caught short in her throat, Ya Qing spread her arms and leaped into the sky.

“That one always did have a taste for drama,” her uncle snorted, and stood to come and take Zhu Hong’s shoulders. “So? What do you want to do, a-Hong?”

Zhu Hong took another breath, trying to ignore the tangle of flattery and annoyance making her stomach flutter. “I want to try.” And then she couldn’t quite help asking, “Do you think she’s right?”

Her uncle smiled. “I think she could be.”

Zhu Hong smiled back, a little shy, and repeated. “I’ll try.”

Now

Honored Chief Elder…

Zhu Hong stifled a groan. It was getting so she felt a headache coming on just reading those words. And there’d been three letters waiting for her, this week, when she visited her uncle’s house. Three! For the Chief Elder, bypassing the tribe Elders completely!

Unfortunately, a glance at her office computer showed no new cases miraculously appearing to cause a plausible delay in dealing with these. She sighed and unfolded the first letter.

Then

Zhu Hong paced back and forth across the roof of the University’s east classroom building, trying not to move too fast or clench her hands or be otherwise obviously nervous, but unable to be still. She still wasn’t sure this was an entirely good idea.

Neither was anyone else. Her uncle, and even Ying Chun, had offered to come with her. When she’d refused that, her uncle had tried to send a cousin with her as a bodyguard. She’d had to argue for ten solid minutes to avoid that. She’d have felt better for some backup, yes, facing someone of Ya Qing’s power, but… taking someone from her own tribe just felt wrong, and bringing the Elder of the Flower tribe would make her look like a child hiding behind her aunt’s skirts. So instead, she’d done the next best thing and just had to hope it wouldn’t backfire…

“Interesting choice of location.”

Zhu Hong whipped around, biting back a hiss of surprise. She hadn’t even seen Ya Qing approach, let alone change. There she was, though, leaning against the roof safety rail with her arms crossed, black gown ruffling in the wind.

Smiling.

Zhu Hong settled back on her heels. Ya Qing’s smile was sharp and crooked, but it looked more amused than mocking. So Zhu Hong took a breath and lifted her chin. “It seemed suitable, to meet in neutral territory at first.”

“And to remind me which of us chose the winning side?” Ya Qing flicked dismissive, gloved fingers when Zhu Hong started to protest. “It was a clever choice. So? What does the Chief Elder want with me?”

Zhu Hong crossed her arms with a huff, because she couldn’t actually deny she’d hoped the lingering shadow of the Black-cloaked Envoy would keep things calm. She also tried to ignore the little curl of pleasure that the Crow Elder thought her clever. “I just want to know. What exactly is it that you want? Snake, Flower, they’re both pretty content with how things are. The Snake tribe is happy if they’re left alone, and the Flower tribe already goes anywhere they please. What is it that Crow wants?”

Ya Qing pursed her lips, looking thoughtful, and pushed away from the rail to stroll over to Zhu Hong’s side. “You could have asked your uncle, or Ying Chun. They’ve heard it often enough.”

“Maybe.” Zhu Hong’s hands tightened on her elbows. “I want to know what you say, though. To hear it in your own words.” That was basic investigation, after all; she hoped it was basic politics, too.

And it seemed like it was, because Ya Qing relaxed a little, the feathers of her cloak rustling as her shoulders eased from their tense poise—flight-ready, Zhu Hong realized. Maybe she wasn’t the only nervous one? Ya Qing turned her face up to the sun.

“I want to stop hiding,” she said, quietly. “In the last hundred years, humans have turned further and further away from us, forgotten that they live in the same world as us, and we… we have let them. We’ve withdrawn and hidden from them. Even when we’ve been caught in their catastrophes, like the killings that swept the land these last fifty years, we’ve done nothing but hide ourselves away deeper.” She looked back down, and Zhu Hong took a step back. Ya Qing’s eyes burned, dark and furious. “I am sick of it.”

Zhu Hong wet her lips. She recognized that fury, had seen it so often in the SID’s investigations, and she’d seen it drive terrifying explosions of violence. Very softly, she asked, “Who did you lose?”

Ya Qing laughed once, short and hard. “Such a smart little serpent.” She looked away, over the University’s central lawn. Zhu Hong waited, trying not to feel fear of the fire she was standing so near. “My eldest sister,” Ya Qing finally answered, low. “The one who should have been our Elder. She liked to go among humans—said their gossip was more fun to listen to than ours. But someone saw her change, and that was a time when the slightest deviation was feared, attacked.” She swallowed, sharp and convulsive. “They mobbed and killed her.”

Zhu Hong’s hands closed tight on each other. “I’m sorry for your loss.” After the way the public had been turned on the SID, she had an unpleasantly visceral idea of how that might have gone. How much, she suddenly wondered, had Ye Zun turned Ya Qing against him, with that order? Had that been why Ya Qing had surrendered so easily to the branch’s choice of Chief Elder?

“She’s gone,” Ya Qing said, dry and distant, not looking at her. “There’s nothing to be done about that. But I can try to keep it from happening again.” With a quick breath, she seemed to come back to the present. “Or at least I can argue for it.”

“So,” Zhu Hong said slowly, “you want humans to know about the Yashou? So they’re less afraid of us?”

Ya Qing gave her a cool smile. “Precisely.”

The smile was cool, but there was a gleam in her eye that made Zhu Hong think that the matriarch of the biggest eavesdroppers and gossips in the world probably knew full well what Zhao Yunlan’s thoughts had been, when it came to informing the populace. Zhu Hong tried, but she really couldn’t hold back her laugh at the sheer nerve and grace of Ya Qing’s dance across the lines of friend and foe. Ya Qing’s smile curled wider, and she set a hand on her hip, smug (preening) in her success.

“You look like a cat,” Zhu Hong giggled, and Ya Qing ruffled up.

“Bite your tongue.” A faint sniff and she settled again, serious again but without all the fierce, edged focus of her first appearance. “So?”

Zhu Hong missed the teasing smile with an unexpected pang, but she took a breath and thought about it. Zhao Yunlan had chosen something right for humans; was it right for Yashou?

An image drifted through her mind, of going out to eat, maybe even with company, and being able to order a raw meat dish. And maybe some of the other diners would be disgusted, and maybe some would be fascinated, but what if she could know that the server would only hesitate a moment, and the cook would maybe even be excited to make something unusual, and that her companion would expect it. Might even have taken her out specifically for this treat.

Ya Qing’s smile flashed through her head, and she stuffed it immediately away, trying to pretend there was no blush on her cheeks. “It seems reasonable,” she said hastily, to Ya Qing’s raised brows. “At least as long as our territory is respected. But how… I mean, it seems like the kind of thing we could only do through negotiation with the human Ministry.”

Ya Qing smiled, slow, cocking her head. “What an ambitious scope you think in, Chief Elder,” she purred. “I think I like it.”

Zhu Hong tried very hard not to squeak, or blush any more, or really react at all. She was pretty sure she was failing. “Then…” she cleared her throat and forced the breathlessness out of her voice. “Then I’ll consider, with the other Elders, how this might be done to everyone’s satisfaction.”

Ya Qing laughed softly. “Everyone’s? You’re an idealistic child. But I think perhaps I will like that, as well. Better than the reverse, at least.” She gathered her cloak about her. “Perhaps that ancient bit of wood truly does judge our natures.” In a flash of wings, she was gone.

Zhu Hong sat down abruptly on the short wall around the edge of the roof, careless of how her pants were going to get smudged, and pressed her palms over her cheeks. Ya Qing was just teasing. Of course she was; she thought of Zhu Hong as a child—she’d even said it. Typical of a Crow.

Of course, that must be it.

Now

The first letter was complaining of a human trespassing on the edge of Snake territory, and Zhu Hong had to wrestle with a strong urge to stab the paper with her pen, or possibly even bite it. They had a process for this kind of thing, and it did not include bending the ear of the Chief Elder!

She muttered under her breath as she hammered on the keyboard, sending a query to the police to see whether this had been reported (in which case the complainer might just live) or had been sent straight to her and no one else (in which case someone was about to get his tail tied in a knot, just see if she didn’t).

Then

“This will require re-writing parts of the treaty between the races.”

“I know.”

“We don’t even have contact with Dixing, right now, to fully ratify it again.”

“I know.”

“A-Hong, this will make things far more complicated—”

Zhu Hong exploded up out of her chair, in her uncle’s front room. “I know that! But Ya Qing has a point! If we really had stayed neutral, this time, how do you think the humans would have looked on us, if they’d won? Do you really imagine we’d have been able to wave the treaty at them and say ‘neutral!’ and they’d have just accepted that?”

Her uncle sat back, brows rising. “We could have hidden,” he said, but he sounded more thoughtful now.

“Where?” she demanded. “And for how long, before we ran out of places? Humans hunt their enemies; it’s something they have in common with Dixingren. And the less they know us, the more we withdraw, the more we look like enemies.”

Ying Chun finally looked up from her hands, folded on the table before her. “What if they do know of us, though? What will that mean for my people who don’t wish to be treated like some rare plant display, or fenced off?”

Zhu Hong chewed on her lip. What public suspicion might do to them all was one of the things she didn’t quite know what to do with, yet. “What if… what if no one had to reveal themselves immediately? Only the ones who want to, at first, and we just… don’t mention everyone else?” Professionalism nipped at her, and she added, “Unless someone has witnessed a crime.”

Ying Chun shook her head, kind but firm. “That will touch off a hunt, the first time someone has to come forward who had stayed hidden until then.”

“All or nothing,” Zhu Hong murmured, mostly to herself, and flopped back down into her chair with a sigh. There seemed to be danger both ways. If only the Yashou had anything resembling local patrolmen, anyone who was used to looking after large groups of people… Abruptly she sat up again, eyes widening. “Oh! We could use their’s!”

“A-Hong?” her uncle asked, cautious in a way that reminded her of his reaction to her attempts at creating medications, when she was young. She huffed at him, disgruntled.

“The police! The ones who patrol on the street, and have their own neighborhoods to look after. They’re the ones who could look out for trouble, and make sure everyone was safe; it’s their job!”

“Could we rely on human patrolmen to look after us?” Ying Chun asked, hesitant.

Zhu Hong sat forward, hands tight on each other with excitement as the thought unfolded further. “We could ask for liaisons from our people. The same way I am, to the SID.” Her hands broke apart, reaching as if she could hold this idea between them. “Maybe even use that as a way to get those of us who want to live closer to humans a start, introduce them and let them see how things work!”

Her uncle was back to looking thoughtful. “I suppose there are a few of the youngsters who might try. And sending them around with a human in authority would protect them, too.”

“Borrowing human authority to smooth our own way. I like that idea.” Ying Chun smiled at Zhu Hong. “I think I see why Qing-jie has started to approve of you more.”

Warmth flashed through Zhu Hong, like basking in the perfect beam of sunshine, and her breath caught on it. “She has?” Both her uncle and Ying Chun paused, staring at her, and she promptly blushed. That had probably been more gleeful than she should sound about Ya Qing’s approval.

“A-Hong.” Her uncle, in his turn, sounded alarmed, and she slid down in her chair, not meeting anyone’s eyes. “You’re not… you’re not really…”

Ying Chun burst out laughing, sweet and light, and Zhu Hong tried to sink through the floor. “Oh, no wonder she looked so pleased with herself!”

Uncle started half up from his chair. “If Ya Qing thinks she can trifle with my niece…!”

Ying Chun crossed her arms, stubborn as wood. “What’s wrong with it? Qing-jie is a good person! She wouldn’t lead anyone on.”

That made Zhu Hong look up from the start of her plan to slink under the table and escape. “Really?” Her uncle sagged back with a groan, which Zhu Hong firmly ignored. Ying Chun patted her arm with the kind smile that had made Zhu Hong tag along after her whenever she visited, when Zhu Hong was a child.

“Really. It’s been a long time since she looked at anyone like that, actually. I’m glad she is again.” Her smile turned impish. “And she thinks you’re cute.”

Zhu Hong could feel the smile taking over her face, bright and hopeful as the feeling in her chest.

“I believe her exact words were, ‘more guts than brains, but she does have some brains, and it’s a cute look on her’.”

“Auntie!” Zhu Hong pressed her hands over her face, blushing so hard she thought she might faint.

“Stop teasing your Chief Elder,” her uncle grumbled. Zhu Hong couldn’t help noticing she only seemed to be Chief Elder when it was convenient. “If we’re really going to plan on revealing ourselves and sending some of us among the humans’ patrollers, we need all three Elders here to discuss it.”

All right, maybe not just when it was convenient.

“I’ll send a message to Qing-jie.” Ying Chun rose and patted Zhu Hong’s shoulder as she left, which was comforting even if she was still grinning.

“A-Hong.” When she peeked out from between her fingers, her uncle was leaning toward her, serious. “Are you sure about this?”

“I didn’t mean to,” she said, voice smaller than she’d quite like. “It just happened! When we talked, she smiled at me, and I just… And she liked my ideas, and she’s never treated me like a lesser threat or went easy on me, even when she’s so strong, Uncle, and—”

“All right, all right.” Her uncle was rubbing his forehead, and Zhu Hong chewed on her lip some more. “When you spoke,” he said, at last, “she truly wasn’t just toying with you?”

“I asked about what she had lost.” Zhu Hong looked down at her hands. “About what had hurt her. And she told me. She didn’t yell at me or insult me, even though she was so angry I could taste it. Instead she said I had good thoughts, that I was clever.” Very softly, she finished, “She said maybe the branch judged us rightly.”

Her uncle heaved a sigh and muttered something under his breath. Zhu Hong thought she caught the words “terrible taste” and bridled, but when he looked up he was smiling, even if it was crooked. “All right. No one has ever been able to change your mind, once you made it up. But think about the politics you’re going to have to deal with, being the Chief Elder carrying on with one of the tribe’s Elders.”

Zhu Hong sat very still, eyes wide. “…oh.” She hadn’t thought of that. If the Chief Elder was known to favor one of the Elders who were under her, that… that could be bad, couldn’t it? Favoritism. That could mean resentment, even people thinking Ya Qing had found a way to rule from behind Zhu Hong. Maybe if she was careful to be seen listening to the Elders of Snake and Flower? Or especially Flower, since she was a Snake herself, and she hadn’t thought about that either…

“Here we are!” Ying Chun slipped back into her chair, followed by Ya Qing ducking through the door hanging in a rustle of silk and feathers. When she straightened, she looked straight at Zhu Hong, smiling faintly, and her eyes were warm.

“You keep your word, it seems. I like that, too.”

Zhu Hong smiled back, helplessly, feeling like she was floating in a cloud of happy warmth that made it easy to ignore her uncle rolling his eyes and Ying Chun stifling laughter.

She’d figure something out.

Now

The second letter was from one of the patrol liaisons, which soothed Zhu Hong’s temper a little. That, at least, was something that was supposed to come to her eyes. This time, it was from one of the more adventuresome young Flower men, who seemed to be picking up his police-partner’s attitudes quickly. The letter read like an incident report, especially the part about the two Crows in his neighborhood who had had a “domestic disturbance” that annoyed the neighbors. Zhu Hong smiled over that part.

Who’d have thought, a year ago, that two Yashou shifting on the street, especially to have a fight, would be called something so common by the humans around them? The Crow tribe did seem to have a knack for that making that change happen, though.

Then

Zhu Hong had thought that things would move slowly. That there might be lingering glances, and perhaps gradually sitting closer at meetings of the Elders, and possibly even a visit to her home if she were out on the balcony or roof.

Instead she got Da Qing tearing through the offices just as everyone was packing up for the day, nearly yelling, “Ya Qing is out front!”

The new staff jumped, and lao-Chu stood slowly, eyes narrowed, and xiao-Guo started chewing on his lip, and Zhu Hong realized abruptly that she hadn’t told her co-workers anything about recent events except that she was working on improving Yashou-human relations.

“Stop!” Everyone turned to look at her, but at least no one was reaching for a weapon or for his power any more. Zhu Hong heaved a quick sigh of relief and let her outstretched hand drop. “It’s not… I mean… Look, just let me handle this, all right?”

“Are you sure?” Da Qing demanded, actually looking serious for once.

“Yes, I’m sure.” She spun on her heel and marched out to the front door. The new staff, at least, stayed where they were, but Da Qing crowded after her and lao-Chu was sauntering after him. Zhu Hong could tell already this was probably going to be embarrassing. She wasn’t used to doing things she needed to keep others informed of!

Ya Qing was across the street, leaning against the wall with her arms crossed and a sharp quirk to her lips, and Zhu Hong supposed Da Qing could be excused for thinking her threatening. But Zhu Hong could see the brightness of amusement in those dark eyes as they raked over the small crowd on the SID’s steps. She elbowed Da Qing back and stepped forward, hands clasped to keep from fidgeting.

“Elder. Was there something you wished from the SID?” She did her best to sound dignified, but the way Ya Qing’s mouth curled up made her heart skip a beat.

“Indeed, I think there is.” Ya Qing pushed away from the wall and strolled closer. “Perhaps later for that, though.” A wave of tingles ran over Zhu Hong when she caught the implication, and Ya Qing’s smile got a little wider. “For now, I simply wished to see my High Elder safely home for the day.”

Da Qing looked quickly back and forth between them. “Wait a minute. You came just to walk her home?” He started to grin, and dodged back when Zhu Hong tried to grind her heel into his toe.

“Did something happen?” Lao-Chu, thankfully, was looking more thoughtful, though there was a definite sardonic tilt to his brows that Zhu Hong ignored with all her might.

Ya Qing flicked dismissive fingers. “A few of my people are having difficulty moving with the times.”

Zhu Hong’s eyes widened, but the flash of worry that the Crow tribe might not accept the compromise the Elders had reached ran straight into the realization that Ya Qing had come to protect her, and drowned there. “Oh,” she managed softly, hands clasping on each other tighter.

Laughter flashed in Ya Qing’s dark eyes again. “So go get your things, and I’ll walk you home.”

“Yes.” Zhu Hong barely noticed Da Qing’s snickering. “I’ll… yes.” Lao-Chu was rolling his eyes when she turned around, and she glared at him. It wasn’t like he had any room at all to talk, not with xiao-Guo draped over his shoulder, now giving Zhu Hong his brightest puppy-dog smile as she stalked past to grab her shoulder-bag.

“Have a good night,” Da Qing prodded as she passed, and skipped back with a laugh when she hissed at him.

There was a definite smirk tucked up at the corners of Ya Qing’s mouth, and she ushered Zhu Hong down the last step with a hand just barely touching her back. Zhu Hong tried not to blush and failed completely. As they walked, though, and Ya Qing let the quiet deepen between them, Zhu Hong felt herself relax into the ease of it. Ya Qing walked close to her, and her arm curved behind Zhu Hong once or twice when they turned a corner, but it wasn’t teasing any more. Just… nice. Protective, but quietly, not the overbearing way her older cousins tended to these days.

“Do you think there will really be trouble?” Zhu Hong asked as they turned down her street.

“Possible, but not likely.” Ya Qing cast a sharp eye over the rooflines of Zhu Hong’s block and nodded, looking satisfied.

“Why did you come, then?” Zhu Hong dared to ask, eyes fixed on her keys as she sorted out the one for the front door. A sidelong glance showed Ya Qing’s smile getting that teasing curl to it again.

“I did wish to see you home safe. You’ve shown yourself a reasonable and intelligent person, as we’ve planned the Yashou’s revelation, and I want to encourage that.” She reached out and set a finger under Zhu Hong’s chin, lifting her head. Zhu Hong fumbled her keys with a tiny gasp as a thrill of excitement ran through her. “I also simply wished to walk with you. Would you prefer I didn’t?”

It took Zhu Hong a moment to find words again. “No, I…” she swallowed and dared, “I liked walking with you.” The knowledge that she walked in Ya Qing’s protection had made her feel warm, all the way home. Even Ya Qing’s teasing fit in so well with the way the SID teased each other all the time that it made Zhu Hong’s heart turn over at how easy it felt.

Ya Qing’s teasing smile melted into a deeper, quieter warmth. “Then perhaps I’ll come to walk you home again.”

Zhu Hong wet her lips, intensely aware of the gloved finger resting under her chin. Her voice came out soft and breathless when she said, “I’d like that.”

“Then I will make sure it happens.” Ya Qing stepped closer, and Zhu Hong’s eyes went wide, lips already parted on a quick breath when Ya Qing leaned in and brushed the lightest of kisses over them. “Sleep well,” she murmured, as she drew back, and was gone into the shadows of the evening before Zhu Hong could even squeak.

Zhu Hong took a deep breath and found her key again. She walked steadily up to her apartment and let herself in, locking the door carefully behind her. She set her bag down and sat composedly on the couch.

And then she covered her face with her hands and squeaked.

Now

Their rapidly assimilating Flower patroller had added a post-script asking if he could double up with a friend, who he thought would work well with his current police partner. Zhu Hong chewed on her lower lip as she thought. It would be a good thing, if a trusted partner could introduce the next one in line, but would it be seen as unfair? Not all Yashou wanted to try out a human partner, by any means, but among those who did the competition for who would get to learn human-style policing next was pretty stiff.

Or perhaps this was exactly the gesture she needed, to make sure the Flower tribe felt equally treated? That had been getting to be more of an issue, she knew, ever since…

Well, it had been getting to be more of an issue.

Zhu Hong kept her head bent over her desk as she wrote a note to herself to discuss it with Ying Chun, privately. Less chance of lao-Chu or Da Qing noticing how she was blushing, that way.

Then

Zhu Hong was glad the series of attacks the SID had been called to look into weren’t actually the doing of a Dixingren. She was glad they didn’t have to subdue someone with the kind of power a Dixingren might have, and even more glad they didn’t have to try to figure out what to do with the man after since there was no Black-cloaked Envoy to hand him over to any more.

With her growing political awareness, she was entirely sure that the human Minister was even more glad to not be faced with that question.

But, while it meant that she and Da Qing had not cornered a Dixingren in a blind alley, it did mean she and Da Qing had cornered a crazed human with metal claws of some kind strapped to his hands. One who had attacked three women with them, and was staring at Zhu Hong with a mad, fixed gaze.

“We’ll be all right,” Da Qing muttered out of the corner of his mouth. “If he charges you, can you push him back? I’ll jump on him while he’s open.”

Zhu Hong sucked in a deep breath, ignoring how it shook, and nodded sharply. She could do this. She could. She’d kept up her training, and she could hold off even other Yashou most of the time. Claws wouldn’t be a problem.

The man smiled nastily at her, and she tensed.

The moment he stepped towards her, though, black fell out of the sky like the shadow of lightning, bursting between them in a swirl of power and feathers. Six black feathers shot forward and pinned the man to the brick behind him by his jacket.

“You dare.” Ya Qing’s voice was low, but cut through the man’s shout of outrage like a knife. Another handful of feathers hovered over her outstretched hand, gleaming and sharp. “You dare raise your hand to her?”

All of Zhu Hong’s coiled tension unwound in a soft shock of warmth. “Qing-jie,” she whispered.

Ya Qing glanced over her shoulder, eyes raking up and down Zhu Hong. “You’re well. Good.” She flicked her fingers, and the hovering feathers nailed a few more handfuls of cloth to the brick, pinning the struggling man more firmly. “I suppose I’ll refrain from killing him, then.”

“Yeah,” Da Qing put in slowly. “We do kind of try to do that.”

Ya Qing sniffed. “Make yourself useful then, Cat, and take care of him.”

Muttering under his breath about bossy birds, Da Qing edged wide around her and went to clout the man smartly, like a cat stunning a mouse it wanted to play with. Ya Qing watched closely until the man was zip tied at wrists and ankles, and finally sighed, relaxing with a shake of her shoulders that resettled her feathers. “You’re our Chief Elder,” she scolded Zhu Hong, coming to take her shoulders and look her over more closely. “You should be better guarded than this, when you’re out working.”

“I can take care of myself,” Zhu Hong protested, though not as strongly as she might have. “And there are so few of us who can do field-work at all…”

On his way back past them, phone out and lifted to catch some reception, Da Qing paused and took a second sniff. A smirk spread slowly over his face. “Once a princess, always a princess, I guess. You liked being rescued, didn’t you?”

Zhu Hong delivered a swift kick to his ankle and hissed when he hopped away, still laughing. She couldn’t meet Ya Qing’s eyes.

Until lace-gloved fingers caught her chin and turned her face back. Qing-jie was smiling. “Did you, then?”

“Only because it’s you,” Zhu Hong said, caught in those dark, laughing eyes, and then blushed harder when she realized what she’d admitted.

“I’m glad,” Qing-jie murmured, just between the two of them, stepping closer. “Perhaps I shall watch over you myself, then.”

Zhu Hong wet her lips and reached slowly out to tuck her hands under Qing-jie’s cloak, around her waist. “That would take up a lot of your time, though, wouldn’t it?” Not that she was actually protesting, just… trying to be a little bit responsible.

“Time spent guarding our Chief Elder would not be wasted.” Qing-jie’s thumb traced just below the curve of Zhu Hong’s mouth, and her lips parted on a soft gasp for breath as her heart tripped. “Time guarding you would not be wasted.” She closed the last centimeters between them, and Zhu Hong melted into the kiss, dizzy with the heat of knowing this magnificent, powerful woman wished to protect her, to hold her safe—and yet would not stand between Zhu Hong and her chosen work.

It felt so sweet.

When Qing-jie let her go, Zhu Hong pressed closer for a moment, snuggling against her just for one breath before she drew back and stood on her own feet. Qing-jie’s smile was warm and proud, and Zhu Hong smiled back shyly.

“Tell me, when you go out on work.” Qing-jie smoothed a lock of Zhu Hong’s hair back. “And I will watch over you.”

Zhu Hong ducked her head and promised, “I will.”

“Then I will see you tonight.” Qing-jie’s voice was soft with a promise of her own, and the warmth of it lingered even after she vanished back into the sky in a rush of wings.

“So, is it safe to look yet?” Da Qing called from the entrance of the alley.

“Shut up,” Zhu Hong snapped, brushing her blouse straight with brisk hands. “How long until someone comes to take him off our hands?”

Tonight couldn’t come fast enough, for her.

Now

Zhu Hong jotted down another note to herself to ask Ying Chun to send a small thank-you to her tribesman’s human partner. The man seemed to be getting along well with Yashou in general, and she wanted to encourage that as often as possible. She added a note at the bottom to ask Qing-jie to make certain someone spoke to the Crow couple. Relatable squabbles were one thing, but a serious fight in the streets would only set matters back.

And then she doodled the characters of Qing-jie’s name in the fanciest style she knew, smiling over them until she caught lao-Chu smirking from two desks away. She scowled at him and folded the note up.

She’d keep the SID up to date on Yashou affairs that might land on their desks, but what she felt about Qing-jie was nobody’s business but her own.

Even if it did tend to overlap with her official business an awful lot.

Then

It had taken months of planning, and then another month of concerted arguing with one after another administrative assistant to the new Minister, but Zhu Hong had finally done it. There was a new treaty document written out, and it was going to be signed on Yashou territory.

She stood in the back room of her uncle’s house, examining her makeup and twitching her flowing black vest into place and trying not to hyperventilate.

“Calm yourself, Hong-er.” Qing-jie’s hands slid over her shoulders from behind. “Haven’t the tribes all agreed to this? Even the old hold-outs?”

Zhu Hong took another quick breath. “Yes.”

“And hasn’t the human Ministry agreed to our draft? Hasn’t their Director of Administration spoken in favor of the patrol liaisons?”

Zhu Hong nodded at her reflection, breathing a little slower. “Yes.”

Qing-jie leaned against her back, warm and light, and purred in her ear, “Wouldn’t your uncle squawk, if I kissed you right here?”

Zhu Hong burst into helpless giggles. “Qing-jie!”

She could hear the smile in Qing-jie’s voice. “Hmm?”

Zhu Hong took a breath and let it out, feeling her shoulders drop under Qing-jie’s hands. “Yes.” She turned and wound her arms around Qing-jie, holding tight and feeling the strength of Qing-jie’s arms around her, and then leaned back. “I’ll be all right. You go ahead.”

She’d learned not to arrive with Qing-jie, not to meetings with other Yashou, the same way she’d learned to be careful what she ate in front of humans and to restrain her hiss when she was surprised or angry. She didn’t like it any better, but at least it was for a better reason. She didn’t want the tribes to doubt that she was keeping everyone in mind, not just Qing-jie, that she was doing her best as Chief Elder.

And Qing-jie smiled at her approvingly for it, and touched her cheek gently. “That’s our thoughtful little serpent. I’ll go argue with the other two about where we’ll hold the next market.” She did kiss Zhu Hong, then, but light and swift, and was gone with a rustle of feathers.

When Zhu Hong ducked out of her uncle’s house, the three Elders were indeed arguing, around his small table. Zhu Hong gave Qing-jie a narrow look and snorted at her lover’s tiny smile; yes, Qing-jie had done it on purpose. Well all right, then.

“The three of you must have been arguing for decades,” she declared. “Aren’t you tired of it, yet?”

All three of them laughed, which made her think Qing-jie wasn’t the only one trying to tease her back to calm. Zhu Hong took a breath and came to stand beside the table, straight and sure, and finally spoke the words officially.

“As your leader,” and then she looked at Qing-jie’s smile and couldn’t help teasing back, “she who had a crush on the Lord Guardian and competed against the Black-cloaked Envoy,” Qing-jie and Ying Chun both snickered, and even her uncle’s mouth tugged into a smile. “I’ve taken time on my day off to come here in order to host an important meeting, you know. It’s not like it’s easy, with two jobs!” Qing-jie gave her an indulgent smile, and Zhu Hong laughed a little herself.

“All right, a-Hong,” her uncle started, and she glowered, “yes, yes, Chief Elder,” he amended, patting the air with mollifying hands. “Our mistake. It’s your turn; go ahead.”

Zhu Hong sniffed, arms folded. “That’s more like it.” She took a deep breath and stood straight again. “My charge to our tribes is this: we will seek peace and pursue development through internal reforms and exchange of ideas with other peoples.” She lifted a hand as if escorting a new age in. “Let the first convention we will host begin!”

They all applauded, good natured, as Zhu Hong heard the first crunch of human footsteps through the old leaves that carpeted the forest ground. She wound her hands tight together, nerves leaping up again. The brush of lace-gloved fingers over her wrist made her look down to find Qing-jie looking up at her. In that steady gaze Zhu Hong saw both ferocious determination and a quiet faith that made the whole world stand still around her for one second.

Including her nerves.

Zhu Hong smiled, soft and small with her thanks, and lifted her chin to step forward and greet Minister Guo for the first time as an equal, feeling the whole weight of the tribes behind her, pushing her forward. If she didn’t know all of how to carry that weight, yet, she would learn.

Her Elders would teach her.

Now

The third letter was a demand that the Chief Elder mediate an inheritance dispute.

Over a cloak pin.

Zhu Hong finally gave up and groaned out loud, flopping down across her desk in despair, and never mind how Da Qing would undoubtedly laugh at her. No matter how much she ignored or schemed or yelled, these just would not stop coming. Letters asking her to fix family affairs. Letters asking her to solve a quarrel with a spouse. Letters asking her to tell someone’s child to straighten up. Did she look like some kind of avatar of the heavens, here to solve everyone’s personal problems? No! But the letters wouldn’t stop.

“Does someone want you to solve their love life?”

Zhu Hong sat bolt upright, staring, because that had sounded like…

And it was, in fact, Shen Wei, who had paused by her desk on his way past and whose mouth was quirked in a tiny, commiserating smile.

Zhu Hong tried to wrap her mind around the idea that, apparently, some Dixingren buttonholed the Black-cloaked Envoy with this same kind of nonsense, and felt her eyes trying to cross. “You… I mean, they really…?” she asked weakly, waving the letter.

“The Regent takes a certain pleasure in saving them for me,” he said, dry. “If you wish to learn from my mistakes, just ignore them all with as much dignity as you can manage.”

She looked up at him, caught by the implication that he had ever been in her position—a young ruler, maybe not consulted all that much about what he really wanted, trying to learn how to do right by his people anyway. And she heard again the words Qing-jie had murmured in her ear, one evening as they lay together, talk meandering through Yashou into Dixing politics.

“I didn’t learn as much as I would like, from Ye Zun, but one thing he said repeatedly. That Shen Wei had never wanted to be his people’s ruler. That he only did it because of Kunlun. So I think it must be true that that’s how the Envoy began. But I watched what he did all last year, too. He has a short temper, and little mercy for enemies, but for his own… for his own, he can show great compassion. He loves his people, now, in his own way.” Qing-jie stroked her fingers gently through Zhu Hong’s hair. “I respected that. In the end, I wished it had been him I went to, listened to.” She’d leaned up on an elbow, smiling down at Zhu Hong. “And more than that, I wish you could have known more of him and his experience, now that you’ve taken on such great responsibilities.”

Zhu Hong had curled closer and admitted, softly, “So do I. He… he was kind to me. Even when I was being foolish and jealous, he was kind. I wish I could ask him things, sometimes.”

And now here he was, offering that experience freely.

Zhu Hong’s eyes fell from the level darkness of his. “Thank you…” Her gaze flickered up and down again before she could stop it, and she made herself take a breath and look back up to finish, “…Shen da-ge?”

She couldn’t help ending on a question, unsure he would accept such familiarity. Would even want or understand the apology she was trying to give. There seemed to be so much age, so much time in the weight and quiet of his gaze.

After a long moment, though, he smiled faintly and lifted a hand to rest on her head. “You’re welcome.”

Zhu Hong broke into a relieved smile, ducking her head under his hand, shy and pleased.

She could feel lao-Chu smirking from two desks over, and tossed him a glare as Shen Wei turned away toward the Chief’s office. Lao-Chu looked irritatingly smug. “I told you,” he said. “Didn’t I tell you?”

“Oh shut up,” Zhu Hong huffed, turning back to her own screen for a report to finish or something. The office already had a fan of the Envoy, it wasn’t like she needed to add anything there.

She was going to tell Qing-jie, though, when she came to pick Zhu Hong up tonight. She thought Qing-jie would approve.

Zhu Hong was smiling as she tucked the last letter away and opened her files.

End

Approach Over the Lake

At first Shen Wei had been amused by Yunlan’s team bringing another box of his belongings to Yunlan’s apartment every time one of them visited, as though he might not notice them moving him in if they just did it gradually enough. The fact was, though, that despite not accumulating a great many things, Shen Wei owned too much to fit easily into the apartment of a man who had turned his bedroom into a workout space. So it was only a few weeks after they’d returned from the Lamp that he said, on the drive in to work, “Either I need to re-acquire my old apartment, or we need to think about moving.”

Yunlan laughed. “What, you don’t think cardboard is the hot new material for book cases?”

“It does clash a bit with your decorating scheme,” Shen Wei noted dryly Cardboard would never hold the weight of Yunlan’s collection of alcohol, for one thing.

“I think Da Qing is the only one who really approves of those boxes.” Yunlan gunned the engine through a light about to change, and Shen Wei braced himself with the habit that a year disembodied had done nothing to blunt. “Our building doesn’t have any larger units, though.”

“Which is why you need to think about where else you might like to live,” Shen Wei pointed out as Yunlan pulled in to the front drive of the biosciences building. "We can find an agent once you decide that." Yunlan set a hand on his arm as he went to open the passenger door, staying him.

“What about where you’d like to live?” he asked, quietly.

Warmth curled through Shen Wei at that ready thoughtfulness. “Yunlan, I’ve lived in and around this city since it was first built. Every district in it has places that I’ve enjoyed spending my time.” Yunlan settled back at that, with a faintly rueful smile. Shen Wei thought he still let the knowledge slip away, sometimes, that Shen Wei really was that old. The crooked line of Yunlan’s smile didn’t feel like quite the right way to start the day off, though, so he added, as he swung down from the Jeep, “Besides, what makes you think I don’t have a list of requirements already written up?”

That made Yunlan laugh again.


When Shen Wei thought about it, he felt he should have expected the problems they ran into. After all, he’d noticed Yunlan’s taste in vehicles, in clothing, even in liquor. The style might be casual but the substance was both choosy and expensive. The moment they’d started looking for new apartments, that taste had surfaced with a vengeance.

The high-rise downtown hadn’t been sufficiently insulated. The re-zoned and renovated block of modern apartments by the park had security that was too intrusive. The second-story apartment on the edge of the university district had appliances that were too old, despite the fact that Yunlan would not be the one using most of them.

Their agent was starting to look like she regretted her choice of career, or at least of clients.

“This is the last one on my list,” she said as the door was unlocked. “It’s at the top end of the price range you wanted, but it’s been recently upgraded…”

Shen Wei followed Yunlan inside and stepped into light. Broad windows on two sides of the large, open room caught the late afternoon sun, and it glowed back from white plaster and honey-colored wood around the frames and across the floor. The faint creak under his feet suggested it was fairly old wood, but the light gleamed off clean, new steel and dark blue tile to the left, where the kitchen had a wide window of its own, over the sink. Shen Wei went to glance down the short hallway beyond, which opened into three more rooms, two of them almost as bright as the living room, and a generous bathroom.

It wasn’t until he was running his fingers over the tall shelves of the living room that he realized Yunlan hadn’t said a thing, yet. “Yunlan?” he asked, a bit curious about such restraint, turning to see his lover smiling at him.

“We’ll take it,” Yunlan told their agent.

Shen Wei felt a strong need to adjust his glasses. Their agent looked even more stunned. Yunlan merely shrugged, as if his reasons should be obvious.

“None of the rest of them made you smile like that.”

It took Shen Wei most of the way home to regain his composure.


He did not succeed in talking Yunlan out of getting the apartment that made Shen Wei most at ease. After a week of arguing, however—a week that Da Qing spectated like they were a particularly entertaining tennis match—he did manage to insist that Yunlan arrange and decorate the place as he pleased. That resulted in a day of Yunlan wandering about looking thoughtful, and then a shopping spree that produced heavy, dark curtains in the living room, half a dozen inconspicuous lamps that Yunlan put on the floor and pointed at the corners, and a few gallons of paint that turned their bedroom a deep, underwater green. The second bedroom acquired two walls of bookshelves and a lavish new desk, with Shen Wei’s brush sets arranged on it. The far corner of the living room gained a corner table for Da Qing’s bed, and his swing was hung next to it, looking out one window past the houseplants. The wine shelf was installed by the kitchen. The windowless bedroom turned out to fit all of Yunlan’s workout equipment, even the weight bench, and started to look rather like a shrine to violent physical fitness. Yunlan’s wealth of small tables, stools, and shelves clustered around the living room furniture and were quickly populated with a mixed collection of statuary, lamps, wood work, and Da Qing’s goldfish.

And Shen Wei finally relaxed a little.

“You’re really that unused to anyone at all taking care of you, aren’t you?” Yunlan asked, winding his arms around Shen Wei from behind and gathering him back against Yunlan’s body. Shen Wei leaned against him, looking around the airy lightness of the living room, which was only heightened by the contrast of the dark curtains framing each window.

“It’s not that.” Yunlan made a disbelieving sound, and a faint smile tugged at his mouth. “Well. That too, perhaps, but… I don’t want you getting lost in me.”

Yunlan smiled against his neck. “You don’t need to worry about that, xiao-Wei.”

The reminder that Zhao Yunlan had the memory of a whole other life worth of stubbornness, now, did relax him, he had to admit. “All right,” he agreed, quietly, resting a hand over Yunlan’s. And then his breath caught as Yunlan pressed an open-mouthed kiss just under his ear.

“So. Want to try out the new bed?” Yunlan murmured against his skin, and Shen Wei had to laugh.

“All right,” he agreed again, with far more of a purr in it this time.

Maybe there really was no need to worry, after all.

End

The Advance of the Mountain Wind – Six

The next morning found Yunlan standing in a rather alarmingly torn-up field, miles outside the city. At Li Qian’s intermittent direction, through his earpiece, he’d been lifting and deflecting and (cautiously, very cautiously) destroying rocks and bits of rusted metal, working his way up from pebbles to boulders until he’d drawn out so much of his power that green and gray roiled in clouds around him. They’d been at it for over an hour, and he was sweating but nothing he’d done had been all that much effort.

He was starting to understand, all the way up in his head, what xiao-Wei meant when he talked about the weight of gods in the world. He could feel the ground singing under his feet, feel the sky like it was something he could reach up and touch, feel the attention of the city’s river like it was alive and listening for his word and would rise if he just spoke.

Given that dizzying awareness of just what he could do, if he chose to, it wasn’t hard to lean convincingly with his hands on his knees, as if to catch his breath. “We done yet?”

“If you’re getting tired, then yes,” Li Qian answered, voice as steady as if she hadn’t just watched him crack a boulder into shards. He’d have to tease xiao-Wei, later, about how he raised such fearless students. “Can you retrieve or dismiss the visible manifestation?”

“That is a very good question.” Yunlan straightened up and flexed his fingers, looking thoughtfully around. “Hm.”

Li Qian’s startled, “Professor?” warned him ahead of time, so he wasn’t too surprised to see xiao-Wei, a minute later, walking calmly through the swirl and flow of green. He was a little surprised that he could feel xiao-Wei’s presence before he saw it, as if xiao-Wei was walking close enough for their shoulders to brush. But that was right, older feelings told him a moment later—xiao-Wei was walking through an extension of Yunlan’s being.

And xiao-Wei’s own being was reaching out to trace the edges between them.

Yunlan’s breath caught at the feel of it, and xiao-Wei smiled at him, even as Li Qian’s voice asked sharply if everything was all right. “Yeah, fine,” Yunlan answered, distracted. Whatever xiao-Wei was doing (touching, his memory said, just touching) it was subtle. Even looking for them, Yunlan could barely spot the glints of blue around the edges of green. He felt it, though, like xiao-Wei’s hands on his shoulders. When he refocused on the man in front of him, xiao-Wei looked warmly amused, lips curved softly. Yunlan reached up to cup a muffling hand over his earpiece. “This feels kind of familiar. Have we done this before?”

“Yes,” xiao-Wei said, low. “I’ve stood in the heart of your power many times, before.”

“Thought so.” And the touch of xiao-Wei’s power did help him find the edges of his own again. Slowly, reaching out his hands to make it feel a bit less odd, he drew those edges in. A little reluctantly, he admitted, because it felt really nice, to touch like that.

When the last slow curl of his energy unwound from around xiao-Wei and they stood in clear air again, xiao-Wei lifted a hand to curve around Yunlan’s cheek. “Later,” he promised, eyes dark and intent in a way that made hot anticipation coil in Yunlan’s stomach.

The chorus of groans in his earpiece reminded Yunlan that they had video pickups trained on them, and he cleared his throat. “So! Are we done?”

Li Qian sounded like she was stifling laughter. “Yes, Chief Zhao. You can come back to the observation building. Professor Shen, too.”

Back inside the low, concrete building at the edge of what Yunlan frankly suspected was a weapons testing, field Lin Jing was busy with whatever the impressive rack of instruments was telling them. Zhu Hong and Da Qing, on the other hand, were both free to give him unimpressed looks. Yunlan could feel xiao-Wei laughing silently, behind his shoulder. “I’ve put up with all of your nonsense,” he reminded his team. “And why aren’t you scolding Shen Wei, too?”

At that, Lin Jing turned around to join Zhu Hong and Da Qing in staring at him, utterly disbelieving, and xiao-Wei’s laughter escaped him for a breath. He cleared his throat and composed himself again while Yunlan rolled his eyes; even godhood wasn’t enough to get some respect around here, obviously.

“What do the results look like, Director Li?”

Li Qian blushed prettily, the way she’d been doing every time xiao-Wei called her Director, and Yunlan once again resisted the urge to pat her on the head. Why couldn’t he have such adorable underlings?

“We still haven’t completed a sensor specific to this type of energy, but we can, at least, observe the effects.” She picked up a sheaf of paper just finishing printing and handed it over. To xiao-Wei, of course. Yunlan sighed and read over his shoulder. “The magnitude of Chief Zhao’s power is impressive, as is the flexibility with which he uses it.” She nodded respectfully to Yunlan. “The type does seem to be limited to physical manipulation of matter on the macro scale, though, which falls in line with our existing model.”

Yunlan felt xiao-Wei’s shoulders fall a little, where his arm was draped over them. It had been important that they convince Li Qian of that, at least for now. “So where are you at on creating direct measurement?” he asked, to distract her from xiao-Wei’s relief.

She made a frustrated face. “We’re having to work backwards from the manifestation to the mechanism, since the mechanism doesn’t seem to overlap with the source of dark energy at all. We have a few ideas, but I expect simply testing them will take months, if not years to complete.”

Yunlan gave her his best encouraging smile and spread his hands. “No worries as long as the catalyst isn’t in circulation, right?”

She gave him a thoughtful look. “Not immediate ones, no. I would like us to be prepared, though, in case there are further changes in the symptoms you or Guo Changcheng have experienced.” She hesitated, glancing back and forth between him and xiao-Wei, and added, slowly, “I feel care for the integrity of those affected must be of primary concern, in our research, especially given the weaknesses demonstrated by Professor Ouyang’s methodology.”

Yunlan beamed at her and patted xiao-Wei on the shoulder, congratulatory. He raised such smart students. “I can hardly argue with that.”

It was, of course, xiao-Wei’s quiet smile and small, meaningful nod that made Li Qian settle back on her heels with a faint, determined glint lighting her eye. “Then I think we’re done for the day. Thank you again, Chief Zhao.”

A few parting civilities got them all out the door and back into the cars, where Yunlan could finally sag back against the seat with a faint groan and rub at his cheeks, which were aching a little from all that grinning.

“It may not be necessary to play the fool with all of the rest of the Ministry,” xiao-Wei noted, settling beside him.

“I know she’s an ally,” Yunlan sighed, reaching over to rest a hand on xiao-Wei’s knee for a moment before turning the key. “But this is a heavy secret to ask someone to carry, and it’s you she knows and believes in, not me.”

“Perhaps we should start with my secrets, then.”

Yunlan looked around quickly, at that, hands stilling on the wheel. Xiao-Wei just raised his brows a bit, as if he didn’t see what was strange in the Black-cloaked Envoy of Dixing, let alone the god of ghosts, casually offering to reveal himself to the human Ministry’s foremost researcher. After a moment, Yunlan bent his head, laughing a little; maybe someday he’d stop being surprised by xiao-Wei’s care. Xiao-Wei’s hand settled on the back of his neck, cool and steady, and he let himself lean into it, let his muscles unwind a little further.

“I wish for you to be happy, as well,” xiao-Wei said quietly. “Concealing yourself doesn’t please you.”

“Mm. You know, I don’t think I can conceal myself from you.” Not even if he tried. It was a novel feeling, a little thrilling, a little uncertain.

“Do you need to?”

The question crystalized thoughts and plans and memory into a single shape, so clear it struck Yunlan breathless. “No,” he whispered, feeling a genuine smile tug at his mouth. “I don’t.” He lifted his head to look over at xiao-Wei and the brightness in his eyes, warm and open and just for Yunlan. It made the entire world feel so much easier, that Shen Wei was beside him.

The thought made him smile all the way back to the Division headquarters.

They arrived just as the team was setting out the last bottles and dishes.

“What’s this?” Yunlan asked, giving the whole team a mock-stern look. “More excuses to loaf around in the middle of the work day?”

“It isn’t an excuse at all,” Zhu Hong claimed with a sniff. “This is vital team-building activity, to welcome Li Huiliang and to welcome Professor Shen back, of course.”

Yunlan spread his arms. “Oh, of course.” A gust of laughter ran through the group, including He Niu and Xu Jian, and joined by the tiniest flicker of amusement over lao-Chu’s face. Yunlan shook a finger at him. “This was the ‘job’ you said you and xiao-Guo had to do instead of today’s testing, wasn’t it?”

Lao-Chu just looked back, perfectly poker-faced, but xiao-Guo was nearly bouncing beside him with pleasure and excitement. It was as good as a neon sign. Yunlan threw up his hands with a laugh. “All right, all right.”

Everyone promptly grabbed for drinks and food.

“So, aren’t you going to make a welcome speech or anything?” Da Qing prodded Yunlan. Yunlan grumbled under his breath but lifted his glass.

“Today we welcome a new teammate,” he declared, and added, “sort of.” Xiao-Wei promptly elbowed him in the side. “I’ll explain that part in a bit,” Yunlan told He Niu and Xu Jian. “Li Huiliang, the SID is pleased to have you join us.”

Zhang Shi’s smile was only a little wry. “Thank you, Chief Zhao.”

Lin Jing lifted his glass toward her. “To new teammates.”

“To old teammates, who apparently can’t hold down a job anywhere else,” Zhu Hong lifted her glass mockingly to him, in turn.

“To new beginnings,” xiao-Wei offered smoothly, before Lin Jing could answer back.

“To finding out exactly what’s going on,” He Niu added on, with a narrow look at Yunlan.

“To better data,” Xu Jian added, sliding a sidelong glance at Lin Jing.

“To the bosses being way more relaxed,” Da Qing chipped in with a wicked grin and ducked when Yunlan swatted at him.

“To new hopes,” Zhang Shi kindly deflected, though there was distinct amusement in the tiny crimp at the corners of her mouth.

“To gifts given,” lao-Chu said quietly, looking down at his glass.

In the moment of silent surprise that lao-Chu had actually spoken, xiao-Guo looked up from his own glass with a bright smile and said, softly, “To protecting people.”

Yunlan watched his team exchange glances and smiles and tiny nods, watched the edges of bickering and plotting and worrying blunt for a moment, and smiled. “Yeah,” he said, quietly. “We can drink to that.” Little clinks skittered around the table as everyone tapped their glasses together and drank.

As the group broke into smaller conversations, xiao-Wei set his glass down and leaned against Yunlan’s shoulder. “Will you tell the new ones everything?” he asked, softly.

“I think we need to.” Yunlan glanced at him, glad to find him looking calm, without the tightness around his eyes that spoke of real concern. “Now we have the cover stories in place, and the Ministry at least a little in hand, that’s the next step, isn’t it?”

“To start gathering allies and the numbers to handle a change in the way most people think the world is.” Xiao-Wei nodded, and Yunlan took a moment to simply enjoy the familiar flow of shared thought and the deeper familiarity of xiao-Wei’s power, curled in potential around the two of them. For one breath it felt strange to know that, to feel a potential presence and his own twining around it, but the moment Yunlan focused on the feeling it was familiar again.

Xiao-Wei smiled sidelong at him, as Yunlan relaxed against his shoulder. “Is it well?” Yunlan smiled back and took another sip from his glass. It was the taste of his own answer that he savored on his tongue, though.

“You know, I really think it is.”

End

The Advance of the Mountain Wind – Five

“You were always a morning person, weren’t you?” Yunlan asked from under his pillow, far too early the next morning. Why hadn’t he remembered that sooner?

“Just because we’re not going to the office doesn’t mean we don’t have work to do.” Xiao-Wei’s clear voice and unreasonably firm step approached, and something clinked on the bedside table. “If you’re not up in ten minutes, I’m going by myself.”

Yunlan groaned and flopped over onto his back. There was a cup of coffee waiting. He couldn’t even complain without being an ungrateful ass, which seemed very unfair. Suddenly, he was remembering just how sly of a weiqi player xiao-Wei was. He hauled himself out of bed, grabbing for the cup, and reached down to rummage a pair of jeans out of the clean-laundry basket.

They were all folded.

Xiao-Wei was watching him with open amusement from the couch, already brushed and dressed and eating noodles at the kitchen table. Yunlan decided it was too early to deal with anyone that much more awake than he was, and silently made for the bathroom to scrub the sleep off.

“All right,” he said when he emerged, coffee and cold water having kick-started his brain for the day. “Anything particular we need to do to get through the gate, now the Lamp’s lit again?”

Xiao-Wei put a steamed bun into his hand. “It may take a little more effort, but I doubt I’ll notice it with my power unbound, and the seal itself was a part of you. Changed as you are, it should let you pass easily.”

Yunlan glanced from the bun to xiao-Wei’s calm, expectant expression, and sighed, taking a bite as he locked the door behind them. Breakfast was apparently going to be part of his life, going forward.

By the time they reached the crossroads where the gate was, his sense of humor had caught up with him, not least because of the echoes of memory that said xiao-Wei had always been this way with him, and also that the fact was adorable. He wasn’t sure about that second bit, but had to admit he felt more settled and alert than he usually did at this hour. Possibly that was just from being with xiao-Wei, but he wasn’t ruling out the coffee and food.

Xiao-Wei paused as they reached the tree and closed his eyes for a moment, with a slow breath in and out. At the end of that breath, shadowy blue swept over him and left familiar black robes behind and an equally familiar weight of power sweeping outwards. “Ready?” he asked quietly, eyes fixed on the flex of light and space that, Yunlan abruptly realized, he could see clearly.

“Whenever you are.” Yunlan held out his hand to xiao-Wei, waiting out his still moment of startlement, and smiled when xiao-Wei took it. They were doing this together, whether xiao-Wei was in his working clothes or not.

When xiao-Wei raised his other hand, Yunlan felt what he did more than saw it, as though xiao-Wei pulled open a window and let snow in to fall on their skin. He stepped forward at the same moment xiao-Wei did, stepped over the threshold and out beneath the arch that marked the gate on Dixing’s side. Yunlan turned his face up to the bright sky with pleased recognition; at some point, he’d known that the Lamp’s light gave Dixing a sky.

And then he had to stifle a laugh as the gate guards nearly passed out over having a revived Envoy descend on their shift. Holding on to the humor helped keep him from getting too tense about the way he could feel everything around him trying to pull bits of him away as they moved swiftly through the city. Not to mention the way that, when the Regent hurried out to meet them on the Palace steps, he stopped short and stared like Yunlan and xiao-Wei both were a surprise banquet of all his favorite food.

“And how did this come about, my Lord Envoy?” he asked with a quick bow that didn’t hide the gleam of avarice in his eyes.

“My passage through the Lamp completed Kunlun’s gift to me.” Xiao-Wei ignored the welcoming gesture that tried to guide them inside the Palace. “Now that it is complete, I have already determined, it flows outward from me to my people.” The Regent froze in the midst of his attempts to herd them inside, and the faintest breath of a smile curved xiao-Wei’s lips. “So tell me, my lord Regent. Am I your ruler?”

Yunlan had to take a moment to appreciate how effortlessly xiao-Wei could lay down the winning move, when he chose to. It was beautiful to watch, at least when it didn’t involve xiao-Wei sacrificing his life.

Slowly, the Regent straightened, and Yunlan could nearly see the power he usually hid behind fawning or age or whatever other slight-of-hand was available settling around him like the folds of a robe. “You are the strongest of us, Lord, the one no other has ever been able to even dream of consuming—not even your twin, in the end. You have always been my ruler, even when I wished or feared it otherwise.”

“That will not change, whatever else we become, through this gift.” Xiao-Wei’s voice was cool, but his eyes, even behind the mask, were steady on the Regent. Sympathetic, Yunlan might even have said, if he had to name that look.

After a long, silent moment, the Regent grumbled, “Well, that will be something stable, at least.” And then he bowed, deeply, and stayed down. “Your will, Lord.”

Xiao-Wei gestured him back up, graceful and easy. “Call our people together, then.”

The Regent cast a look down the Palace steps and snorted. “Somehow, I don’t think that will be necessary.”

A corner of Yunlan’s attention had also been on the gathering crowd below as people pointed and whispered and broke away, only to reappear dragging more people with them. With the confrontation done, Yunlan let himself search the gathering faces until he found his favorite bar-tender, staring up at them with open excitement. Yunlan glanced back at xiao-Wei and gave the man a nod of confirmation. He lit up like a streetlamp turning on, and promptly darted away into the city.

It wasn’t long before the square in front of the Palace was packed with bodies, overflowing into the nearby streets. The pull Yunlan had felt since he stepped through the gate was very noticeable, by then, and he let old-new reflex push back against it until the air near him had glints of green. When xiao-Wei stepped forward to the edge of the steps, the rustle and chatter of the crowd turned sharper.

And then it abruptly cut off as xiao-Wei lifted his hands, folded back his hood, and removed his mask.

“Ten thousand years ago,” he said, into the deep quiet, “I was given a gift by one of the first gods of this world. You have all followed the shape of human understanding, and called them something else—simple heroes and ancestors—and forgotten their natures, and sometimes even your own. Now I call on those who can to remember why some of you called me traitor to our kind, then. Not for any politics, but for the change in my nature that Kunlun wrought and I accepted.” He held out one hand to the crowd, open and palm up, and Yunlan could see a faint flicker of golden light starting to grow around his fingers. “I call on those who can remember to bear witness, because this very year that gift was completed, and in its completion it has become one that I may share. The gift of a generative nature, of a soul that can anchor you in this world and take the fear of dissolution from death. The gift of beginning again. The gift of an end to endless hunger.” The light curled around him, now, rising like a fire, and there was absolute silence as Shen Wei asked, quietly, “Will you have it?”

For a long, suspended moment, nothing moved. Yunlan wondered if any of them would dare answer, and couldn’t entirely blame them if they didn’t. If the Regent’s power had been a cloak around him, xiao-Wei’s burned outward like the sun’s corona, beautiful and searing, terrifying in the vast sweep of it. Slowly, though, the crowd swayed forward as one, whispers threading through the air again.

“Lord Envoy…”

“Yes…”

“Black-cloaked Lord…”

“Please…”

One person after another reached out, sank to their knees, faces turned up to the shadow standing above them, surrounded by golden brilliance, and xiao-Wei bowed his head, eyes sliding closed.

“Then it will be so.”

The low words reverberated like a shout, and the light around him leaped outward like a star exploding, bursting through the square, the Palace, the city. It curled around and past Yunlan, but he could see it running into and through everyone else present, see the shock of it in wide eyes and gasping breath all around him. Anyone who wasn’t on their knees already was by the time that golden wave passed.

Finally, xiao-Wei lifted his head to look out at his people again. “This is a gift.” His voice silenced the growing babble of the crowd as some started to catch their breaths. “Do with it as you will. Know, however, that I will have no more tolerance than I ever have for violence or trespass.”

“…but if we are no threat?” Near the front of the crowd below, a young women scrambled to her feet, and stumbled a few steps forward, hands held out, entreating. It took Yunlan a moment to recognize her as the mirror-girl, who took Weiwei’s place. She was still wearing the same face, but it looked fiercer, now, longing and hunger tangled up together. She fell to her knees again at the lowest step, staring up at Shen Wei, and her voice was pleading. “If we are no threat, now, Noble Lord?”

Xiao-Wei was still for a long moment, looking down at her, but finally Yunlan saw the faint fall of his shoulders that meant a silent sigh, and he descended the steps to stand directly over her. “Demonstrate to me that it is so,” he said, flat as an order. “Show me, when this gift has grown in you, that you are no longer driven by hunger alone, that you have mastered the violence at the core of you.” He lifted his head to sweep his eyes over the whole crowd before looking back down at her to add, more quietly. “Do this, and I will speak in your cause.”

All the breath seemed to leave her at once, as her face lit up, and she bowed down to the ground before him. “Yes, Lord!”

Whispers of excitement swept through the crowd, as xiao-Wei came back up the steps. The Regent, however, was pinching the bridge of his nose. “Was that entirely necessary to say right now?” he asked, sounding pained.

Xiao-Wei huffed a faint laugh. “If the question was asked now, the answer was necessary now.”

“You could have said no!” The Regent gave back an aggravated look to xiao-Wei’s unamused one. “This will lead to many of them presuming on your mercy and attempting the border well before they’ve met your requirement, and the seal will no longer stop them.”

Xiao-Wei’s eyes turned hard, and his voice fell. “Then they will find that they have assumed incorrectly.” He turned on his heel and strode into the Palace, and Yunlan followed.

And caught him as xiao-Wei stumbled on the stairs down to the central hall. “I thought that probably took more out of you than it looked like.”

“I’m not tired,” xiao-Wei protested, though his hand lingered on Yunlan’s arm as he straightened. “It was just a little disorienting.”

“Directing your being as a god would?” Yunlan smiled at xiao-Wei’s sudden stillness. “It didn’t occur to you that was what you were doing, did it?” He’d made the connection when xiao-Wei had reached out to lao-Chu and passed the gift along simply by intending it. It was exactly how xiao-Wei had described the potentiality and actualization of a god’s nature. Clearly that particular change hadn’t quite sunk in yet, for xiao-Wei, and Yunlan shook his finger, admonishing. “You never think enough of yourself.”

“Never mind that,” xiao-Wei said, abundantly proving Yunlan’s point and apparently not even noticing. “Do you know how you want to present this to the Ministry, yet?”

“Blame everything on the Lamp,” Yunlan answered promptly and smiled at xiao-Wei’s exasperated look. “Just wait and see.” Not least because his own thoughts about what he’d need to tell the Ministry had started to change, but he wasn’t quite ready to admit that.

Xiao-Wei’s eyes narrowed a bit. “This is your way of getting back for all the times I didn’t tell you all of what was going on, isn’t it?” Hurrying steps approached from the archway and xiao-Wei swept his hand out brusquely. The Palace dissolved around them in a wash of shifting blues that flowed away in turn to leave them beside the gateway tree.

Part of Yunlan was amused by xiao-Wei’s temper, the part of him that took a bit of enjoyment out of getting a rise from the ever-collected Professor Shen, and quite a significant part of him was increasingly distracted by watching those beautiful hands wield such power so easily. Business first, Yunlan reminded himself regretfully, fishing out his phone. “Let’s see if the Minister can fit us in today.”

It took him half the distance through the city to get an appointment set for three hours on. Yunlan growled as he tossed the phone onto the seat between them and accelerated a little more sharply than perhaps he should have when the light changed. “You’d think, considering how much I try to avoid the whole Ministry building, that when I actually ask for an appointment, they’d understand it’s important.” Especially when he didn’t want too much time to overthink this.

“Bureaucracy tends to work the other way around,” xiao-Wei told him, mouth quirked. “People they don’t see often go to the bottom of the list.” He laughed softly at Yunlan’s growl. “Back to the offices, then?”

Yunlan spotted the road they were about to pass and made an abrupt decision, followed by an abrupt turn. “No. No, I think there’s a better way to spend the time.”

Xiao-Wei’s brows rose as they pulled in to their apartment building. “Yunlan.”

Yunlan held up a finger, trying not to show the little shiver that xiao-Wei’s voice wrapped around his name put down the back of his neck. “Three hours. If I go to the office right now, I’ll just be snapping at the new kids when they only half deserve it.” He slid out and closed his door firmly.

“And what are you going to do at home?” xiao-Wei asked, sliding out the other side.

“Ask me that again in three minutes.”

Xiao-Wei was looking tolerant as he followed Yunlan up the steps to their floor. “Has it been three minutes?” he asked as he closed the apartment door behind them with a soft click of the latch. Yunlan felt like the tiny sound snapped the last bit of calm he’d been holding between himself and the thought of what he might just be about to do.

“Close enough.” Yunlan turned on his heel and reached out to touch xiao-Wei’s cheek, tracing down the line of his jaw with light fingers.

Xiao-Wei paused, first startled and then laughing. “Yunlan…”

“Please,” Yunlan said, husky, and watched xiao-Wei’s breath still, his eyes go dark and intent, all hint of teasing drain away into open hunger. Xiao-Wei reached out to take Yunlan’s shoulders, pressing him back a step and then another, until Yunlan came up against the wall of his entryway. Xiao-Wei took one last step into him, body fitting against Yunlan’s. When he spoke, his lips almost brushed Yunlan’s.

“Anything you wish.”

“Then kiss me,” Yunlan said, soft.

Xiao-Wei ran his hands gently up Yunlan’s neck, threading into his hair, and leaned in to kiss him, mouth slow and cool against his. Between kisses he murmured, “You are my heart. Anything you wish. Anything at all.”

The knowledge, just recently reinforced, of what ‘anything’ might mean from a man like Shen Wei wrapped around Yunlan like a coat in winter, warm and solid and comforting. He let his hands spread wide against Shen Wei’s back, sliding up under his jacket. “What if I asked you to fuck me?”

Shen Wei smiled slowly. “Then I would.”

Even knowing it, even having just heard it, the simple, bare agreement caught Yunlan’s breath short. Xiao-Wei pressed a little closer, bending his head to trail light kisses down Yunlan’s throat, and asked against his skin, “Is that what you want, right now?”

Yunlan tipped his head back and laughed, feeling a fizz of reckless glee rising through him at the very idea of it being this simple. “Yes.”

Shen Wei kissed his way back up Yunlan’s throat to murmur into his ear. “So do I.”

Undressing for each other in the middle of the day made Yunlan a little uncertain again; it seemed so much more intimate, a thing with so many more assumptions attached, to be looking at each other bare in daylight. He really couldn’t help but feel a certain sense of accomplishment, though, in the fact that Shen Wei’s clothes ended up tossed over a chest instead of folded. When Shen Wei’s hands slid over his bare shoulders and down his chest, open and caressing, he managed to relax again into the certainty that Shen Wei wanted him.

Yunlan thought xiao-Wei had started to realize at least part of what was going on, because he stayed close as they settled onto the bed, always in contact with gentle hands or slow, hungry kisses. “Anything you wish,” he said again, into Yunlan’s mouth, and the assurance made it easy to relax into the rush of heat as Shen Wei’s hands pressed his thighs apart.

The slide of Shen Wei’s fingers between his cheeks put another shiver through him, want and uncertainty twisted together, and Yunlan reached up to pull xiao-Wei tighter against him. The weight against him settled Yunlan just like the fierce intentness of xiao-Wei’s eyes on him, the nearly tangible weight of his attention. Being at the center of all that focus made Yunlan remember again what he’d just seen that morning, remember those long, deft fingers wrapped around hope and light and power, and that pulled a low moan out of him as Shen Wei’s fingers pressed in.

“Yes…” Yunlan’s hands slid up the straight line of Shen Wei’s back as that slow, intimate stretch danced down his nerves. “Yes, I want…”

Anything.” Shen Wei said it like it was a declaration of unbreakable law, and Yunlan moaned out loud, spreading his legs wider against the bed. It felt so good, the care in Shen Wei’s hands as he opened Yunlan up.

“Xiao-Wei.” Yunlan smiled up at him, breathless and a little wild with how much he wanted and the growing certainty he would get it all. “Fuck me.”

Xiao-Wei caught Yunlan tighter against him, kissing him deep and fierce, on the edge of uncontrolled. Yunlan made a satisfied sound, winding around him and kissing back with open pleasure. He was the reason for that wildness in Shen Wei, and he liked the taste of it very much. He liked it even more when Shen Wei’s cock pushed into him, thick and hard inside him. The muscles of his legs went watery with the sharp stretch and hard slide, and Yunlan groaned as Shen Wei’s hands slid up his thighs, cool and sure, spreading him further open, sinking into him deeper, and it felt incredible.

Xiao-Wei wasn’t stopping either. He leaned over Yunlan, rocking out and back in, slow and steady, dark eyes fixed on Yunlan’s face. The weight of his focus eased away anything resembling tension, until Yunlan was moving with him, boneless and hungry for the slow, heavy pleasure of feeling xiao-Wei inside him.

“Mm, yeah…” Yunlan smiled up at Shen Wei and purred at the flare of heat in his eyes, the way his hands tightened on Yunlan’s thighs.

“Yunlan.” There was answering velvet in Shen Wei’s voice, and the slow curve of his lips made Yunlan brace himself—as much as he could. Which turned out to be not nearly enough when Shen Wei reached down and wrapped long fingers around Yunlan’s cock, stroking him slowly.

“Ah…!” Yunlan’s whole body arched taut against the sheets as the new layer of pleasure curled through him like a tide, washing him under in a surge of hot sensation. His breath cut into quick gasps as pleasure wrung his body tight around Shen Wei’s cock.

Shen Wei drove deep into him and moaned, head tipped back, and Yunlan couldn’t take his eyes away. Shen Wei was always beautiful, but like this, with his eyes closed and lips parted, flushed with pleasure because of Yunlan, he was enough to strike anyone senseless.

Which was, maybe, why it took until Shen Wei had resettled them both against the rumpled sheets and gathered Yunlan close for Yunlan to find words again. He wound closer around xiao-Wei and reached up to cup his cheek, thumb stroking over the line of his cheekbone. “Thank you,” he said, softly.

Shen Wei caught his hand and turned his head to kiss Yunlan’s palm, smiling. “What for?” His eyes were warm.

Yunlan shrugged a little, glancing down. “Letting me haul you back here in the middle of the work day?”

Shen Wei nipped gently at one fingertip, and startlement pulled Yunlan’s eyes back up to his. “Anything you wish, I said.”

Just remembering it made Yunlan unwind again, calmed enough to tease a little again. “Well sure, but what about what you wish?”

Shen Wei smiled. “I have everything my heart desires.”

Yunlan remembered xiao-Wei’s lips brushing his as he murmured, My heart. It made his voice husky. “Xiao-Wei…”

Xiao-Wei made a distinctly satisfied sound and Yunlan laughed, low and helpless, winding his arms around him.

It was the warm, quiet certainty of xiao-Wei’s care that Yunlan held onto two hours later, when they walked into the Ministry offices to meet both Minister Guo and his father.

“You don’t often visit in person,” the Minister said as they all sat down around his conference room table, with a distinct edge of worry behind his smile. “What was so important it couldn’t go in a report? Things have sounded very quiet for the SID, lately.”

“Yes, it’s been like a vacation.” Yunlan leaned back in his chair and watched his father’s mouth tighten out of the corner of his eye. So, it looked like he had been missed after all; he honestly hadn’t been sure—maybe his father would have preferred Zhang Shi as a son. It was nice to know, but it wasn’t going to stop him. “The thing is, we finally tracked down the reason for some of the strange readings from the energy detectors Lin Jing created. It seems the Lamp getting re-lit had an effect on the levels of dark energy in the whole Dixing people.”

“The Lamp was lit for thousands of years without any such thing happening,” his father noted, voice sharp. Yunlan interpreted that as ‘come up with a more plausible story, idiot boy’ and gave him a tight smile.

“That was why I asked Professor Shen his opinion, though I hated to disturb him so soon after his recovery.” He waved to Shen Wei, who folded his hands on the table and gave the Minister the kind smile of an expert about to reveal all the answers. The Minister settled back a bit with an attentive look.

“To be more precise, I believe it was the interruption and then re-initiation of the Lamp that caused the effect we’re seeing now.” Xiao-Wei leaned forward, serious and intent. “Unlike the other Holy Tools, the Lamp is a positive-polarity energy source. It counter-balanced the dark energy that Dixing life forms produce, and maintained a stable environment for them. As a biologist, I can tell you that abrupt environmental changes often trigger rapid expression of latent traits. The vacuum of vital energy left when the Lamp was extinguished appears to have prompted a change in the balance of energy Dixingren generate. In that destabilized state, the reignition of the Lamp and reintroduction of such an intense positive energy source has encouraged dominance of a matching, rather than opposing, trait.” He spread his hands as if to present the new state of affairs between them. “The life energy produced by Dixing people as a whole has shifted polarity as a result.”

Which was the most plausible-sounding, half-true, non-disproveable explanation they’d been able to come up with. After a moment to digest it, or possibly just a pause to indicate uncomprehending respect for an expert in the field, the Minister went straight on to practicalities, as Yunlan had hoped he would. “What does this mean for interactions between us and Dixing, then?”

“Simple, or even extended, contact will no longer be dangerous in and of itself,” Shen Wei declared with calm authority, apparently ignoring the way Zhao Xinci’s hands clenched on the table. “The difficulties of law enforcement are more than I can speak to, as a biologist, of course.”

“Will Dixingren powers persist?”

Xiao-Wei inclined his head. “It seems likely, yes. Expression of those genes does not seem to have been affected by the fluctuation from negative to generative life energy, based on the cases I am aware of as a consultant to the SID.”

“And as a consultant, what is your opinion of the upcoming difficulties of law enforcement?” the Minister asked, with a faint smile. Shen Wei returned it, and Yunlan had to refrain from rolling his eyes. Xiao-Wei might profess distaste for politics and bureaucracy, but he was alarmingly good at them, and frankly seemed to enjoy the game. At least when he was winning.

“I would say that the problem will continue to be twofold: one of information, and one of capability. The difference in capability will be more of a problem if humans remain largely unaware that Dixing powers are a possibility. If that remains the case, then more effort, and funding, will be needed in the one enforcement body that is aware, the SID. If accurate information is more widely available, then policies and approaches sufficient to deal with low-level powers can be put into place across all enforcement bodies, leaving the SID only necessary to deal with the unusually great powers.”

“If contact increases, there will be significantly greater risk to humans, regardless of policy,” Yunlan’s father interjected, sharply. “Maintaining separation is the only approach that will truly reduce harmful incidents. That was what the improvement of conditions in Dixing was supposed to facilitate.”

“Oh, I think we’re already pretty well situated to deal with any risks.” Yunlan slouched a little deeper into his chair as his father rounded on him, and held out a hand. Both his father and the Minister jerked back from the table as green curled around his fingers, and his father pushed further back when Yunlan wrapped his grip around his father’s untouched glass of water and drew it back into his hand.

“What…?” His father’s voice was thin, edged with disbelief. Yunlan kept his eyes on the glass hovering over his fingers, and shifted just enough in his chair to feel the twinge of recently-worked muscles; it helped keep his voice even.

“You remember Professor Ouyang?”

“There was no report that you were injected with his product.” The Minister was looking a little grim, when Yunlan glanced over, but not actively alarmed. Yeah, he thought this would probably work.

“It was during the last fight with Ye Zun, so it wasn’t exactly documented. At first we all thought it just hadn’t had an effect. The screens that Lin Jing ran, when we all returned, showed nothing.” Which was true enough. “I was only sure of this effect recently, myself.”

His father stirred, quick and short, but said nothing. Yunlan marked down another point for himself on his mental scoreboard. He’d thought Zhao Xinci would most likely stay quiet about Yunlan’s year in an alleged wormhole rather than reveal his own long-time passenger.

“Have you evaluated what you can do?” Yunlan was hard pressed not to sag with relief at the Minister’s question, which skipped over all the worst outcomes (including lab rat and prisoner) to go straight for how useful Yunlan could be. Compassionate pragmatism was the best possible trait to see in the man who was his father’s boss. Especially when the quick glance he couldn’t quite prevent showed his father’s expression shuttered and cold.

He also carefully ignored the tension in xiao-Wei’s arm, beside his. However warm it made him feel, personally, to know xiao-Wei was prepared to defend him, he didn’t actually want to set the Black-cloaked Envoy at odds with the Ministry.

“Not formally.” Yunlan set the glass down and folded his hands over his stomach. “Do you want there to be a formal record of this?” Not an offer he’d have made to Guo’s predecessor, but this man was Changcheng’s uncle. He was hoping at least some of that world-bending purity of heart ran in the family.

The Minister laid his hands flat on the table and contemplated them for a long moment, during which Yunlan’s father got tenser and Yunlan tried hard not to notice that. When Guo finally spoke, it was with certainty. “Yes. It should be internal, to begin with. But I think the events of a year ago showed us just how vulnerable to disruptions we are when we try to maintain a wall of silence between two peoples who live in the same world.”

“Xiao-Guo.” Yunlan’s father leaned over the table with the earnest look he used to convince superiors he was on their side. Yunlan couldn’t quite keep his hands from clenching on each other. “I can’t think it entirely wise to open relations between two such disparate groups without more assurances than we have, that Dixing powers can be contained.”

Guo’s smile was more formal than Yunlan had seen directed at his father in a long time. “I understand your concerns. But we cannot allow fear to hold us back forever.”

“I’ll talk to Director Li about what measuring sticks she’s developed for this kind of power, then,” Yunlan interjected before his father could attempt further persuasion, setting his jaw against the paint-stripping glare he got for it. “Let us know how the SID can support the Ministry’s policy.”

“I will.” The handshake he offered as they stood was firm, and Yunlan returned his gaze as steady and sure as he would be if he were trying to encourage one of his team. The rather wry smile Guo gave him said that the Minister had noticed that he was trading Zhaos, and hoped Yunlan would be worth it. Yunlan swallowed down the nerves tightening his throat and nodded farewell.

Xiao-Wei was quiet until they were out of the building and back inside the Jeep. “You hate politics,” he finally said. “You always have, then and now both.”

“I’m not fond of them,” Yunlan agreed, with generous understatement.

Xiao-Wei gave him a quick, sidelong look. “So what was that about?”

Yunlan’s hands tightened on the steering wheel. “I can’t let my father’s fear of Dixing keep shaping everyone’s actions. You took the action you felt was right, for your people, no matter how much trouble it might cause you. How could I watch you and then do less?” Xiao-Wei’s soft laugh made him look over. The look in xiao-Wei’s eyes was… old.

“You always were a far better Mohist than Confucian.”

Yunlan smiled, crooked, turning back to the road. “That too, I suppose. But it’s really simpler than that.” There was quiet in the car for a long moment while xiao-Wei just waited for him, not looking away. It was so much the perfect representation of Yunlan’s reasons, in one moment of time that he laughed a little, himself. “I want you to be happy.” They stopped at a light, and he looked over. “You hate having to be the law of death to your people, but you made the bargain anyway, for me. How could I let it go on, knowing?”

He could hear the tremble in xiao-Wei’s breath, see the slow, slow dawn of hope for his old bargain’s true dissolution that turned his eyes wide and unguarded, and the slowness of it told him all he needed to know about how deep this pain ran. He reached over to rest his hand on one of xiao-Wei’s, clenched tight on his thighs. “You’re the one who cares for me above all else; why would you think I feel any different? I want you to be happy,” he repeated, softly, feeling it echo all the way down inside him.

Xiao-Wei turned his hand over and lifted Yunlan’s, pressing a kiss to his fingers. Softly, head bowed, he answered, “I am.”

The warmth of that settled deep into Yunlan’s chest and eased away the tightness of knowing he’d chosen another over his own blood. He’d chosen to go another way a long time ago, well before he’d known who it was he was turning towards. Knowing all the parts of his choice, now…

He couldn’t regret it at all.

The Advance of the Mountain Wind – Four

They both went in to work the next morning.

(“Are you sure about that?” Da Qing had asked when he stopped by at dinner-time to drop off more of xiao-Wei’s boxed up belongings. “Anyone would think you were in heat, the way you’ve been acting, are you sure you’ll be able to keep your hands off each other for a whole day?”

Yulan had swatted him across the back of the head and shoved a bag of fish treats at him to keep his grin from becoming any further commentary.)

He dropped Shen Wei off at the university, even though it meant circling back to the SID headquarters, and took away with him the tiny, wicked curl to xiao-Wei’s lips when Yunlan wished him a good day. The thought of xiao-Wei walking through his campus, greeting colleagues and students with a polite smile and trailing shock and disruption in his wake like a more entertaining version of his black cloak got Yunlan through the morning without giving in to the urge to sneak up behind his dreadfully earnest new office staff to see who was paying attention.

Much.

Really, anyone who worked for the SID should have better situational awareness than that.

“Oh, he used to be like this all the time,” he caught Lin Jing telling He Niu, their new archivist. “He’s been grieving this last year, you know. Now Professor Shen is back, I’m sure the Boss’ heart has started to mend…” Yunlan clapped a heavy hand on Lin Jing’s shoulder, cutting off his increasingly melodramatic explanation. Lin Jing flashed him a split-second smirk before assuming a suitably daunted expression.

“And what are you still doing here, anyway?” Yunlan asked. “Don’t you have work enough at the Institute?”

“I resigned today,” Lin Jing told him brightly. “Since Professor Shen is back, things will be getting fun again, won’t they?”

“Oh, so you think you can get your job here back, just like that?” Yunlan raised his brows, carefully not answering the question. Lin Jing obviously noticed, going by the alarming way his eyes lit up. “Three month probation at base pay only.”

“Oh come on, I’m more useful than that!”

Which was true enough, not least in helping maintain Yunlan’s cover until they decided what to do about the whole ‘back to being a god’ thing. “Oh fine, one month,” Yunlan offered. “Bonuses contingent on producing better data or tools than our new analyst does.”

Lin Jing whined and moaned dramatically, but finally accepted.

“And he’s always been like that,” Yunlan told He Niu, on his way back down the stairs. Which was not strictly true, but he’d leave it up to Lin Jing how much of his mask he wanted to keep.

Or to make real.

By the end of a day of subtle, sideways testing, Yunlan had a fairly good sense of his new staff, and Zhang Shi had been regrettably on target—a lot of them had hired on out of hero-worship and been put to work indexing all the old reports for lack of anything else to do with them. The exceptions so far were He Niu, who was the one actually directing the re-indexing efforts, and seemed like a capable archivist if not exactly field agent material, and Xu Jian, the data analyst who had been more or less filling Lin Jing’s place. More in that there was suddenly a lot more supporting data tucked into those old reports, and less in that there were far fewer mostly-working, possibly-explosive tools tucked around the lab room.

Though what was in there still included the Holy Tools, requiring Yunlan to conceal several minutes of mild panic over whether they would start responding to him the way they would presumably not have ever responded to Zhang Shi.

“They really left all four of the Holy Tools with us?” he asked Zhu Hong as soon as they’d managed to shoo the new kids out for the day. She only shrugged, sliding bonelessly down into her favored chair, opposite lao-Chu and xiao-Guo, who was perched on the arm of the couch beside his partner.

“The Lamp couldn’t be moved, and this is the most strongly shielded building in the whole city. Besides, the Ministry was falling all over themselves to pretend they never tried to make us their scapegoat.”

Yunlan frowned as memory prodded at the back of his mind. Something about the Lamp, and why he wasn’t surprised that it couldn’t be moved. “The Lamp… is only part here?” he murmured. “No, that’s not quite it.” He wondered, exasperated, if thumping on the side of his head would improve his reception on that huge, dense weight of memory deep inside.

“Close, though.” Lin Jing hopped up onto the long table, swinging his feet cheerfully. Yunlan had heard the argument he’d had with Xu Jian about the amplitude of dark energy output by the Holy Tools, earlier; the whole building had heard. At least they both seemed to have enjoyed themselves. Lin Jing waved at where the Lamp hung over everyone’s heads, looking for all the world like a third ceiling lamp except that it was suspended from nothing. “It’s actually more that it’s in two places at once. I have a theory that it would have to be moved in both places simultaneously, to move it at all.”

“So much for my plans to ask for a bigger headquarters building. Maybe I can just get an auxiliary building to put the reports and new staff in.” Yunlan squinted up at the Lamp, thoughtfully, wondering whether he and xiao-Wei together could move it.

The Lamp wobbled in midair.

It was reflex more than reason that shot his hand out to catch the Lamp. He’d forgotten, though, that his reflexes now went a little further than most people’s. Green and gray flowed out from his hand, green like pine needles, gray like sheered rock, green like the icy heart of springwater welling up from stone. It curled out and up and around the Lamp, and Yunlan clenched his teeth on a surge of real panic, because he didn’t know what he was doing or about to do. The Lamp wobbled again, in his hold.

And then it steadied.

Yunlan took a deep breath, feeling the solid support of Shen Wei’s body behind him and the shadowy coolness of Shen Wei’s power running under his, pressed against his, rising from the hand suddenly outstretched under his own.

“It’s a good thing I didn’t stay late, talking to my students, it seems,” xiao-Wei murmured against his ear. Yunlan laughed, perhaps just a little shakier than usual. Xiao-Wei’s other hand tightened on his shoulder. “Easy. You know this.” Yunlan could hear the smile in his voice. “This was how you taught me to truly control my power, after all—to shape it rather than simply hone it sharper.” The cool of his power curled around the edges of Yunlan’s own, a light touch that coaxed him to ease his grip, a steadiness that assured him nothing could go to wrong.

Yunlan leaned back against xiao-Wei, relaxing into the easy support of his power, and had to close his eyes for a moment at how good it felt. “Was I trying to get you into bed?”

Pressed together like this, he could feel xiao-Wei’s silent laugh. “Not at the time.”

The more Yunlan calmed from the first shock of power rising from his hands, the more memory rose. This was right. This was his, was him. Once he gingerly let that thought settle in, it got a lot easier to draw back and let green wisp away from the Lamp.

Which sat innocently in midair as if it had never wobbled at all.

Yunlan finally looked down again, to see his staff staring at him.

“Kunlun,” lao-Chu said quietly, eyes dark as he studied Yunlan.

“God of mountains,” Zhu Hong whispered. “Yashou legends say so, still, the oldest ones.”

“Huh.” Lin Jing was eyeing the Lamp like a stray data point. “Okay, maybe I was wrong. Or maybe it really was made out of you, though how that’s supposed to work…”

Da Qing put his feet up on the table, unimpressed as only a cat could be. “I told you you wouldn’t be able to go a whole day.”

Yunlan realized he was still leaning half in xiao-Wei’s arms and straightened up, rolling his eyes. “Shut up, Damn Cat.”

The stifled grins that flashed around the group suggested Da Qing had shared his prediction with the rest of the team. So, business as usual, really. Yunlan ignored them all loftily and pulled out a chair, slinging it around to sit backwards. Xiao-Wei pulled a second chair up to sit neatly beside him, and everyone settled down again.

“We need to make some plans.” Yunlan ticked points off on his fingers. “What are we telling the Ministry? What are we doing about the new kids? What are we doing about the whole contagious souls thing?” Xiao-Wei gave him an exasperated look and Yunlan amended, “Fine, the communicable, stable, generative energy form thing.”

Lin Jing sat bolt upright. “Ah!”

“Science later, planning now,” Yunlan admonished, not that he thought it would do much good.

“For the good of both ghosts and humans, I will return to my people as soon as possible, to ensure this change,” xiao-Wei touched a hand to his chest, “is spread. But that will mean the seal between realms won’t bar them from crossing, any more.”

Lao-Chu crossed his arms over his chest. “The danger of consuming human life just by being near will be erased, but those of great power will still be more than humans can easily handle.”

“Job security for us,” Da Qing pointed out, popping another fish snack into his mouth.

“So we tell the Ministry about the results, but not the reason,” Yunlan concluded, and then glanced over at xiao-Wei. “Unless you want to reveal yourself?”

“Not unless you choose to.” Xiao-Wei’s voice was level. “They would reasonably fear my influence over you, otherwise.”

“Even if they know about the Chief’s power?” xiao-Guo asked, hesitant and looking sad enough to remind Yunlan he was asking the kid to lie to his family. Yunlan sighed, leaning his arms over the back of his chair.

“Even then. They’d just wonder how much of it was the Envoy’s doing, and what he was up to, giving the head of the SID power like that.”

Xiao-Guo nodded, drooping where he sat until lao-Chu slid a hand up to the back of his neck and shook him, gently. “I understand, Chief.” Then he perked back up a little. “So maybe the new staff should be the ones to talk most to the Ministry? Since they won’t look too closely at the Chief and the Professor.” The whole team turned to stare at him until he fidgeted. “Um? They’re very impressed with both of you, you know?”

“That’s actually a good plan,” Zhu Hong marveled.

“All right, then. Step one, I’ll escort our good friend the Envoy to his people. Step two, we’ll come back and tell about two thirds of the truth to the Ministry. Step three, we sort out who’s on call for field work and who gets to be liaisons and file clerks.” Yunlan planted his hands on the back of his chair and pushed up onto his feet.

Xiao-Wei stood as well, brushing his jacket straight. “Tomorrow, you can escort me to my people.”

Yunlan waved a hand at the still-bright sky outside the office windows. “We have plenty of time to get a start now…”

“Tomorrow,” xiao-Wei repeated, immovably, wearing an exceedingly calm smile.

After a testing pause, during which xiao-Wei failed to show the tiniest amount of the irritated acquiescence that usually met Yunlan’s insistence on something, Yunlan spread his hands wide, magnanimously. “Tomorrow, then.”

Lao-Chu held out a palm to Zhu Hong, who glared at him for a long, fulminating moment before finally pulling out her pocketbook and slapping a bill into his hand. Lao-Chu smirked as he tucked it away.

With the wisdom of years of leadership, Yunlan didn’t ask what the bet had been, and ignored Lin Jing and Da Qing’s snickering as he led the way out the doors.


“Why tomorrow?” Yunlan asked, as he closed the apartment door behind them.

“Because,” xiao-Wei answered, shrugging out of his suit jacket and sitting on the bed to pull his shoes off, “I am not taking you back down there until you have some kind of control over your power.” He scooted back to sit with his legs crossed and held out a hand to Yunlan.

Memory echoed up again, echoes that said xiao-Wei was a lot more tense than he appeared. Yunlan sighed and gave in, yanking his own boots off and sitting knee to knee with xiao-Wei. “Okay,” he said, gentler than he’d first intended. “What do I need to do? Because I don’t actually remember much of this, not where I can get at it easily.”

The straight line of xiao-Wei’s shoulders eased a little, and he smiled at Yunlan, so warm and relieved Yunlan could feel the last of his annoyance melting under it. “Just feel and listen.” Xiao-Wei took Yunlan’s hands in his. “Feel how it happens.”

Slowly, nearly as slowly as when xiao-Wei was testing the new balance of his own power, cool blue spread against Yunlan’s palms, soft and beckoning, somehow tender, the way xiao-Wei’s hands on his body were. “Are you sure I wasn’t trying to get you into bed, when we did this?” Yunlan asked, a bit husky.

“Fairly sure,” xiao-Wei murmured, though a corner of his mouth curled up. “Reach back to me.”

Put that way, suddenly, it made sense, and Yunlan reached out at once with the part of himself that felt most like xiao-Wei’s twilight blue action-in-potential, twining through that waiting coolness like lacing their finger together. Xiao-Wei’s breath caught.

“Oh.” His eyes were wide and unguarded as they met Yunlan’s. Slowly, his power tightened around Yunlan’s.

“This is new?” Yunlan asked, soft. Xiao-Wei nodded, and took in a quick breath as Yunlan stroked experimentally against the edges of him.

“I hadn’t noticed earlier. It feels different, now. I can feel more… texture, I suppose; it used to be just the heat of life.” He swallowed. “Well. I suppose I don’t need to worry whether you’ll be able to catch someone trying to strike at you this way, at least.” His voice was a little husky, and Yunlan had to wrestle with himself for a long moment before he sighed and drew back. Xiao-Wei really did have a point, here.

“Let me try.” Yunlan drew himself all the way back to… well, to the rest of himself, he supposed, trying to keep a mental hold on the memory-and-echo of how this worked. “Slowly?”

Xiao-Wei smiled. “Of course.” He gathered his own power into a tight sphere in his hand, and just looking at it made Yunlan want to duck aside enough that he didn’t have to think at all before reaching out, and further out, and pushing a wall of green up between them. Xiao-Wei nodded and flicked the sharp knot of his power out to burst against that stone-solid wall with a flash of blue and silver that filled the whole apartment before fading.

“Excellent.” Xiao-Wei looked very pleased, when Yunlan gathered the wall of immovable intent back into himself. “I’d hoped it would come back quickly once you tried it.”

Yunlan looked down at his hands, flexing them thoughtfully, though it hadn’t been his physical hands that had been involved, exactly. “I think I understand better, now, what you meant when you said gods are potentiality.”

“Immense potentiality,” xiao-Wei agreed, low, “and every part of your being is available to be actualized into the path you choose.”

Yunlan clenched a fist. “The Institute. If a way to force development of that gets out…” Xiao-Wei’s hand folded around his fist, cool and gentle. When Yunlan looked up, xiao-Wei was smiling, small but also happy, like there was a light burning inside him.

“Then I’m glad that there will be two of us.”

It took a minute for Yunlan to get his breath back, shaken again by the bone-deep knowledge that it was him, his presence, his company, that made someone like Shen Wei happy like this. “Yeah.” He turned his hand over to grip xiao-Wei’s. “So am I.” The soft stroke of xiao-Wei’s thumb over his knuckles made Yunlan have to clear his throat, glancing aside. “So. Does it work mostly the same way when it’s a thing people are throwing at me, instead of just power?”

A spark of mischief danced in xiao-Wei’s eyes and the curve of his mouth. “Why don’t we see?”

Yunlan spent all of dinner reflecting that he really needed to remember about xiao-Wei’s sense of humor, as he deflected napkins and chopsticks and the occasional book, if xiao-Wei though he wasn’t paying enough attention.

It wasn’t until they were in bed, that evening, that Yunlan finally voiced something that had been nagging at the back of his mind. “If what I am can take any path of actuality that I choose, what does this ‘god of mountains’ thing mean?”

Xiao-Wei turned on his side, sliding a hand up to rest over Yunlan’s heart. “It’s just a description. The best way people found to describe the shapes that your being and power most easily fall into.” His voice softened, in the darkness. “The stone that rises to meet the sky. The life that blooms fiercely in the unyielding places, sufficient to itself. The rivers that flow down from stone—the source of danger and the source of life.”

Yunlan’s breath shook in his chest as those words rang through him, feeling the weight of how deeply xiao-Wei had known him. He reached out blindly to xiao-Wei and didn’t stop until they were wrapped tight around each other, until he’d reached out with the green at the heart of him, now, to twine with xiao-Wei’s cool, shifting blue strength and could taste xiao-Wei against every part of him. Xiao-Wei pressed close with a soft, pleased sound.

“What about you?” Yunlan asked, when he could speak again, fingers running slowly up and down xiao-Wei’s spine. “I feel like I know this, but… it feels complicated.”

Xiao-Wei stirred against him, sounding surprised. “Not especially. It’s…” he hesitated, but when Yunlan just waited, finished reluctantly, “it’s death. Death and ice. If I reached out with all my strength, with no binding on my power… cities would die. That’s always been the core of my nature—to consume life.” He pressed a little closer, adding against Yunlan’s shoulder, “It was you who showed me how to gentle that into other forms, and changed my nature enough to learn new forms from other people.”

“It was you who wished to be able to,” Yunlan answered, absolutely certain. That wasn’t all of the complication sitting at the back of his head, though, and he poked at the feeling some more. “It will be different, now,” he finally said, slowly. “When I think about it like that, about the shape of you…” he thought of the changeable blue of xiao-Wei’s power and buried his nose in xiao-Wei’s hair, smiling, “I think of the sky after sunset.”

Xiao-Wei went very still for a long moment. “You used to say that,” he whispered, finally.

“Well, you said it yourself, just now, didn’t you?” Yunlan pointed out. “The stone that rises to meet the sky.” He held xiao-Wei close, as his breath hitched. “I think Kunlun wanted, very much, to give you that sky and see that become the whole truth of you.”

Xiao-Wei laughed, leaning up on an elbow to look down at him in the apartment’s darkness. “Then it will be.” He laid a hand along Yunlan’s cheek. “It’s always been you who gave me the shape of a future.

Yunlan turned his head to press a kiss to xiao-Wei’s palm. “Then let’s go see what it will look like.” He smiled against cool skin and added, “Tomorrow.”

Xiao-Wei settled back down against him. “Tomorrow,” he agreed.

Yunlan was still smiling as he closed his eyes to sleep.

The Advance of the Mountain Wind – Three

The three of them snuck out of Yunaln’s own apartment and into his car as carefully as if they were smuggling a body, which he had to admit amused him. After all, in a way they were. It was Shen Wei’s directions they followed, though, through the city and skirting around the edge of Yashou territory to one of the parks near the University. Shen Wei led them through the trees, keeping out of human or mechanical sight with an unthinking ease that made Yunlan mark this place in his mind as one xiao-Wei considered his own. Through a tunnel of concrete and twining vines and past a round brick plaza, they came to a concrete fountain, a low burble of water from a square, tiered base.

“Here.”

Shen Wei’s voice was tight and controlled, the voice that Yunlan had heard often from the Envoy, at the start of their acquaintance. Hearing it now locked Yunlan’s attention like a chain wrapped around it, and he stepped up quickly to lay a hand on xiao-Wei’s shoulder. Sure enough, it was straight and hard and still under his hand.

“Hey,” he said, softly, just between the two of them. “Quit worrying. Whatever came of the change in you, we’ll deal with it.”

Xiao-Wei released a breath, shoulder easing just a little bit. “All right. Step back, though. Just in case,” he added, glancing over to see Yunlan’s brows going up. Yunlan scoffed, but took a couple steps back, arms spread.

“Good enough?”

“I suppose we’ll see.” Before Yunlan could try again to ease that sharp tension in him, Shen Wei closed his eyes and lifted a hand. Slowly, far more slowly than the flash and burst of power Yunlan was used to seeing, a glow built.

He’d gotten used to the colors of Shen Wei’s power, the flowing black threaded with deep blue. More than just familiar, now, the memory of it alone made him smile, called up echoes of playfulness and peace from deep inside him. The familiar colors were still there, in what grew and flowed between xiao-Wei’s hands, but now it was the blue that predominated, like a cloud of evening sky drawn into daylight.

Shen Wei wavered on his feet, as if he’d stumbled without taking a step, and his eyes snapped open, wide and startled. Yunlan started forward to catch him with a hand under his arm, and marked the depth of xiao-Wei’s shock by the complete lack of any warning to stay back. “Xiao-Wei?”

“There’s no… I’m not…” Xiao-Wei swallowed and took a deep breath, hands steadying around his own power as he found his balance again. “I think you were right. Before now, my power drew somewhat through my own life but mostly through the lives around me. Now… now it’s entirely through my own life, my own place within this world.” The next breath he took shook a little, and his voice turned softer. “My own soul.” Yunlan could feel all the remaining tension bleeding away as xiao-Wei straightened, reaching out with both hands to direct the flow of his power toward the fountain.

The shifting blue of it flowed across the water, around it, and the water rose in answer, sparkling up through the air to form thin bubbles, leaf shapes, even a snowflake or two out of running water. Yunlan had seen Shen Wei fight and heal, entrance and command, but he’d never seen such delicate shaping as this—though that deep echo inside him felt like it had. Had even seen xiao-Wei play with his strength, perhaps—had coaxed or maneuvered him into it, most likely. Predictably, xiao-Wei looked entirely serious the whole time, as if this little whimsy was nothing but a functional test of control. Someone, at some point, must have convinced him that it was an appropriate test, though, and Yunlan was pretty sure that someone had been him. He gave his past self an approving internal nod.

Eventually, xiao-Wei let his power fade back into the air and his skin, flexing his fingers. “It will take a little getting used to, having that much to work with again,” he murmured, and then frowned. “Zhang Shi. In the past year, has there been any deterioration in the Division staff who come into contact with lao-Chu Shuzhi?”

“That would be xiao-Guo, and no one else,” Zhang Shi noted, a bit dryly. “No. Though if you’re right about what xiao-Guo’s becoming, there wouldn’t be. They haven’t taken harm from me, either, though, even without a host to absorb my power. And there haven’t been any reports of strange wasting deaths at all. I did start looking for them when I recognized the unbinding of my own power.”

“Possibly just luck, so far,” Shen Wei murmured. “We’ll have to keep an eye on that.”

Yunlan’s mind flickered through the connections—unbinding, old legends of ghosts eating life, the one thing Shen Wei had said he had taken into himself. “The Guardian Treaty or whatever was a literal binding on all Dixingren?” When Shen Wei and Zhang Shi both nodded, he prodded at the echo-memories, but couldn’t make head or tail of the tangle of ruefulness and hope and grief he got out of them. “How does that work?”

“I am the ghosts’ ruler,” Shen Wei said quietly, not looking at either of them. “The strongest among them, and the most feared.”

“Not only feared,” Zhang Shi interjected, but softly, as if he wasn’t sure it would be allowed.

Shen Wei shrugged, a faint motion under his jacket, as if he could barely be bothered to make the gesture. “Whether it’s for fear or loyalty, greed or love, the one who’s the focus of a whole people can affect all of them.”

“So,” Yunlan summed up, “you’re saying that you’ve been sacrificing your power and safety for thousands of years, to keep humanity safe, and that now, having sacrificed your actual life, you’re worried you haven’t done enough.” He shook his head, smile tilting crookedly, and reached up to rest a hand on xiao-Wei’s cheek, turning him to look at Yunlan. “You know, I’m not even surprised, any more?”

Xiao-Wei’s eyes were wide again. “I—”

“Ah!” Yunlan stroked his thumb along the sharp line of xiao-Wei’s cheekbone. “I dare you to say that’s not what you’re doing.”

Xiao-Wei huffed softly, turning his head a little into Yunlan’s hand as he looked away. “You are ridiculous.”

Yunlan smiled. “Sometimes, I’ve been told.” And now it was probably time to move along, because he could just feel Zhang Shi paternally doting on them again. “So! Do we have to visit the hospital next?”


Dr. Cheng didn’t even blink to see two of him, just shook her head with an expression that suggested she was resigned to the SID’s nonsense.

“This way.” She led them back through some utility corridors. “The patient’s name was Li Huiliang. Her husband and son were both killed in the fighting, a year ago, and the shock wasn’t good for her mind or her heart. She’s been in and out of the hospital often, since then.” She brought them back into one of the regular corridors and paused in front of a closed door, head bowed. “Last night was the final time. She just… slipped away, this morning. I was about to report it when you called.”

“I give you my word, Dr. Cheng,” Zhang Shi said soberly, in what Yunlan had long mentally labeled as his father’s ‘responsible official’ tone, “I will honor this gift, and keep her place in the world.”

Dr. Cheng turned with such a steely look in her eye that Yunlan straightened up on pure reflex. “You will invite me to her memorial.” It wasn’t a question; it was an order. Yunlan suddenly found it a lot more understandable than he had, that this woman was Shen Wei’s friend.

“I’ll make the arrangements today, Doctor.” It would have to be private, of course, but she was quite right—it was the least they could and should do. Dr. Cheng nodded firm acceptance and opened the door.

Li Huiliang had been an older woman, hair just starting to gray in streaks here and there. There were lines of stress around her mouth, even now with all muscles slackened in death. Yunlan watched quietly as Zhang Shi stood beside the hospital bed for a moment, one hand resting gently on hers where they’d been folded over her stomach. When he stirred, though, Yunlan had to ask, “So, how are we doing this? There’s about to be an unexplained body, isn’t there, since you weren’t sharing mine?”

Dr. Cheng made the face of someone who wished she were a bit less capable, right this moment. “I suppose I can arrange something, as long as you can make sure the documentation matches outside the hospital…”

“Actually,” Zhang Shi hesitated, glancing between Shen Wei and Yunlan. Finally, he spoke to the air between them. “It takes a great deal of energy, to inhabit a body that’s died. I’d planned to ask the Envoy’s help, but it might be… cleanest to use what’s bound up in this form.” He spread a hand over his (Yunlan’s) chest.

Shen Wei stilled for a breath, but it eased away as soon as he looked over at Yunlan. Yunlan spread his hands and shrugged. “It’ll be a little strange,” he answered the question in xiao-Wei’s eyes, “but honestly it was already a little strange, when I feel like all of me is right here,” he waved at his current body. “I say go for it.”

Xiao-Wei nodded slowly and turned back to stand beside Zhang Shi, one hand on his shoulder. One slow breath, and the night-blue flow of his power rose around them. “Begin,” he ordered, quietly.

A darker something flashed between Zhang Shi and Li Huiliang’s body, and Yunlan pushed back the shiver that wanted to walk up his spine, watching his own body (as was) just… dissolve into that blue, ribbon away in streamers like blowing dust. It reminded him sharply of what he’d seen Ye Zun do, of the fact that Ye Zun and Shen Wei had been twins—the most powerful among their kind—and that when it had come to a contest between them, Ye Zun had lost. Twice. Part of him was wary of that kind of power, while part of him, especially the deep echos of his past self, was just mildly pleased and approving and blasé. The clash felt like it should be giving him a headache, even though it wasn’t.

All right, and a little part of him was turned on by how effortlessly Shen Wei wielded that power, but he was ignoring that right now. That was for later.

As the last of ‘him’ faded away, the body on the bed drew a slow breath, healthy color flushing her cheeks and hands. Dr. Cheng, standing beside Yunlan, let out a breath that it sounded like she’d been holding for a while, and smiled a bit wryly when Yunlan patted her shoulder.

“Remember your promise,” she said, softly. “Honor her memory.” Yunlan nodded, accepting the weight of that.

“We will.”

A sudden flash of golden brightness snapped his head back around toward the bed. Shen Wei was starting back from it, and Zhang Shi had jerked upright, one hand clenched tight in the light blue cotton over his (her) chest, eyes wide.

“What happened?” Yunlan snapped, mind suddenly full of all the physiology he’d ever read, including neurology, and all the ways it could go wrong, Dixingren powers or no.

“Was that…?

“That was…”

Shen Wei and Zhang Shi just stared at each other some more, while Yunlan waited. “That was?” he prodded.

“Soul-fire,” Shen Wei finally answered, barely above a whisper.

Zhang Shi sucked in a shaking breath, and her (his?) voice came out even softer, reverent. “My Lord…”

Memory wasn’t just an echo, this time. It washed over Yunlan like a flood, and for a breath he knew himself as Kunlun, knew xiao-Wei’s distaste for the formless, mindless nature of so many ghosts with the depth of centuries, knew triumph that he’d succeeded in giving his dearest friend and love the full gift he’d intended. It took long moments for the knowing to ease, and it left Yunlan shaky, leaning against the wall for support. “The focus of a people affects the whole people,” he repeated back to xiao-Wei, a little breathless.

Xiao-Wei spun to stare at him. “You… this…” He pressed a hand to his throat, where the pendant had rested for so long. Yunlan spread his hands with a flourish, smiling.

“All part of the plan. Apparently.” After a moment’s reflection, he added, “Da Qing definitely isn’t allowed to insult my ideas of courting gifts, any more.”

That drove a faint breath of stunned laughter out of xiao-Wei.

“You’re going to tell me all of what that was about, later,” Dr. Cheng ordered, going to to peer into Zhang Shi’s eyes and measure her pulse with quick fingers, eyes on her watch. “For now, just tell me: is it going to cause any health problems?”

“No.” Xiao-Wei slid his glasses up to rub his eyes briefly. “No health problems. Much larger political problems, perhaps, but that needn’t concern anyone but me.” Yunlan cleared his throat meaningfully, and xiao-Wei added, on a bit of a sigh, “And perhaps the SID. Speaking of political problems and their solutions,” he went on, otherwise ignoring Yunlan, “will there be any problem with the paperwork showing I was hospitalized here for the past year?”

“No, we had several cases that needed long-term care, after the fighting.” Dr. Cheng stepped back, giving Zhang Shi an approving nod. “The fact that you were an SID consultant will actually help explain why we would have kept your presence confidential.” She gave xiao-Wei a stern look. “You’d better be back to explain things, later, but for now, let’s get Ms. Li discharged.”

“And then maybe ask lao-lao-Chu to drop by the apartment?” Yunlan suggested quietly, as they headed out into the halls once more.

Shen Wei glanced at him once before fixing his eyes straight ahead. “I think that would be wise, yes.”

Yunlan nodded, satisfied. However much this whole contagious soul-fire thing might have been a gift of his past self, his present self wanted to know exactly what it was going to take from Shen Wei before letting his lover go haring back off through the gate between realms.


Yunlan read personnel and case files with all his concentration while they waited for lao-Chu, pressing Zhang Shi for details of temperament, of flexibility, of fears and dreams and motives. Clearly, he was going to need to take his re-entry into life at a run, and he didn’t want his own Division tripping him up. When lao-Chu arrived, attention immediately fixing on Shen Wei to the exclusion of anyone else, Yunlan barely took the time to roll his eyes.

Shen Wei explained the situation, voice quiet and steady. Reassuring. Yunlan thought that might be the voice his students were used to hearing. “We’re not sure if this is normally transferable, or if it only happened because I was involved so deeply in the process of Zhang Shi’s transfer and revivification. I don’t know, yet, how deep I might need to reach into the being of another of my people, or…” He broke off as lao-Chu snorted and flipped his coat aside to kneel down at Shen Wei’s feet and wait there, head bowed.

Really, it was enough to make a mere boss feel inadequate.

“Not only fear,” Zhang Shi murmured, from Yunlan’s other side, and xiao-Wei closed his eyes for a breath.

“I know.” Yunlan thought the ruler-straight line of lao-Chu’s back eased a little at xiao-Wei’s soft words. He was sure xiao-Wei saw it, too, because he reached out, the way he almost never reached out to anyone but Yunlan, and laid a hand on lao-Chu’s shoulder.

And golden brilliance flickered around his fingers.

lao-Chu jerked upright like it was an electric shock, staring up at xiao-Wei. “Lord…!” That sounded shocked out of him, too.

Xiao-Wei was holding very still, which meant he was just as startled, but slowly he tightened his hold on lao-Chu’s shoulder. “So.” Finally he smiled, achingly slow but with a brightness in him like the sun rising. “It can be done.”

Lao-Chu, who Yunlan had never seen willingly discomposed unless he was trying to scare the liver out of someone, looked like he was one breath from bowing his head to the ground before xiao-Wei, and his voice was rough. “Noble Lord, thank you. I’ve watched Changcheng every day, ever since we were unbound, every day ready to leave if he started to fail. I never thought…”

Xiao-Wei’s face tightened, so much pain in the flinch of his brows together that Yunlan started to get up, to go to him, even as xiao-Wei lifted his hand to rest it gently on lao-Chu’s head, quieting him. “I know.” Xiao-Wei’s eyes rose and Yunlan froze under the darkness of them, breath stopping. Xiao-Wei was talking about him. That certainty went right down to the bone. Some time, somehow, he had died because of xiao-Wei’s nature.

Suddenly, xiao-Wei’s fierce insistence on his safety felt a lot less like a Dixingren underestimating a human and a lot more like frantic, desperate grief. Suddenly, the information that xiao-Wei had been the one to create the instrument that halved his people’s powers in the human realm felt less like politics, or even compassion, and more like love—reckless, headlong love and a deep fear running under it.

“Xiao-Wei,” Yunlan whispered, reaching out, and xiao-Wei came to him at once, caught him close with an absolute disregard of anyone watching that told Yunlan everything he suspected was painfully true. He let out a slow breath and wound his arms around xiao-Wei, one hand sliding up to urge his head down against Yunlan’s shoulder. “I’m here,” he said softly, and promptly lost most of his breath to the way xiao-Wei’s arms tightened around him. He barely registered the apartment door closing behind Zhang Shi and lao-Chu. “Tell me?” he asked, hands rubbing slowly up and down xiao-Wei’s back.

“You did something foolishly noble and got injured. I was the only one there. I couldn’t leave you like that.” Xiao-Wei’s hands tightened on him. “And then I couldn’t leave you.” His voice was muffled against Yunlan’s shoulder. “I should have known better, but part of me still couldn’t believe…” A quick, hard breath in and out again. “In two years, you were dead.”

And then Shen Wei had spent who knew how many years and how much power changing the world so that it wouldn’t happen again. Yunlan closed his eyes, breathless with the weight of the thought. It was like the morning he’d found Shen Wei draining his blood, allegedly to repair the wound he’d taken sharing his life force with Yunlan, all over again, only turned on its head. Instead of furious shock that anyone would sacrifice himself so completely and unhesitatingly for Yunlan, it was a warm weight of certainty inside him. Because Yunlan had spent twenty-eight years waiting for the man in his arms, barely looking at another person, even casually, and he was sure in his heart, all the way down to the echoing memory of his first life, that he’d spent ten thousand years worth of lives that way.

Shen Wei’s devotion wasn’t the alarming imposition it had seemed, in the shock of that morning. It was the answer Yunlan hadn’t realized he was listening for, so intently he hardly noticed any other.

“I’m here, now,” he repeated, smiling against the darkness of xiao-Wei’s hair. “And so are you.”

A faint laugh shook xiao-Wei’s shoulders, and he finally lifted his head, starting to smile again despite the redness of his eyes. “Yes.” Whatever he saw in Yunlan’s face, it eased the tension out of his body, and Yunlan made a pleased sound as they leaned more comfortably together.

“That’s better.” He linked his hands behind xiao-Wei’s neck, thumbs stroking absently up and down xiao-Wei’s nape, and smiled wider at the sudden heaviness of his eyes, the quick, soft draw of his breath. “Xiao-Wei. Come to bed?” Personally, he could think of no better way to ground them in the present. In fact, when xiao-Wei lifted a hand to cup his cheek, thumb stroking along the curve of Yunlan’s mouth, Yunlan stopped being able to think of anything but the present moment.

“Yes,” xiao-Wei agreed, softly.

Yunlan suddenly wanted very much to have xiao-Wei’s bare skin under his hands, and made such short work of undoing xiao-Wei’s vest and shirt that xiao-Wei was laughing under his breath by the time Yunlan went after his pants. He was willing enough to stretch out on Yunlan’s bed and be touched, though, and that was the important part. The soft contentment in dark eyes as Yunlan’s hands slid down his body, fingers tracing along his ribs, over his hips—that was the important part.

One such thought led to another, and Yulan made a thoughtful sound as he pressed a kiss under xiao-Wei’s ear just to hear him laugh again. “Hey.” He leaned up on his elbows, looking down at xiao-Wei. “Okay if I try something?”

“Anything you like.” The promptness of xiao-Wei’s answer, so ready and unthinking, made Yunlan smile, probably quite foolishly. He didn’t care.

“Thanks.” He stole another kiss and slid down the bed, nudging just a little hesitantly in to lie between xiao-Wei’s legs. The sharp intake of xiao-Wei’s breath was promising, though, so Yunlan went ahead and leaned down to close his mouth around xiao-Wei’s cock.

“Yunlan…!”

He made an inquiring sound around his mouthful, and observed the way xiao-Wei’s hands clenched tight on the blankets. That seemed like a good sign, too. Yunlan slid his mouth carefully further down, tongue stroking against smooth skin, taking in the taste of it—a little flat, a little salt, ever so faintly sweet, all twined together into one. The newness of it faded into the back of his mind, though, when xiao-Wei moaned, low and open.

Yunlan.” The huskiness of it locked Yunlan’s attention, and he glanced up at xiao-Wei as he drew back. The pleasure and heat in the heaviness of his eyes on Yunlan, the part of his lips, made Yunlan grin, quite pleased with his experiment, so far. He wrapped his mouth back around xiao-Wei and sucked on him. He could feel the tremor that ran through xiao-Wei, the fierce control that caught short the lift of his hips, and positively purred around him. He liked this. He liked knowing that he could bring xiao-Wei pleasure, and he liked xiao-Wei’s care for him, even in the midst of it.

The same part of him that enjoyed the possessiveness of xiao-Wei’s hands sliding over his shoulders liked even more the thought that he was the only one who was ever going to see xiao-Wei like this. Ever see him flushed, head tossed back against the pillows, breathing deep and fast. Ever hear that clear, precise voice turn velvety with hunger.

When xiao-Wei gasped out a warning, Yunlan just made a pleased sound and sucked harder.

Xiao-Wei groaned, body arching taut as long shudders rolled through him. The upward surge of his hips drove him deeper into Yunlan’s mouth, and Yunlan suddenly understood the warning. It put a curl of excitement down his nerves, too, though, and he relaxed into it the way he would into an unexpected fall, hot and breathless with the rush that filled his mouth.

He did wonder, as xiao-Wei dropped back against the bed, suddenly lax, whether there was a graceful way to wipe one’s mouth after this kind of thing. He suspected there might not be, but it could be worth a little research, later. Right now, it was far more important to slide back up to settle against xiao-Wei and bask in how gorgeous his lover was, panting and undone, eyes closed as he slowly relaxed from the edge of pleasure.

When xiao-Wei opened his eyes again, he huffed a soft laugh, reaching up to run his fingers through Yunlan’s hair. “You look pleased with yourself.”

“Mmm, I think I am,” Yunlan agreed, and leaned down to kiss him. Against xiao-Wei’s mouth, he added, “We’re here, and it’s now. You can feel it here,” he spread a hand over xiao-Wei’s chest, “can’t you?”

Xiao-Wei stared up at him for a moment, eyes wide and dark. Finally he laughed again, soft and rueful. “I can,” he murmured, hands sliding down Yunlan’s back. “And yet, you’re still the same.” He drew Yunlan down to him and kissed him, slow and deep. “Still the one I love with all my heart.” Another lingering kiss. “That will never change.”

Yunlan made a breathless sound at the surge of wanting that shook him. Xiao-Wei caught him closer and turned Yunlan under him. “Always,” he promised, and the intensity of it left no room for doubt, no room for anything but the certainty that Shen Wei would never let go. Yunlan let out a slow, shuddering breath, holding him tight as that certainty settled into his chest, warm and soothing.

“Yes.”

They lay quiet for a while, twined together, and Yunlan relaxed into the rare peacefulness. Eventually, though, xiao-Wei stirred against him.

“Don’t think this gets you out of eating a decent dinner, tonight.”

It startled Yunlan into an open, genuine laugh, and xiao-Wei leaned up on an elbow, smiling down at him, eyes soft and warm just for him. “I think I probably have some fried rice cakes that should still be good,” he suggested, just to see the exasperated look xiao-Wei gave him. It eased away when Yunlan reached up to touch his cheek, though. “We’re going to be all right, now, yeah?”

Xiao-Wei leaned into his hand, smiling. “We will.”

Yunlan thought it was getting a little easier for both of them to believe it.

The Advance of the Mountain Wind – Two

They paused in the hallway between their apartments, staring at each other in silence for a long moment. Yunlan would deny to his dying breath (and beyond, obviously) that he ever had or ever would feel anything in shouting distance of ‘bashful’, but he did have to admit to a sudden moment of regret that he’d never gotten at lot of practice at taking a date home. Or being taken home, for that matter, except that Shen Wei didn’t seem to be doing any taking anywhere, either, and was just…

…just standing there, quite still. Watching him.

Yunlan laughed a little, feeling the sneaking tension in his shoulders let go all at once. He knew that look. Knew the stillness of xiao-Wei restraining himself. More than that, he knew the heat shuttered behind that waiting gaze.

“So.” Yunlan scrubbed a hand through his hair, glancing around the empty hallway for inspiration before he finally gave up and swept his arm toward his own door, inviting. “Come in?”

The waiting in Shen Wei’s gaze melted into intent heat, and he smiled, slow. “Yes.”

“Right. Yes.” Yunlan turned to open the door, and the light pressure of Shen Wei’s hand settling at the small of his back nearly made him trip over his own threshold.

The path from his door to the bed had never seemed quite so full of obstructions, even if they only consisted of some scattered shoes and a bit of a corner.

“Yunlan.”

The sound of his bare given name, rolled over Shen Wei’s tongue like he was tasting it, made Yunlan’s breath shudder in his lungs. “Yeah?” he managed, almost his nonchalant self.

Shen Wei’s hands slid over his shoulders, turning him to see that Shen Wei’s smile had softened. “Let me?”

Old, deep certainty washed over Yunlan again. This was the one he could always trust, beyond sense or reason, beyond question or doubt. His smile was easy with that certainty, if tilted with the newness of the oldness. “Yeah.”

Shen Wei’s hands closed around his face, careful, tender, as though Yunlan was the most precious thing he’d ever held, and it was so very easy to relax into them, to reach out and settle his hands on xiao-Wei’s waist, and open his mouth for the soft, cool lips sliding over his.

One slow, careful kiss after another, Shen Wei’s tongue stroked deeper and deeper into his mouth, until Yunlan’s breath was coming fast and short and his fingers dug into Shen Wei’s hips, pulling him closer. Urgency coiled tighter and tighter in his belly, and finally spilled over into words.

“All right, can…” Another kiss. “Can we just…” Another, and this time he felt the curve of Shen Wei’s lips against his. “Xiao-Wei…!” His laughter was what finally broke them apart, though the quiet mischief dancing in xiao-Wei’s eyes made Yunlan lean their foreheads together as he caught his breath. “Bed?”

“I’d like that.” Shen Wei’s hands slid over his shoulders and down his arms to catch his hands, and Shen Wei backed up without so much as looking over his shoulder, drawing Yunlan toward the bed. That amount of attention focused on him made his breath quicken again. And Shen Wei himself…

Yunlan had always thought Shen Wei was beautiful. He had eyes, after all. But it was amazing what you could get used to when it walked beside you day after day, stuffed breakfast into your hand way too early in the morning, and silently petitioned the heavens for patience over your unfolded clothes. Now it was leaping out at him all over again—the economy of Shen Wei’s movement as he shrugged out of his unbuttoned shirt, the fullness of his lips as he smiled, the careful strength of long fingers wrapping around the back of Yunlan’s neck and tugging him down to another kiss. When Shen Wei pushed Yunlan down to sit on the edge of the bed and knelt to tug his boots off, the grace of it stole Yunlan’s breath. Seeing Shen Wei smile up at him under his lashes nearly distracted Yunlan from the fact that Shen Wei was undoing his jeans.

It wasn’t awkward at all to lie back, to stretch out on the rumpled sheets, and feel the weight of xiao-Wei’s eyes on him, and Yunlan had another moment of disorientation at how not-strange this felt. It blew away like milkweed down, though, when Shen Wei prowled up onto the bed to settle against him.

Part of him expected the cool of xiao-Wei’s skin against his, and all of him positively purred at how good it felt. “Xiao-Wei,” he murmured, sliding his hands up the sleek line of Shen Wei’s bare back, the way he’d really, really wanted to that one time Shen Wei had volunteered to have baseline energy readings taken. He could feel Shen Wei shiver under his palms.

“You keep calling me that.” Shen Wei didn’t sound upset, but he did sounds a bit wistful. Yunlan smiled, wry.

“Don’t think I could call you anything else, when we’re like this. It just… it’s the name that’s there.” More slowly, sorting the urge out in his own head, “It’s my name, for you.”

Xiao-Wei kissed him again, at that, swift but so tender it made Yunlan’s chest tight. “Yes,” he agreed, against Yunlan’s mouth. Yunlan wound himself tighter around xiao-Wei, breathless with the simple amazement that this was really his.

And then a lot more breathless with the way xiao-Wei’s hands slid down his body, open and openly possessive, and maybe he should have expected the jolt of heat that sent through him but he really hadn’t. “I can tell you again, now,” xiao-Wei murmured against his throat. “You are the heart of me. Whatever life I’ve had, all this time, is because you stopped and smiled that very first day, so long ago. I have always treasured you.” With every word, the heat in Yunlan sank deeper, softened, filled him with a warmth and sweetness that he thought might undo him all by itself. That old-new familiarity ran under it, but twined through the familiarity was wonder. Yunlan had to close his eyes and just breathe, holding tight to xiao-Wei, when he realized this must always have been a wonder to him, to have xiao-Wei’s love and care.

“The more things change, the more they stay the same.” He meant it to come out light, but his voice caught and cracked on the words. Xiao-Wei’s hand cupped his cheek, cool and gentle, and Yunlan opened his eyes to see xiao-Wei smiling down at him, eyes bright with laughter and soft with understanding.

“Yes.”

And then xiao-Wei’s smile widened and Yunlan braced himself on pure reflex, both old and current. “Perhaps we should test that a bit, though,” xiao-Wei murmured. His hand slid down from Yunlan’s cheek, trailed across his chest and down his stomach, and Yunlan barely had time for his eyes to stretch wide with realization before long fingers wrapped around his cock. The chill of xiao-Wei’s touch against heated skin felt incredible.

“Xiao-Wei… oh fuck…” Yunlan’s hips rocked up into xiao-Wei’s hold, and he shuddered with the heavy curl of pleasure up his spine. “Ohhh fuck.”

Pressed this close, he could feel that xiao-Wei was laughing. “Well, I see there’s no change there.” Yunlan made an inarticulate sound and reached up to pull xiao-Wei down to another kiss, deep and wet and wanting. Xiao-Wei gathered him closer, touch gentling. “Yes,” he murmured. Yunlan wasn’t at all surprised when xiao-Wei reached unerringly for the bottle tucked under the bedside table, and those cool, deft fingers were slick when they closed around him again. Yunlan groaned, hands working against xiao-Wei’s shoulders as pleasure coiled low in his stomach, hot and slow. It felt so simple, so stunningly easy, to let his senses take him, to just move with xiao-Wei’s hands on him as the heat wound tighter and tighter, and finally broke like a storm, shaking him apart until he was gasping for breath, holding tight to xiao-Wei against the intensity of it.

And xiao-Wei held him secure through all of it.

In fact, when Yunlan’s thoughts started fitting sensibly together, again, he realized that xiao-Wei was just holding him, fingers sliding through his hair, slow and soothing. “So, um.” Yunlan cleared his throat and glanced up, “were you…?” He trailed off completely when he saw the warm satisfaction in xiao-Wei’s smile.

“Later,” xiao-Wei said, simply.

The familiarity of that care rang through Yunlan like his heart was a struck bell, sweet and certain and so overwhelming to him now that he could barely breathe, only catch Shen Wei close and hold on. This. This was the one who would always care, would never leave, who had proved his trust over and over again.

It took a while for Yunlan’s breath to come evenly again.

As he quieted, though, the unquestioning steadiness of xiao-Wei’s arms around him connected one thought to another, and Yunlan stared up at the ceiling, past Shen Wei’s shoulder. “It must have hurt you so much,” he whispered, “when I didn’t know you. Didn’t remember you.”

Xiao-Wei went utterly still, against him, for one heartbeat, another, and then stirred with a tiny shrug. After the past year, Yunlan was ready for that, though. “Ah-ah! Don’t try to deny it.”

A tiny snort answered him, but at least xiao-Wei’s body stopped shifting toward dismissal. Xiao-Wei was quiet for a moment. “I could hardly blame you for not remembering when I was the one who took Shen Nong’s bargain without consulting you.”

“Of course not,” Yunlan agreed, waiting for xiao-Wei’s shoulders to settle, under his hands. “But that doesn’t mean it didn’t hurt.” He felt the tiny, instantly stifled flinch, too, and sighed, rubbing a hand slowly up and down xiao-Wei’s back. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t apologize,” Shen Wei snapped, pushing up on an elbow to glower at him. Yunlan smiled and touched a finger to xiao-Wei’s lips.

“I’m not apologizing. I’m just saying that I’m sorry you had that pain.” As he’d grown to expect, and felt he’d probably learned to expect a long time ago, xiao-Wei didn’t contradict his insistence, only made an irritated sound and dropped back down against his shoulder. Yunlan smiled wider and snuggled up until xiao-Wei relaxed and curled around him again. Yunlan let his eyes drift closed, satisfied.

Even without prior (current) experience, he felt like he was getting a pretty good handle on how to do this relationship thing.


Knocking woke Yunlan up, and it took him a moment to figure out why, when he turned over to bury his head in the pillows, he wound up pressed tight against another body instead. “Ngh?” he asked, squinting at the expanse of chest in front of his nose.

“Do you want me to answer the door to your apartment?” Shen Wei asked, sounding both amused and far too awake.

Imagining the response of any of his team to that, Yunlan winced and pushed up onto his elbows. “I’m awake, I’m awake.”

“Hmm.” A cool hand settled on Yunlan’s cheek and suddenly he was being kissed, slow and thorough. A curl of heat licked through him, in answer, and his hand reached up to thread through xiao-Wei’s hair. The ease of it, the knowledge that this was his and he could reach out for it any time, for any reason, left Yunlan more breathless than the kiss. When xiao-Wei drew back, Yunlan stayed leaning over him for a long moment, stunned all over again.

“I’m awake,” he finally said, soft and wondering.

Shen Wei smiled up at him, small and bright, and so perfectly content Yunlan’s heart ached. “Then go answer the door.”

Another knock underscored the point, and Yunlan crawled out of bed and into some clothes, since whoever it was obviously wasn’t going away. When he opened the door, though, he had one moment of wondering whether he really was awake or not, because he came face to face with himself. But no, he’d seen this, hadn’t he, while holding fast to the gateway into the Lamp? Zhang Shi had done as he’d promised and taken Yunlan’s place.

“Well.” Yunlan ran a hand through his hair and stood aside. “This is going to be awkward.”

“That depends.” Zhang Shi pushed a large cardboard box with ‘Shen – clothes’ written on it inside and shouldered past him to dump an entire backpack full of files on the table. “If you want to avoid the hero worship and bureaucracy that’s trying to swallow the Division, you could always start running now. Otherwise,” he gestured to the files, “get reading on the past year’s cases and new personnel, and I’ll try to catch you up. Your cat informed me of things last night, so I came prepared.”

“You know, I get the impression that you might just tackle me and drag me back to the paperwork if I tried to run.” Yunlan flopped down on the couch and eyed the stack of binders; it didn’t actually look that bad, for a year’s worth.

Zhang Shi interrupted his calculations of how fast he could get through this to lean over him and jab a finger into his chest. “When I thought you were dead, that was one thing. Now I know you’re not, you had better not ever make me accept an award in your place again.”

The face might be Yunlan’s, but that glower was one he’d seen more than once on his father’s face, always after he’d done something that was maybe a little more reckless than it should have been. Just a little. Yunlan patted his other dad’s hand, smiling. “Don’t worry. We won’t let it happen again.”

Plates clinked very distinctly as Shen Wei set breakfast down beside the files. “We most certainly will not.”

“Now, why does that sound more like a threat than a promise?” Yunlan asked, lightly.

Shen Wei gave him a dark look. “I had things under control, with Ye Zun. There was no need for you to come rushing in when you were still a human. He could easily have killed you by accident. He nearly did.”

Yunlan knew exactly where xiao-Wei’s sudden anger was coming from, because he could feel it leaping up in his own heart. Now they had time for it, and a reminder of it, his blood was abruptly boiling with the fear and pain of watching Shen Wei take the blow meant for him and fall, limp as a broken doll. “Your entire ‘plan’ consisted of sacrificing your life to force-feed Ye Zun an incompatible energy,” he snapped, “and do you want to talk about the part where that means you had to be poisoning yourself to set it up?”

Shen Wei’s hands flinched into fists and he jerked his chin aside, breaking Yunlan’s gaze to look past him. Yunlan made an inarticulate sound of frustration, and threw himself onto his feet to pace a few lengths of the room before he started wanting to throw something else.

“If I may interrupt…”

It was his own voice, but his father’s tone through and through, and Yunlan buried his face in his hand, biting back a groan. He’d just had a fight with his lover in front of his demi-dad. The morning couldn’t get any better. “Sure, feel free,” he muttered into his palm.

“My Lord Envoy,” Zhang Shi said, very formal, and sounding less and less like Yunlan, which was a relief, “may I ask your assurance that you are well, now?”

Yunlan could hear the deep breath that Shen Wei took to make his voice quiet again. “You may. And I am well, now, though it may take a little time to be sure of the other effects.”

Yunlan spun around sharply at that. “Other effects?”

Shen Wei gave him a tight-lipped glance. “You shared a spark of your soul with me, created a soul in me where there never was one, and that’s in addition to the part of your nature you shared with me ten millennia ago. I’m not even sure what I am, now.”

Cold fear washed over Yunlan, though he felt it break against an old, deep certainty, and he took a step back toward xiao-Wei. “It couldn’t hurt you, though, right?” He pressed a hand to his chest, as if he could take hold of that certainty. “That’s right, isn’t it?”

The hard line of Shen Wei’s shoulders softened at once, and he reached out to wrap a hand around Yunlan’s arm. “Yes, that’s right. If there were going to be problems, it would have been obvious immediately.” He hesitated for a long moment and finally sighed, his giving-in sigh, and Yunlan couldn’t help a tiny grin when he realized he could recognize the sound. Xiao-Wei snorted at him and pushed him back over to the couch, settling beside him. At xiao-Wei’s wave of permission, Zhang Shi nudged plates of dumplings and fruit aside and sat on the table.

“I am well,” xiao-Wei started, firmly, “but between what I did and what you did, it’s very likely that my entire nature has been changed. When I realized the kind of disruption the Dial had caused in my being, it was just when I’d become sure that my brother was breaking free. I’d been considering asking the sacred tree to release our bargain and reclaiming the Guardian token already, because a significant part of my power was bound up in creating it. If I’d been able to reclaim that power, to reconvert it into my own, I could have faced Ye Zun evenly, though it would have meant all restraints on the power of my people in this realm would be removed. It seemed like a reasonable risk, if it meant I could stop Ye Zun early enough. But once I was injured, my chances of containing Ye Zun again went down considerably. That was when it occurred to me that if I absorbed the token’s power without reclaiming or reconverting it, especially if I could displace enough of my own power to keep the conflict of energies from being apparent, it would be very easy to bait my brother into consuming it.”

The shock on Zhang Shi’s face was, if anything, even greater than Yunlan’s. “If the Guardian charge was a bargain with the sacred tree… that’s a heavenly power, you would have had to reduce your strength to almost nothing!”

“As I said,” Shen Wei answered, terrifyingly level. “Very easy.”

After a long moment, Zhang Shi bowed his head to Shen Wei. “Noble Lord,” he said, softly, more formal than ever.

“Stop encouraging him!” Yunlan snapped. “That was not a reasonable risk!”

Xiao-Wei raised his brows and gave Yunlan a very pointed, sidelong look. “So, it’s reasonable when you do it, but not when I do it?”

“Don’t tell me you don’t think exactly the same thing.” They eyed each other for a long moment before the essential ridiculousness of their mutual insistence caught up with Yunlan and he had to stifle the snort of laughter that was trying to escape. When he spotted the twitch at the corner of xiao-Wei’s mouth, he lost it, and the two of them leaned together, laughing low and helpless for a long moment.

“At any rate,” xiao-Wei finally said, adjusting his glasses for composure just like a cat resettling its fur, “the half of my nature that has always been ghost was considerably weakened, in part replaced with the token’s power, which was half mine and half the sacred tree’s, and then on top of that the same one who gifted me with a god’s nature added soul fire.” He spread his hands. “I have no idea, yet, what all that became in the process of regaining matter on our way out of the Lamp.”

“A god,” Yunlan said, quietly, words that came whole and certain from that deep sense of memory inside him, now. “A god of ghosts. I think… I think that was what I always meant and hoped for.”

The sound xiao-Wei made was wordless, as soft and amazed as his eyes had gone.

“That’s quite the courting gift,” Zhang Shi murmured, sounding both impressed and paternally amused.

A choked laugh escaped xiao-Wei, and he added, “Better than antique books.” Yunlan gave serious consideration to sinking through the couch in embarrassment, at least until xiao-Wei leaned into his side again with a tiny, warm smile.

“Well.” Yunlan scrubbed a hand through his hair. “Maybe the first order of Division business is actually some test-runs to find out what you can do now, and how.”

“After breakfast,” xiao-Wei specified firmly.

“Right, fine, breakfast.” Yunlan agreed peaceably, raising his hands. He didn’t so much as glance at Zhang Shi. He could feel the doting-dad vibes from here, which would be too bizarre to see on his own face. “Also, we need to get Zhang Shi a new identity.”

“I called Dr. Cheng this morning.” Zhang Shi sounded relieved. “She knew of a good prospect at once.”

“Cheng Xinyan has great integrity,” xiao-Wei commented mildly, between small bites of orange. “I trust her judgement. A candidate she’s chosen will be acceptable, but to stay here you will need to re-join one of the law enforcement departments. Not,” he added a bit dryly, “the Supervisory Bureau.” Yunlan had actually forgotten, for a moment, that Zhang Shi would need the Envoy’s approval to continue living in this realm. His other dad was his lover’s subject and quite possibly about to be his employee.

It was a good thing he’d never much wanted a normal life.

The Advance of the Mountain Wind – One

It wasn’t, Zhao Yunlan thought, anything like what he’d have expected. He didn’t feel any great enlightenment or sudden attack of wisdom. It didn’t feel like a scroll of ages unrolling in his head, or like he was about to burst with the weight of memory. Returning divinity didn’t feel like anything appropriately dramatic, in his opinion. It was just…

He recognized this.

He recognized the faint inward curve of Shen Wei’s shoulders, and the tiny crease of his eyes. He recognized that instant when Shen Wei’s lips firmed, just before he offered Yunlan a shaky smile. He knew this, all the little signs that said Shen Wei wasn’t telling the truth. Not just wasn’t saying everything, though Yunlan had certainly seen enough to that to recognize it. No, this was xiao-Wei actually trying to lie to him about something.

And he knew, just as surely, just as unobtrusively, that the smeared starlight all around them was not what two souls should be seeing, in this moment.

…or, one soul and one ghost. He was certain of that too, and all right that was a little more suitably strange.

“Soooo,” he drew the word out until Shen Wei huffed a faint laugh and took an obvious breath for composure before raising his brows. Yunlan smiled and spread his hands. “What’s really going on?”

Shen Wei went completely still for one moment, and Yunlan was sure, in his head this time and not just the bottom of his heart, that he’d been right. “Hmmm?” he prodded, wiggling his fingers in a ‘give it up’ gesture.

“Didn’t we just cover that?” Shen Wei asked back, almost dryly enough to cover the flicker of his eyes aside. Almost.

Yunlan reached out, the way he never had but remembered so well, and touched his fingers to Shen Wei’s chest, over his heart. “Xiao-Wei,” he said quietly, and watched Shen Wei’s eyes go wide with shock, soft with want, the way he’d only seen once before. No, more than once, but only ever for him. That hadn’t changed.

Shen Wei’s throat worked as he swallowed, and his voice came out husky, unsteady. “What…?”

Yunlan grinned at him, just as roguishly charming as he could make it, and coaxed, “Tell me the truth?”

That made Shen Wei start back a step, though, whole body stiff. “I can’t.” His voice turned sharp with what sounded to Yunlan like genuine fear. And the only times he’d seen Shen Wei truly afraid had been for him; that also felt correct all the way down. So there probably was something big at stake. Even so… Yunlan looked around, thoughtfully. The more he considered it, the more he felt like their surroundings were thin. As though, if he reached out and dragged his fingers down, he’d smear paint down a canvas backdrop.

Admittedly, no one was more surprised than him when starlit blue really did start to come apart under his reaching fingers. Even after he bit back an undignified yelp and snatched his hand away, something lingered on his fingers. Something light and chill.

Familiar chill. The chill that whispered ‘xiao-Wei’ to him.

Yunlan rubbed his fingers together, eyes fixed on the shreds of blue and silver still flickering around his fingertips. The same colors, now he thought about it, that lurked between the shadows of Shen Wei’s power. “What is it you’re trying to do?” he asked, softly. “What is it you need me not to know?”

“Who you are.” Shen Wei’s voice was soft, too, as if he didn’t want to upset some delicate balance, which made Yunlan chuckle, shaking his head as he looked back up. That balance was already tipped, quite likely by the forced actualization of that damn shot of serum now he came to think about it.

“I’m Kunlun. Aren’t I? Or I was.” He frowned a little. “Am? I think am, maybe. This should be a lot stranger,” he complained. “I keep forgetting I’d forgotten.” He started a little when Shen Wei’s hands closed on his shoulders, bruisingly tight.

“How…? But your soul is whole,” he whispered, as if to himself, gaze raking over Yunlan. “So bright, though. If you’re drawing the matter of the Lamp back to you…” His head jerked up and he looked around—and, tellingly, away, as if he saw beyond the pretense draped around them. “But the seal of the Lamp is still whole.”

Yunlan considered the surprise in Shen Wei’s wide eyes and the thread of fear still running through his voice, and reached out to lay his hands on Shen Wei’s shoulders in turn. “What are you worried might happen?” he asked softly, as if coaxing a witness.

At that, Shen Wei hesitated and his eyes slid aside, fixing straight over Yunlan’s shoulder. Yunlan stifled a sigh. Few things frustrated him as much as that iron wall of reticence Shen Wei used instead of a flat out lie (which might reveal something). For once, though, Shen Wei didn’t refuse or dance around the answer, for all it looked dragged out of him.

“After you sacrificed yourself to keep the realms separate,” he paused, mouth tight, and added, “after the first time you sacrificed yourself, I caught your soul and went to Shen Nong, asking him to see you reincarnated as a human.”

Yunlan had another genuinely strange moment, at that, as his head said that was the most peculiar thing he’d ever heard (which was saying something), while his heart said it made perfect sense (and was exactly the kind of thing xiao-Wei would do). Yunlan was starting to think he’d need to invest in some folklore textbooks to get used to the inside of his own head. And, possibly, to get at what were some apparently juicy details that current explanations of history left out.

“He said the cycle of reincarnation only had capacity enough to hold human souls, not a god. Gods are… there’s so much potentiality in them, and it flows so easily between forms. He said it would only be possible if he sealed away your power, and even memory of your power, and…” Shen Wei hesitated again, glanced at Yunlan’s expectantly raised brows, and sighed. “And if I stayed away from you. As a human, you wouldn’t have the strength, any longer, to resist the destruction inherent in my nature.”

Yunlan tightened his grip on Shen Wei’s shoulders, stroking gentle thumbs along his collar-bone, trying to soothe the tightness in Shen Wei’s voice. “For how long?” he asked, curious.

Shen Wei’s hands flexed tight again for a breath. “Ten thousand years. That part was true.”

Yunlan thought back to another interval that had started in star-smeared blue, and couldn’t help laughing, the laugh that he used to hold the rest of the world off for a moment’s pause and give himself time to think, because the implications of this were… well his head was alarmed, anyway. “So that whole ‘back in time’ thing was, what? An illusion?”

“Not exactly. It would have been dangerous for me to control your senses directly for that long, and I wasn’t sure I could, by then. It was… it was an idea, a story of sorts, that I gave to the Holy Tools, to the Lamp especially. They fueled a kind of life in it, so that it felt real as it played out.” For a moment, Shen Wei looked rueful. “I hadn’t expected it to have quite as much life as it did, for it to keep happening whenever you started to touch the true nature of the Tools themselves, let alone for it to touch other minds also, but perhaps I should have.”

Shen Wei was watching him, now, eyes dark, and the whole line of his body was cautious, ready to step back before he was pushed away. Yunlan could feel the body-memory of that in his own muscles and bones, from long years of dealing with his father. He tightened his hold on Shen Wei’s shoulders a little, automatically reassuring. Considering that ‘time-travel’ interval as a sample of Shen Wei’s (and perhaps the Holy Tools’) storytelling ability, he smiled slowly and asked, “Is that why you seemed so young?” Because that part felt right, that xiao-Wei had been… perhaps not innocent, but definitely young, when they’d met.

The faint line of tension in Shen Wei’s shoulders eased. “Yes,” he admitted, softly. “I had to create that idea seed very quickly. Most of what was in it was actually true, just… not all in order, and not in that context.” He looked rueful for a moment, mouth quirking. “Professor Xia would probably lecture for hours on all the modern historical theory I got wrong, too.”

Yunlan waved dismissive fingers. “Ah, fair enough, since modern theory is apparently already wrong.” Shen Wei hesitated, suddenly looking much more professor-ly, and Yunlan poked at the sense of certainty in the back of his head. It didn’t change. “It is wrong, isn’t it?”

Shen Wei tipped his head to one side. “Yes and no. The star travel part, certainly. That was just the conclusion one charismatic scholar pushed to the fore. However varied in nature, we’re all creatures of this world, gods and humans, beasts and spirits, and all. But the biological and energy-state distinctions are certainly present. They aren’t all there is to the nature of the Yashou or of my own kind.” A corner of his mouth curled and there was a hard glint in his eyes for a moment. “That’s undoubtedly why Professor Ouyang’s experiments largely failed. There was an element the researchers simply weren’t taking into account. Even so, modern science isn’t wrong, per se. It just doesn’t have all the pieces and ignores some possibilities.” He chuckled, suddenly, and Yunlan had to take a moment to retrieve his thoughts as they snagged on the sound of it—Shen Wei’s laugh always did that to him, even now he remembered hearing it more often. “I wish we had more time. For you to return to the world as your old self… I wish I could be there to see the academic establishment trying to cope with that.”

Yunlan blinked at him. “You will, though.”

Shen Wei smiled, and Yunlan felt his heart twist at the sadness in it. “Whether you consider it a stable energy pattern or a soul… I don’t have any such thing, to draw me back into the world again. I think the Lamp will keep me from complete dissolution, but I’ll never leave it.” The smile softened, and Shen Wei touched Yunlan’s cheek with light fingers. “It’s all right. The Lamp was created from you. To be one with you, and always near you… I couldn’t imagine a better end, for one with my nature.” Softer still, as horror pulled Yunlan’s breath short, he added, “When you finally choose to rest from the cycle of rebirth, you can find me here.”

“Absolutely not!” Yunlan shouted, giving Shen Wei a good shake. “Do you ever damn well stop?! For once, think about your own worth!” Shen Wei just looked back at him, level and resigned, and Yunlan let go long enough to drive his hands through his hair with a sound of furious frustration. Under the fury, though, was still the bedrock certainty he’d spoken out of, not moved at all by Shen Wei’s determined self-sacrifice. He had a lot of damn nerve, taking Yunlan to task over doing this a measly two or three times. Yunlan scrubbed his hands over his face and pulled in a deep breath for calm, trying to get a better grip on the certainty. He knew, down to the core of his bones, that they both would, could, leave whatever in between place or gateway of the Lamp xiao-Wei was currently holding them in. He could do so because of his soul, Shen Wei said—and quite probably a push from xiao-Wei’s power to get him clear. If that was what it took, then Yunlan’s… Kunlun’s… his own power could probably push just as well, but Shen Wei still needed that stable energy pattern. A soul. Which he didn’t have, so how was this supposed to work?

The answer floated up into his thoughts, along with the memory of xiao-Wei’s pendant.

Soul fire.

Yunlan opened his eyes, holding tight to that certainty, listening to that knowing with all his heart, and reached out to touch the hollow of xiao-Wei’s throat, where the pendant had lain for millennia. Yes, he could feel it there, still. Of course xiao-Wei wouldn’t have been able to leave him the real one; it wouldn’t match the story. Yunlan was willing to bet that the pendant he thought he’d picked up really had been illusion, carefully crafted as a parting comfort that matched what he thought he knew. He hooked a finger under the cord of the real one and rubbed his thumb over that small, precious bead. Golden fire flared alive, between his fingertips, answering the will of its source, and Yunlan didn’t hesitate, pushed away all his doubt and skepticism, and laid his palm against the brilliant glow, pressing it into xiao-Wei. He could feel it changing, flowing into another shape, and that was correct; it needed to become xiao-Wei, take on the shape of his being. He remembered doing something like this before, didn’t he? Which meant it could be done again. Yunlan nudged the glow along, reaching deeper with… not exactly his hands.

All he would be able to say, later, was that he knotted his soul fire into Shen Wei, twined the strands of it tight with the strands of Shen Wei’s being. He could never explain it in more detail than that, to the despair of entire biology departments and several eminent particle physicists. When it was over, Shen Wei was staring at him, eyes wide and a little wild, gasping for breath. “How?” xiao-Wei whispered. “What did you do?”

“What I should obviously have done a long time ago.” Yunlan paused, though, because the thought made him feel… wistful. “Except maybe I couldn’t?” he hazarded. “Huh.” Something hadn’t been right, then. Hadn’t been ready? Yes, that was right; he’d needed to share a different part of himself first, and xiao-Wei had needed to accept it.

“Of course you couldn’t! Your nature is one thing, that’s fluid enough in any god, but sharing your soul shouldn’t be… That’s not… it isn’t…” Yunlan grinned at the rare sight of Shen Wei sputtering, and got a glare for it. He turned his hands palm up and shrugged. “If it’s an energy pattern, it has to be replicable, doesn’t it?” Or, at least, that sounded reasonable given Yunlan’s rather esoteric dabbling in the sciences, and also as though it might calm Shen Wei down with academic theory.

Shen Wei opened his mouth and closed it again, slowly. “I suppose what Shen Nong originally did with your soul fire was to stabilize the pattern in humans, and fuel a re-accretion of energy and matter around it,” he mused. “In modern terms, at any rate. It’s at least theoretically possible that use created an echo, or template, of the process.”

Yunlan refrained from pumping a fist in triumph, but Shen Wei eyed him like an he was an over-enthusiastic student anyway. Yunlan smiled back, innocently. “So, you wanna get out of here?”

Shen Wei’s expression turned shuttered again. “My part of the bargain was also to ensure my kind were contained, or destroyed if the seal between realms ever broke again.”

“That’s already my job,” Yunlan pointed out with what he felt was admirable logic, spreading his hands wide, “so why can’t you just keep helping me do it?”

“If we both withdraw our power from the Lamp, the seal will be weakened again and the Division won’t be enough to guard against trespassers, any more,” Shen Wei said flatly. “If you remember anything, now, you must remember the ferocity of my people.”

“If we both have the power—the potentiality, you said?—of gods, now, why wouldn’t we be enough?” Yunlan shot back. “Why shouldn’t we be able to find another solution, if it isn’t enough? Since when do you just give in, anyway?”

Shen Wei’s voice rose, rocking Yunlan back on his heels. “Since I spent ten thousand years dealing with the fact that I was unable to go near you without killing you!”

In the ringing silence that followed that, Yunlan sighed and stepped forward again, wrapping himself around Shen Wei. “I’m here now, and a year with you hasn’t destroyed me,” he offered, quietly. “And I remember some pretty crazy things being possible. Like a young ghost deciding to go off and tour the world, instead of continuing to fight and devour his own kind. We can at least try, can’t we?”

After a long, tense moment, Shen Wei gave in, leaning his head against Yunlan’s shoulder. “As if I’ve ever been able to deny you.” He laughed, helpless and unsteady, and Yunlan just held him tight, waiting. “All right,” he agreed at last, soft. “All right, let’s try.”

A ripple of blue-shot black swept over them, and the starry void dissolved in it, unfurled in streamers of power, letting golden light burst around them like day. More than day. Like the heart of the sun itself, if you could stand there and not be burned. It was absolute reassurance and security, and it tugged at Yunlan with terrifying strength but no force at all. It felt so familiar he thought he might drown in the sensation this time. Xiao-Wei was pressed tight against him, though, and that was almost as familiar. Plus, Yunlan had just spent a year learning to trust Shen Wei’s judgement in tight spots, so when Shen Wei breathed in his ear, “Remember the world we want,” it was easy to think about the Division’s offices, of their mirrored and yet so different apartments, of avoiding paperwork and chasing strange tales and Da Qing waking him up with a sandpaper tongue and demands for breakfast, and that was when he felt it. There was a current of chill running through the golden safety of the Lamp, xiao-Wei’s power curling its way out toward that world, and he reached out to push both of them into that current, to send it running faster, faster, out through the flare of golden brilliance and into unsupported air.

“What…?!”

“BOSS!”

Aaaaaaaa!

Yunlan dropped onto a hard, wood floor, in a tangle of limbs, all the air knocked out of him in a rush. It took a minute or two of wheezing before he managed to figure out which way was up and lifted his head to squint at his subordinates, frozen and staring where they’d all started up from the long table in Division headquarters. “Well?” he finally gasped out. “Stop looking like you’ve seen a ghost and help us up!”

He was fairly sure Shen Wei’s faint groan was for the pun, and not injury, but he was careful about untangling them all the same. The team gathered around, hands reaching out, less to help than to touch them, patting over them both as a babble of words broke out.

“…been a year!”

“…really you, not Zhang Shi, right, you’re not Zhang Shi…”

“What the hell, Boss…?”

“Chief?”

“Professor?”

Chief…!

Yunlan patted xiao-Guo’s shoulder, gingerly, and shot a meaningful look at lao-Chu. Lao-Chu gave him a glower, and an only slightly less ferocious one to Shen Wei, but did come coax xiao-Guo off Yunlan’s shoulder before it got any wetter.

“Okay, in order, wow has it really been a year, no I’m not Zhang Shi, yes it’s really both of us.” Yunlan gave the tall windows a second look and yes, he could see night sky out there. “Also, what are all of you doing working so late?”

“We’re not working,” Zhu Hong snapped, hauling him up off the floor by an elbow and dropping him on the couch. “We wanted a memorial among ourselves, because yes it’s been a year, but the office has too many other people in it during the day.”

Yunlan blinked up at her, stunned. “We got more staff? Seriously?” He turned to look at Shen Wei, being guided down onto the next cushion by Lin Jing. “Are you sure we’re back in the right world?”

“Yes, I’m sure.” Shen Wei was smiling at him, but it was Professor Shen’s small, contained smile, and that just didn’t feel right. Yunlan leaned comfortably against his shoulder, and was satisfied to feel the straightness of Shen Wei’s posture relax a bit.

“But what happened?” Da Qing demanded, scrambling up onto the table so he could stare demandingly at both of them.

Yunlan looked at Shen Wei, who was looking back with the very same helpless expression Yunlan felt on his own face. “Well, that’s… a long story,” Yunlan finally managed.

Shen Wei sighed and straightened, as though shaking himself back to reality. “For the Ministry’s consumption,” he said, sounding convincingly authoritative, “I think the story had better be that the injection Zhao Yunlan took did work, but had a delayed onset. Any inconsistent behavior can be explained by intermittent onset symptoms. For anyone who knew about Zhang Shi, we can say instead that he was caught in a wormhole created by the Holy Tools’ reactivation and only found his way out at this point in time. For myself, we can say I was hospitalized easily enough; there wouldn’t have been a body reported, after all.”

The team looked at each other, trading grimaces, nods, shrugs. “It sounds plausible,” Lin Jing agreed, and then leaned forward on the edge of his chair, eyes bright in a way that always meant trouble. “So? What really happened?”

Shen Wei glanced at Yunlan again, and the question in his eyes was so clear Yunlan thought he might as well have spoken. “I’d like my team to know,” he agreed, quietly. “But are you sure?” In his opinion, xiao-Wei had gotten far too good at sacrificing his own wants for Yunlan’s, and there was no time like the present to start breaking that habit.

Xiao-Wei hesitated. “I’ve watched human science for a very long time,” he said, at last, just as low. “What the ‘serum’ actually does… now that those results are out in the open, I think there will be another shift, soon. If that does happen, what you and I are may become hard to conceal. Better to be prepared.”

Zhu Hong straightened, at that, mock-temper melting into serious attention, but Lin Jing actually bounced in his chair. “What it really does? You know the mechanism?!”

Da Qing rolled his eyes. “Down, boy.”

Yunlan grinned, relaxing into the familiarity of his team of maniacs. “Well, it’s like this. It turns out I’m a god.”

There was a long moment when everyone very obviously waited for the punchline, and Shen Wei actually rolled his eyes.

“Backing up a little,” he put in, dryly, “the current theories of history, of meteorological disasters and legends being metaphorical interpretations of the lives and doings of mortal leaders, are inaccurate. The first gods, the later gods, they were true beings. Nuwa and Fuxi. Shen Nong.” His hand slid over to rest on Yunlan’s knee. “Kunlun.”

Da Qing shook his head like he’d gotten water in his ears. “Wait. Wait, that…” He rubbed his forehead, frowning, and asked, plaintively, “Why does that sound right?”

“Memory as long as yours and mine is a slippery thing, sometimes.” Shen Wei’s hand tightened on Yunlan’s knee. “There are things I remember as sharply as if they just happened, but many of the lives I watched over, and even lived, are faded, now. Jumbled together.” His mouth twisted for a moment. “I stopped reading history, after a while. It got hard to remember whether some things were true memory or just things I’d heard later. It’s probably worse, for you, since you lost so much memory entirely, for a while.”

“But if… but then…” Da Qing’s eyes swung back to Yunlan and widened. “Kunlun was… ?” he whispered. “Kunlun…!” He scrambled to his feet in a burst of black fur and leaped across to land on Yunlan’s chest and shove his head under Yunlan’s chin.

“Ow, ow, ow,” Yunlan protested, as claws dug in through his jacket. “Careful, damn cat.” The admonition didn’t stop Da Qing from clinging tight with every claw, and Yunlan supposed he hadn’t expected it to. He leaned back against the couch cushions, scratching behind Da Qing’s ears. “Yeah, it’s me.” He winced as the claws dug in a little tighter.

“Zhao Yunlan is the soul of the god Kunlun, reborn,” xiao-Wei explained to the staring team. “Reborn as human, but I believe that shot really did shift his nature and tear Shen Nong’s seal over his memories and power. As soon as he gave himself to the Lamp… well, the Lamp was created from Kunlun, to start with. Passing through it again completed the shift and restored both his memories and his nature, fully.”

Lin Jing had been muttering under his breath the whole time, and now he looked up, eyes nearly glowing. “You said the later gods were real, the ones supposed to be humans raised to godhood.” His voice was soft, as if he wanted to sneak up on an idea and not startle it. “If that’s true, and what the serum really does is change a human’s nature, then the serum is creating gods.”

Shen Wei gave him an approving, professorial nod. “Exactly.”

Lin Jing’s crow of glee nearly drowned out xiao-Guo’s yelp of, “Gods?!”

Xiao-Wei got a glint of mischief in his eye. “You took up your responsibilities quite capably, I thought.” He relented when xiao-Guo started looking like he might faint. “It needn’t change much, really. It isn’t merely an extra ability, but you can deal with the rest of what it is slowly.”

Lin Jing stopped doing a victory dance in his chair. “Stability. The other results weren’t stable.”

“It was a change imposed from without.” Xiao-Wei’s voice was quiet but stern with a warning that made Lin Jing listen seriously and lao-Chu wrap a protective arm around xiao-Guo’s shoulders. “Humans were created by the hands of one of the first gods. This path of development has always been part of your kind, but to shock it alive, to force the change,” xiao-Wei shook his head, eyes dark, “that was a fool’s move.”

“This isn’t the first time,” Yunlan murmured, listening to the sadness inside him that had the weight of memory. “Some of those stories are true too—of humans gaining the power of gods, who couldn’t handle it.” He flapped a reassuring hand at xiao-Guo, who was starting to look like fainting again. “Ah, don’t worry about it. If that was going to be a problem, it would have happened sooner. Xiao-Wei’s right; you’re doing just fine with it.”

Zhu Hong straightened up from where she’d been leaning against the table, wide-eyed. “Oh.” She peered closer at Yunlan. “Is that why you called him xiao-Wei, that time?” She managed a tiny smirk. “I guess even the Envoy would be young, to Kunlun.”

Yunlan felt Shen Wei lean into him just a little more, and felt his easy grin turning soft. His voice was lower than he quite meant for it to be, when he answered, “Yeah, I think so.”

Da Qing lashed his tail and finally scrambled off him, taking care to stomp on Yunlan’s stomach on his way. “I’m staying at Lin Jing’s place, tonight,” he announced, imperiously, changing only long enough to fish keys out of his pocket and drop them on the table before turning his back and wrapping his tail around his toes.

That felt so familiar Yunlan couldn’t help laughing. The rest of his team exchanged smirks and nods and elaborate eye rolls, and suddenly everyone was standing, gathering their things.

“See you tomorrow, Boss,” Lin Jing told him brightly, helping lao-Chu herd a confused-looking xiao-Guo out the door. Zhu Hong picked up Da Qing and stalked after them without a backwards glance.

A soft huff made Yunlan look over at Shen Wei, insouciance firmly tacked down over a sudden urge to blush. Shen Wei looked like he was trying not to laugh, and refused to look at Yunlan. “So.” Yunlan picked up the keys, spinning the ring around his finger. “I guess we’re going home?”

That did the trick, and Shen Wei’s smile broke out, warm and bright. “I suppose we are.”

Satisfaction, heavy with the weight of who knew how many lives and years, settled in Yunlan’s chest, and he smiled back. “Good.”

The Wandering Fire

So, about the Changes arc. I loved the Guardian drama, but the backstory and cosmology of the novel appealed to me mightily. I mean, really; gods and demons, ten thousand years of angst, who could resist? And when I went to think about it, the two actually fit together reasonably well, if you tinker both ends a bit. So this arc is a fusion of the drama and novel.

A fusion isn’t quite like a crossover. Instead of, for example, Inu Yasha and company being dropped into the Cowboy Bebop world, a fusion means that Inu Yasha is Spike. So here we have a novel!Shen Wei who is, or becomes, drama!Shen Wei. Part of the fun is, of course, getting him from point A to point B, and the question this arc asks is: what might happen to make the novel backstory lead to the drama canon events? And what would happen next, especially to Zhao Yunlan?

To find out, forget the drama preamble, and read on.

When his love chose to release his final hold on the world, to make way for the new growth of mortal life and the spirits that life created, Shen Wei watched it happen. He watched, and did nothing to stop it, nothing to deny Kunlun’s choice. But at the end of that choice, he made one of his own. He caught Kunlun’s soul before it could unravel and brought it to Shen Nong.

He didn’t like the price Shen Nong demanded from him, before agreeing to give Kunlun’s soul to the cycle of reincarnation. To be guardian to the humans and the shadow of death to his own kind was a harsh task. He agreed to it, though, because one of those humans would be Kunlun.

And so Shen Wei watched most of Shen Nong’s being shift, flow the way the material existence of gods so easily flowed, into another form. That form was an immaterial shape of potential and life-brightness rather than physical being but it still spoke to him of a wheel, an endless turning. He watched that turning catch up two souls, Kunlun and Shen Nong, both now shorn of the weight of memory and power that would mark a god, and buried his face in his hands, shaking with relief and pain both.

It was done.

Kunlun would live, if not as himself and not as Shen Wei’s any more. He would move through the world as a human, terrifyingly fragile and brief, but he would live.

Live again and again, with no memory of Shen Wei.

The voraciousness at the core of Shen Wei’s nature raged over that, screamed at him to seek out something to break, some power to conquer and consume that might change what was. For the first time in many centuries, he was tempted to listen. Yet, at the same time, Kunlun’s parting gift, the part of Kunlun’s own nature that he’d poured into Shen Wei, soothed the rage a little, gentled it until Shen Wei could tell it was actually grief. Perhaps it was even what had moved Shen Nong to agree to their bargain, in the end.

Or perhaps it had just been the possibility of seeing all ghosts finally destroyed, if the seal between realms was ever broken again.

Shen Wei sighed and straightened. Whatever Shen Nong’s motive, he’d agreed. A bargain between gods, even if one of them was only half a god, impressed itself on the material of their very beings. Now the integrity of that seal was his to ensure. He would follow that imperative that was now half of his nature.

But first, he would follow the spark of Kunlun’s soul and see where he found life again.


For quite a while Shen Wei found no difficulty in fulfilling his bargain to contain his people while also keeping an eye on Kunlun’s soul. Considered frankly, few ghosts had any particular ability with planning ahead; most would seek the nearest source of power or life-warmth to attack and devour. If that source was another ghost, without the generative capability of a god or human or shape-changer, that would be cause for rage but not for plotting an escape from their realm. Shen Wei merely needed to keep a distant eye on the seal between realms, and visit now and then to check it in detail.

It wasn’t until Kunlun was reborn in Shu’s great inland city that Shen Wei realized he might need to do more than that. The city was far enough from the gateway and it’s ancient marker tree that even he had trouble seeing that far without time slipping forward or back in his sight. Still, it wasn’t too difficult to craft alarms to leave at the gate. That much use of his power drew down his ability to shield his nature and kept him further from humans than he’d have preferred, but if he was careful to conceal and contain himself he could still come close enough to listen to Kunlun’s current incarnation debate cosmology with his fellow priest-administrators.

“…really reasonable that none of the gods could have stopped a mere flood from causing such widespread devastation as the Second Chronicle speaks of? Even Beiling could handle a flood.”

“Beiling, the king who drowned and returned to life?” Kunlun asked dryly. “Who was selected by Duyu himself to watch over the people precisely because he proved to have power enough over water to handle a flood? It wouldn’t surprise me at all if the Chronicle is true.”

Shen Wei wondered, sometimes, just how much or little Kunlun truly remembered of his past existence, to be so certain the legends were true. Shen Nong had said he would remember nothing, could remember nothing lest the weight of his soul be too great for the still-fragile inertia of reincarnation to hold. But Shen Wei still wondered, sometimes.


By the time Yu of Xia started his ambitious canal project, Shen Wei had stopped wondering if Kunlun remembered and started wondering if humans in general had somehow managed to imprint a universal urge to be prepared in the re-event of catastrophic flooding.

If so, he didn’t suppose he could blame them, but to Shen Wei the changing moods of the land’s rivers would always remind him of Kunlun. Their summer ferocity, that surge that swept over the land and altered it, reminded him just as intensely as the calmer, nurturing flow of autumn. He loved them both.

He wondered if it was irony that Kunlun was here, heaving shovel-fulls of dirt alongside the rest of his team of canal diggers, working to tame one of his own wild rivers. Yet he knew, watching Kunlun straighten and scrub a dirt-smeared hand across his forehead, laughing at some joke from one of his men, that Kunlun had liked the wildness in humans, too, and probably would have enjoyed watching the contest between the two, no matter which triumphed.

He wished he could do more than watch, himself. That he could be down there with them, with Kunlun. That he could lay his hands on those bare shoulders, lean against Kunlun, listen to what made him laugh. The ache of that wishing grew until he thought it might cut off his breath completely.


Shen Wei watched Kunlun, a soldier this life, climb the shallow hill behind his current encampment and sprawl in the tall grass, leaning back on his hands to look up at the clear arch of the sky overhead. It was the time of evening that Kunlun had called the blue hour—after sunset but before full dark, when the sky was a sweep of shifting blue, trees and mountains stark black against it as the strongest stars began to shine.

Kunlun had always said this hour reminded him of Shen Wei himself. Dark, yes, but beautiful and changeable, all shapes knife-edged sharp but with the sky softening behind them for this brief time. Kunlun wouldn’t be thinking about that right now, though. Couldn’t remember it, because Shen Wei had chosen Kunlun’s life over his memory, over preserving those memories as all Kunlun would be. He didn’t regret doing it, but seeing Kunlun be so much himself, still, hurt like a blade slicing down Shen Wei’s heart, over and over and over.

Shen Wei drew concealment tighter around him and watched over the encampment as blue slid away into blackness.


It was a handful of rebirths after that that Shen Wei first lost track of Kunlun, who had died while Shen Wei was examining the seal between realms. That was when it came home to him just how widely humans had spread themselves. It was possible that the ghost who managed to thread past the seal and take up Shen Wei’s time tracking him down didn’t entirely deserve to bear the full weight of Shen Wei’s frustration, but if it served to deter others of his kind from trying his patience, Shen Wei would consider it a net gain.

It took him a ridiculously long time to remember that he carried a spark of Kunlun’s soul with him, considering that his fingers found that bead of golden warmth at least twice a day, for comfort. By the time he’d followed the whisper of connection all the way north into the mountains of Yan, he was determined to do whatever was necessary to keep his watch over the seal without leaving Kunlun. He’d followed Kunlun’s soul through another rebirth, this time in the capital of Luoyi (and hadn’t the capital been further west just a bit ago? couldn’t humans ever hold still?) before he finished the beacon that would connect his awareness to the sacred tree that marked the gateway between realms. It took significant power to keep up, more than his simple beacons had, but it wasn’t as though he needed his power for anything else, these days.


The first time Shen Wei heard the phrase ‘The Mandate of Heaven’ he was hard-pressed not to laugh out loud. He’d never observed any mandate to guide or restrain living creatures. Gods and ghosts and humans and beasts, they all sought their own way and then had to deal with the consequences, and the heavens said nothing about it that he’d ever heard.

“The true nature of the Mandate must be care,” Kunlun expounded enthusiastically, and probably a little drunkenly, to two of his fellow scholars. “It’s when care for the land and people fail that Heaven withdraws its approval, that’s demonstrated time and again!”

“No, no!” one of his at least as drunk companions complained, waving his cup. “Clearly the law is the true core of the Mandate! Care must follow the path of the law, otherwise it’s blind and you’ll have no balance at all.”

“Only,” Kunlun leaned back with a sidelong smirk at their third member, “if you let care be tainted by personal concerns.”

“Which is the only natural approach, and not a corruption at all,” the third man huffed.

Shen Wei leaned against the wall in his shadowed corner, arms crossed, smiling a little to himself. At least it was entertaining to listen to. Kunlun still had all of his gift for bringing the most unlikely of conversants together.


When the great states the humans had scraped back together proceeded to spend a solid couple centuries warring with each other, Shen Wei was entirely unsurprised. Neither was he surprised when the constant tide of wars sweeping back and forth, flaring all kinds of passions higher, tempted more of his kind to dare the gateway between realms. The spell he’d left to warn him of such tugged at his attention more and more over those years, and he was grateful that Kunlun’s soul seemed to have settled into mercantile pursuits for a while, with only occasional forays into politics. It was easier on Shen Wei’s nerves, that way.

Kunlun’s idea of useful politics was often a little… unconventional. If he didn’t have money on hand to use as a lever, he’d probably resort to direct action. Again.

Shen Wei wasn’t sure he was ready to watch over another life of dashing banditry, yet.


Shen Wei sat beside the bed (the deathbed), curled tight in on himself, head buried in his knees.

Two years.

One moment of carelessness, letting Kunlun, letting San, realize he was present, and he hadn’t been able to leave again. And for that weakness, San had died. He was human; he’d only been able to survive Shen Wei’s presence at his side, in his bed, for two brief years.

And, like a fool, he’d promised to await San’s, Kunlun’s, return. How could he keep that promise, when it would mean Kunlun’s death? Death because of him?

If only Shen Wei’s nature could be sealed away, the way his people were sealed. Half of his nature was a god’s nature, wasn’t it? Kunlun’s own nature, his last gift, taken in and made Shen Wei’s own. If only there was a way to lock away the half that was ghost. He would do it, in a heartbeat, if it would prevent this grief happening ever again, prevent Kunlun dying for Shen Wei’s weakness, the next time it overcame his better sense.

He knew he would never, could never, deny Kunlun, no matter what shape or name or life he wore. This would happen again, the next time their paths crossed, unless he stayed away entirely or…

His link to the gateway tugged at his attention, a flash of vision of the sacred tree Nuwa had planted to mark the gate, and Shen Wei uncoiled upright, eyes wide.

The tree.

None of the first gods lived as themselves, any longer, but the tree touched by Nuwa’s hand still lived and grew. It had its own spirit; Shen Wei had felt it, when he’d set his watch-guard spell. The tree had its own share of a god’s nature. And Shen Wei knew, from the working out of his bargain with Shen Nong, that deals made between gods branded themselves deep into the world. If the tree’s spirit consented to help, could they perhaps create a bargain that would seal Shen Wei’s ghost nature while he was in this realm? Could they, perhaps, even transmute Shen Wei’s power into something that would protect humans?

The breath of hope finally unlocked Shen Wei’s bleak, frozen despair, melted it back into grief, and he turned to bury the tears that stormed through him in the bed he and San had shared, fingers fisting tight in the blankets. “I will wait for you,” he promised again, hoarse, when they’d finally eased. “But it can’t be here.” He pushed himself up to his feet, scrubbing his palms over his face, and took a deep breath.

He would try.


It took nearly thirty years. The life of trees was slow, and the kind of working Shen Wei asked for was not a small matter. It built gradually between them, not a bargain spoken once and bound in that moment, but a repeating cycle, year on year, that circled between them again and again. Again and again, Shen Wei agreed and offered; again and again, the tree accepted his power, drank it and changed it, like sunlight into sap. And as the last year drew down into the darkness of winter, Shen Wei felt the bargain crystalize between them, gain matter and reality in the world. The shape of it flickered, now a wood tile, now a pressed sheet, now stamped metal. Finally, as it dropped into Shen Wei’s outstretched hands, it settled into a scroll of wood slats. Marked on the outside, as though burned there, was a single word.

Guardian.

Shen Wei smiled faintly, resting his hand on the tree. “Thank you.”

The leaves above him rustled without any breeze.

Their bargain hadn’t taken all of his power as a ghost. He was, after all, his people’s ruler—the strongest among them. But about half was sealed away and siphoned off, now, he thought. It should allow the other half of his nature to dominate, in this realm at least, and to restrain the relentless void of a ghost’s nature from consuming whatever lives of humans or shape-changers he came close to. If the human in question was the holder of the bargain’s physical token, then the thing would be certain. In time, this bargain might even affect all ghosts, through him. Shen Wei straightened and lifted a hand to lay his fingertips against his pendant, listening for the whisper of Kunlun’s new life.

He arrived just in time for the wedding.

Shen Wei kept himself wrapped deep in concealment as he watched Kunlun and his bride depart from the banquet, watched the wistfulness in Kunlun’s eyes as he glanced around, as if looking for someone absent. He watched Kunlun pat his bride’s hand, and smile kindly, if distantly, and then Shen Wei went to find the nearest bottle of plum liquor and drink himself unconscious.

When the pain in his heart had died down enough that he could face consciousness for more than an hour at a time, again, he asked among the Crow tribe to see if any of the Cat tribe had survived. Not entirely to his surprise, the Crows told him Da Qing himself was still alive; at another time, he might have been amused by their apparent glee that the dark Envoy had some business with the cat. He laid the Guardian scroll in Da Qing’s hands, told him where Kunlun was starting married life, and retreated to the gateway between realms.

For years, the quiet presence of the sacred tree was the only company his freshly torn heart could endure.


It was whispers of the brutality of a budding empire that drew Shen Wei away from the peaceful company of the sacred tree again, and out into the world to follow the faint voice of his pendant until he found Kunlun’s soul again.

Not to stay. Not to get close enough to be caught again; that would still be dangerous, regardless of the locks he’d put on his own power, and he wasn’t quite fool enough to court that kind of pain twice. But if Kunlun was in danger, in this sudden festival of military conquest and consolidation, there were still things Shen Wei could do.

Somehow, he wasn’t surprised to find Kunlun among the ranks of the new scholar-officials, still speaking on the nature of benevolence, if more quietly this life.

For all that Kunlun favored peace, he’d always had a talent for finding trouble. Just look at Shen Wei, himself.


The next time Shen Wei visited his own realm, he was honestly surprised by what he found.

“Bureaucracy? Really?” he asked, as he was shown through an already growing library of laws and precedents. Admittedly, some of those laws were his own dictates, as he saw paging through a volume or two.

“We may be creatures of chaos, but exactly for that reason we always seek form. It’s one of the things we take, when we consume human life, is it not?” The one who was now calling himself only Regent paced beside him and cocked a sharp eye up at him. “And even through we are sealed away from the human realm, we are not separate. Every time one of your people looks up, we see the light of the Lamp. It was created to comfort and guide, for all that it’s also a prison to us.”

“And every time someone sneaks past it,” Shen Wei added, dryly, “they bring back a new piece of human form to imitate.” The Regent spread his hands, noncommittally, and Shen Wei stifled a sigh. He’d known he was sacrificing some control, when he chose to guard the seal largely from the other side, but someone had to be in the human realm to do so and he certainly didn’t trust anyone else with that.

“Very well. But what’s this about choosing a Lord?”

“Never one that could supersede you, of course.” The Regent bowed deeply, and Shen We suppressed the urge to roll his eyes. Clearly, the Regent had absorbed some human court manners, and likely the notion of politicking that went with them. “But laws need a final judge, do they not?” He led the way back out into the high ceilinged central hall, and gestured to the broad, elaborately carved throne at one end. “And, as you see…”

The throne had a feel of embedded power that Shen Wei recognized from the token of his bargain with the sacred tree, though on a smaller scale. He skimmed his fingers close to the seat, testing the feel of it, and jerked back. “This is—!”

“What is necessary to preserve impartiality,” the Regent finished, quite evenly. “Is that not ideal? The one who wishes to take this throne will serve the needs of our realm.”

Would be bound to serve, every bit of will and desire bound to the execution of those growing volumes of laws, until death. “I think you’ve learned a little too much from humans, lately,” Shen Wei said, low and sharp.

The Regent looked back at him, calm. “Would anything less hold one of our kind to such a task?”

Shen Wei’s mouth tightened. He knew the nature of ghosts; it was still half of his own nature, after all. His people were rapacious and violent, even in their hunger for some stabilizing, ordering force to form around. Those who were even capable of desiring peace were still rare, even after thousands of years of the Lamp’s slow influence.

It was the reason he had never yet destroyed the Regent.

“Very well,” he said, at last. “But be sure that those who seek this Lordship know the terms of it before they choose.”

Unmistakeable satisfaction flashed over the Regent’s face as he bowed again. “As you command, my Lord Envoy.”


Staying near, but not too near, to Kunlun’s incarnations was even more frustrating than watching over him from hiding close by had been, which Shen Wei hadn’t previously thought was possible. To distract himself, he started listening to the local scholars and priests again. It passed the time, and watching the concept of family be re-worked to support imperial rule honestly amused him.

Really, it was no wonder his people mirrored humans so closely whenever there was contact between them. Humans had their own share of the world’s darker elements, and sometimes the generative properties of their souls only went to fuel that.

It was on one of his visits to the Imperial University that Shen Wei first heard another amusing trend in philosophy.

“Of course the legends aren’t literal.” The mid-rank scholar he’d been listening in on gave his student a withering look. “The gods named in our legends represent universal principles. Their tales are a moral guide to be unraveled, not some kind of engineering map of creation.”

Shen Wei couldn’t help but wonder, wryly, just what kind of moral guide he was supposed to be, then.


After the long peace of the empire, the bloodshed that followed came as a shock, even to Shen Wei. Kunlun lost three lives in the span of little more than half a century, and frantic worry drew Shen Wei to follow his soul more closely again.

The farmer in the central plains died.

The soldier in the east died.

The small town scholar’s son in the north died, and that time Shen Wei couldn’t stand it any longer, tried to intervene, but he could only hold off so many unless he wanted to break his oaths, shatter his promises to Kunlun and the tree both, draw all of his power back into himself and give himself up to the side of his nature that could call down the death of a whole battlefield.

He did consider it.

In the end his memory of Kunlun, and his word, held. Barely. He took them both back to the sacred tree and left the humans to their own devices. He didn’t think he could do anything else without breaking.

Even the whisper of Kunlun’s soul fire in his pendant was faint and sad.


The humans were building a city around the sacred tree.

A city.

Over the gateway to the underworld.

Shen Wei wasn’t sure whether to be impressed or to despair.

Actually, from the things he overheard among the architects and engineers, he suspected the humans were building everywhere. It seemed the centuries of strife he’d been trying not to think too hard on had finally eased, given way again to an empire of trade and construction. And also foolishness, but perhaps he should take human forgetfulness as a compliment of sorts. He had kept his part of the bargain well enough that they didn’t know, any more, to fear this place.

At least, he reflected, ducking out of the tent where they kept the maps, it looked as though they planned an open space around the sacred tree. Nevertheless, he was going to have to stay in this region far more constantly than he had before. With the warmth of human lives so temptingly close to the seal, more ghosts would attempt to find their way past it.

Shen Wei drew concealment closer around him as a party of cheerfully drunk workers passed in the darkness. Perhaps it was for the best. If it kept him away from Kunlun’s human lives… perhaps it was for the best.

Perhaps Shen Wei had never truly been meant to be anything but a threat of death in the shadows.


Shen Wei watched from a corner of study belonging to the senior Dragon City physician, nearly vibrating with conflicting impulses.

He should have known. He should have known this would happen. He hadn’t gotten to Wan Jun in time, and this was the result. Two senior physicians and their apprentices, all clustered around a table with a dead ghost on it, exclaiming over the results of their examination.

“The temperature hasn’t changed at all, in death!” The older physician sounded nearly rapturous with the medical puzzle before him. “We absolutely must examine the thyroid.”

“And the structure of the eyes! Did you see how they changed color?” His younger colleague was nearly bouncing with excitement. Shen Wei rubbed his forehead and wondered whether it would really be that great a breach of his bargain if he killed them both himself.

The casual disrespect for the body of one of his own was… all right, not actually surprising. Kunlun had spent a few lives as a physician and, whatever the era, outside the presence of friends or family of the deceased, physicians with bodies in front of them tended to be either excited over something interesting to study or else furious over what they saw as a personal failure. So should he try to discourage or enable this? Would a medical study of his people arm humans better to be of at least a little assistance capturing trespassers, or would it tempt them to foolish trespass themselves?

“Do you think he might have been taking medicinal compounds to achieve this?” the youngest of the apprentices asked, looking up from the scroll where he was keeping notes.

Shen Wei stifled a snort of amusement. Perhaps he’d wait and see whether any of their conclusions even approached the truth, before deciding what to do about it.


Shen Wei stood at the back of the Yashou tribes’ meeting and listened to their increasingly heated debate.

“We need some kind of help with this. There are too many of them for us alone!” the normally composed Snake Elder insisted.

The Crow Elder folded his arms, unconvinced. “Help from the humans would only be more trouble in the long run. You wouldn’t even have suggested it if you hadn’t taken a human lover, Fu You.”

The Flower Elder waved her hands between them, looking exasperated. “Please leave off about that, already. Just because she refused you, xiao-Ding…”

“My relationship with a human only means that I am more aware of their resources than you are,” Fu You said, tight and controlled. “Lay down your pride and think! If we oppose a dozen Dixingren alone, we’ll lose some of our people. If we invite help from those who have it to give, we have a far better chance of all surviving this.”

“I don’t disagree, but the way they’ve found into our world is in Yashou territory.” The Flower Elder wrapped her arms around herself, as if chilled. “If this keeps happening, we will take the brunt of whatever damage is done each time. Humans can’t help us with that.”

Fu You folded her hands on the table between them. “There is one who deals with such things, is there not? Your own people have seen him, Zhu Mei.”

“Their Black-cloaked Envoy,” the Flower Elder murmured, frowning. “True enough, but how could we contact him?”

Despite his own intense annoyance with the current problem, Shen Wei smiled at the perfect cue and relaxed the concealment he’d kept folded around himself to let the chill of his presence curl outward. “There is no need; I am here.”

The Crow Elder shot to his feet, and even Zhu Mei stiffed, though she rose with the slow care of someone feeling her age in her bones. Fu You, on the other hand, didn’t even start. “I thought you might be, Honorable Envoy.”

Shen Wei was impressed, which didn’t happen often. “Indeed. Trespassers in your world are my care, and I have failed to contain this incursion.”

“Whatever your power, there is only the one of you.” Fu You sat straight, watching him with dark, level eyes. “If we can hold off these trespassers, as you call them, can you close this breach they have made within our territory?”

“I can. It was why I came tonight.” He withdrew the branch he’d spent weeks separating from the sacred tree without killing the wood, and held it out on his palm. “Once I have done so, I would entrust the key that will lock that door to the Yashou, if the Elders can agree to keep it.”

A quick exchange of glances, including one blistering glare from Zhu Mei, and all three of them nodded, though reluctantly in the case of the Crow Elder. “Fu You will speak and act for all the tribes, in this,” Zhu Mei said, firmly.

“Then when the passage is locked, I will entrust this to her.” Shen Wei hesitated. There were actually fewer than ten trespassers, by his estimate, but they included at least three of the strongest among his kind, short of himself. “I have no wish to interfere in the Yashou’s governance decisions, but I strongly suggest you do find allies in this. I expect sealing the passage to take at least a full turn of the moon, and those who broke in include several who are very dangerous.”

Fu You lifted her chin and didn’t even glance at her fellow Elders. “We will find what strength and allies we need.” The Crow Elder’s mouth was a tight line, but he bent his head and didn’t gainsay her.

Shen Wei really was quite impressed.


The bigger Dragon City got, the more sympathy Shen Wei had with Kunlun’s old solitary tendencies. He hadn’t viscerally understood why Kunlun preferred to seclude himself, back then, though he certainly hadn’t protested the opportunity to have the one who’d given his existence meaning all to himself. Now he thought he understood a little better.

Humans got into everything.

Shen Wei was finding it harder and harder to conceal his presence, or to keep even his restrained power from affecting the people of the city. There had been two cases he knew of, and probably more he didn’t, of people sickening simply because his proximity had drained their life before he’d realized that the young idiots had chosen the grove his home was in—on the edge of the Snake tribe’s local territory, no less—as a trysting spot! He’d considered spreading rumors that the grove was haunted, only to find there already were such rumors and that it hadn’t stopped anyone. He couldn’t abandon the city without missing those people, and even beasts, of his realm that managed to sneak around the seal, but something clearly had to be done.

If humans were sane creatures, he reflected rather darkly as he stalked through the back streets of the city, he might simply cease to conceal his presence and rely on the harsh chill of it to hold them at a distance. Other creatures had at least that much sense, as the sudden silence of the city’s dogs at his passing demonstrated. It might even work on the majority of humans.

“Hey! Who’s there?” a man’s voice called from the door of one of the wine houses as he passed.

Unfortunately for Shen Wei, his bargain encompassed all of them, including those who were too bold for their own health. He slipped down a darker alley, trusting his robes to blend with the shadows there. He was too annoyed to bother with more.

A yank on those robes jerked him to a halt.

“Hey!”

Shen Wei rounded on the fool who dared to lay hands on him, power flaring outward, dark and furious.

The man who had followed him cowered back with a panicked yelp, eyes wide and staring in the darkness, and Shen Wei stopped and hauled his power back in, closing his eyes for a breath. He hated his own people’s fear of him, even when it was what let him rule them, let him keep his word. He wasn’t any more fond of humans’ fear, no matter how short his temper this evening.

“Go,” he told the man, low. He didn’t have to say it twice; the man scrambled back toward the faint torchlight of the road without a word. Shen Wei sighed and turned to walk on, slower now.

The city wasn’t going anywhere, and he could hardly rely on humans suddenly becoming sensible. He needed a way to move among humans without harming them. An innocuous disguise that would pass without notice, without challenges that might stir his temper. That, and some way to keep his power turned inward, limit it in ways even his bargain with the sacred tree didn’t. This would all be much easier if more of his nature were Kunlun’s, were fluid to his will and intent, the way the gods’ forms were.

Shen Wei paused in mid-stride, struck by that thought. Easier, yes, but wasn’t that half his nature already, by Kunlun’s gift? Could he re-shape that part of him, fold it around the ghost half of his nature? He smiled and touched his pendant, letting himself really listen to the whisper of Kunlun’s soul-fire for the first time in centuries. Kunlun, who had liked humans because of their troublesome nature, not in spite of it.

It was worth an attempt.


A little trial and error, and another forty years spent in concealment waiting for the inconveniently observant councilman Lei Min to die, demonstrated that Shen Wei could spend most of his time in his human form. Dragon City had enough trade passing through that an allegedly itinerant scholar or artisan choosing to settle down there wasn’t unusual. As long as he didn’t choose the same profession or the same district to live in two generations in a row, no one remarked, and he’d certainly seen enough trades, shadowing Kunlun’s lives, that he had a considerable store of knowledge to choose his own lives from.

What he hadn’t expected was how comfortable it was.

The cool quiet of his current workroom soothed both his human and his deeper senses, and it was easy to lose himself in the scent of medicinal ingredients and the rhythm of preparing them. One final pass with the pestle wheel, and the sound told him the licorice root was ready to measure out. It didn’t take any long, drawn-out planning or violent action or make his heart catch in his throat over a risk to one he loved. It was simple. Straightforward. Easy. The weight of the Guardian token’s binding even felt lighter, in this form, with his power folded underneath as it was.

A polite tap on the doorframe made him look up with a faint smile. Sure enough, it was young Li, the eldest apprentice in Dragon City’s tiny branch school of medicine. “Mr. Shen? Dr. Huang asks—”

“Yes, yes.” He waved toward the shelf by the door, where a paper parcel waited. “I prepared it earlier this morning.” The open relief on her face made him chuckle. Huang was the most irascible, as well as the most senior, physician of the school, and Li was an earnest young woman who often took his snapping and barking to heart. She snatched up the parcel, bobbed a grateful bow to him, and hurried out.

Perhaps next time someone asked the city’s new apothecary to take an apprentice, he’d consider it.


Shen Wei sat in a quiet corner of his favorite tea house, staring down at the cup between his fingers, and thought fast.

The thing he’d been half waiting for, for centuries, had finally happened. One of his people had talked just a little too much, before Shen Wei had caught her, to humans who’d survived the experience. The volume of medical records and case encounters that resided in the city’s Records office had been growing bit by small bit over the years, but never with any conclusions that would present a threat to either ghosts or humans. Now that had changed. A report had been added suggesting that his people lived underground, probably underneath Dragon City itself, which was close enough to the truth to get untold numbers of humans in trouble.

Archeology, he decided. He’d need to be a scholar of archeology for his next ‘life’. It was starting to be popular, and therefore well-funded, thanks to the imperial court’s recent fad for relics of ancient kingdoms. As an archeologist, he could ‘discover’ a treaty stipulating separation of his people from humans. With official documentation, especially one with the imprimatur of one of the ancient kingdoms so beloved of the current government, it shouldn’t be too hard to steer local law enforcement around to keep people from getting too curious for their own good. Especially if he appeared in his own person, to confirm the alleged treaty. Ma Gui, of the Dragon City guards, had already made a bit of a hobby of investigating rumors of Shen Wei’s people; he’d make a suitable local contact.

Shen Wei took a slow breath, and a sip of his tea, finally settling back on his bench. That should work. He might need to intimidate a few physicians to keep from being interrogated about the source of his people’s abilities, but it should work.

Perhaps, he thought with another slow sip, he’d better wear a mask when he appeared.


A bare generation later, he heard the name Dixing for the first time and had to laugh, if a bit harshly. It suited well enough, given his people were created from the darkest elements of the earth. Dixingren.

So be it.


Shen Wei sat with his back against the sacred tree, arms braced over his knees, and let his head hang down.

That way he didn’t need to look at the smoke rising from the city.

He’d forgotten how much this hurt. In the long years since he’d made himself turn away from Kunlun’s side, since he’d confined himself to the whisper of Kunlun’s soul-fire under his fingers and the knowledge that his love would always live again, he’d let himself forget how much it hurt to lose human companions to violence and upheaval rather than simple age. Dragon City wasn’t one of the great urban centers, wasn’t home to any branch of the imperial court or regional governors. The last two ruling clans had brought only peace to the city Shen Wei watched over. The greatest threats had been a scant handful of ghosts who found their way past the seal.

He’d let himself forget that humans had their own share of his people’s nature within them, had violence and destruction in their core, as well.

A shift in the wind brought the smell of smoke to him again, by turns harsh with the household goods that burned in the wreckage of buildings and queasily rich with the scent of bodies that burned there as well. Shen Wei’s hands flinched into fists, and his next breath shook in his lungs. He didn’t look up.

There was nothing he could do. All his bargains were to guard humans from ghosts, not from other humans. To guard humans from ghosts, including himself. To keep his bargains, he must do nothing.

He hoped, bitterly, that Shen Nong appreciated this result of the bargain he’d demanded.


Shen Wei listened to the whispers through his open outer screens and smiled as he painted the last tree in the landscape commission he’d been working on this week. He didn’t usually think of himself as an artist, but the fashion lately was stylized enough for a steady hand and good eye to stand in for inspiration. There was enough demand to make a viable career, even in the still-small rebuilt city, especially since his favorite occupation of scholarship was not in demand. Rather the reverse, lately.

And the city’s children loved to watch him.

He laid aside his brushes, chuckling under his breath at the faint scramble behind him as today’s audience hid behind the azaleas that edged his veranda. He made his way out to the pump and carefully kept his back to the little sounds of interest as he washed his brushes and palette.

This ‘life’ might be one where he took an apprentice. He usually didn’t. Anyone that close was the most likely to notice his odd absences, and the times he forgot to let his human form age. But if he wanted to encourage stability, in the city, and reduce the temptation for his people to dare the seal… well, he could do worse than help one of the little ones watching him on their way to a livelihood. For all his power, sometimes the only things he could change were small ones.

Sometimes he wondered if this was the real reason the first gods had chosen to leave the world.


Shen Wei’s visits to his own realm had been more frequent, of late. The more he tried to make small places of peace, in his human form and lives, the more he found himself trying to do the same among his own people. Trying to support the few—still so few, but slowly growing in number—who had found little pieces of love, or beauty, or care within them. The girl who lived in the neighborhood nearest the wastelands, who played flute in her open window, music that seemed to calm the passers-by. The archivist he always made a moment to speak with, when he was in the Palace, who mentioned sidelong which cases might need or deserve a touch of the Envoy’s intervention. The tea house run by the couple who had never strayed from each other’s sides, for centuries, that he left off his formal robes to visit. They were the ones who had taken bits of light, whether from humans or from the distant comfort of the Lamp itself, and nurtured rather than merely devouring them. They were the ones who gave him some faint hope he wouldn’t have to spend all of eternity being the threat of a bared blade to his own kind.

Sometimes, though, he had to admit that his people’s tendency to adopt every passing trend from humans took him a bit aback.

“Are you saying our own people think the seal is a matter of treaty, now?” he asked, staring at the Regent where they’d stopped short in one of the Palace’s halls. “Do they not remember their own lives and beginnings?”

“The greatness of your power blinds you, my Lord Envoy.” The man gestured them on down the hall with an obsequious bow at odds with the sharpness of his glance. “You forget that many of our kind, especially those of lesser power, spend most of their capacity for order on keeping their physical forms; they have none to spare for things such as long memory. Many have already taken on that new human name for us—Dixingren, isn’t it?” He sniffed, waving his fingers as if to brush away something inconsequential. “If they think themselves some kind of mortal creature, well it will be true enough should they dare the seal between realms won’t it?”

Shen Wei’s mouth tightened. “Yes. It will.” He still held to that. And for a ghost, death meant utter destruction.

The Regent nodded, perfectly agreeable and without a hint of mercy in his cold eyes. “Then all is well. And if the Palace archives keep a copy of this ‘treaty’, then it’s one more thing to give them pause before they attempt it.”

“I suppose so,” Shen Wei acknowledged, low, and paced on through the halls in silence.


The city’s university had been re-built in the new style, and was finally large enough again for Shen Wei to return to his favorite occupation of scholarship without creating many ripples. And just in time, it seemed; the newest school of thought, with its focus on explicit evidence, offered hours of entertainment.

“Obviously, Xu Min’s emphasis on the process of learning aligns him with the School of the Heart…”

“But surely you noted,” Shen Wei dropped into Feng Gang’s pause for breath, “that in his second chapter he refers repeatedly to essential principles.” The pause got longer, and he smiled at Feng with an inviting tilt of his head.

“Well,” the old blowhard drew himself up, and Shen Wei’s smile got a touch wider, “perhaps, but if you read closely, young man, I believe you will observe that Xu frames his concept of principles as static ideals rather than creations of dynamic tension.”

“Clearly you have studied him closely.” Shen Wei waited for Feng to settle back and start to look smug, and then added casually, “You do not feel, then, that Xu’s concept of principles runs counter to the mind as the source of reason?”

A little whisper of interest ran through the room and Feng immediately puffed up again. Shen Wei leaned back and folded his hands, looking just as politely interested as possible.

Hours of entertainment.


The next time Shen Wei circled back around to a medical career, he found the profession had made another of its periodic leaps in knowledge while he was away. There had even been a scholar who’d written on the possible physiological roots of his people’s powers, as observed over the centuries in Dragon City, though this was stored right next to several more volumes of disdainful dismissal of the ‘legendary’ Dixing race. Shen Wei indulged in a quiet laugh over those, as he browsed the additions to the university library.

The new study that truly startled him, though, was the one that held his people must have come to this world from another one entirely. Which, given the separation of realms, wasn’t actually all that far off except for the alleged means of transportation.

Which was a spaceship.

Shen Wei had no idea what expression was on his face as he stared at the text in his hands, but it caused a passing student to glance at the title and then laugh.

“Oh, you found Zhang Tao! He’s actually getting more of a following, you know; his archeological studies are first rate.” The boy waved at the open book. “Even that would be decent circumstantial evidence, at least, if the species he was talking about were actually real.”

“Indeed.” Shen Wei shook his head, and set the book aside. “I was actually looking for Professor Sun’s text on cell biology.”

The boy instantly looked sympathetic, which amused him; students were the same whatever the era. “Two shelves over. Good luck; Professor Sun is a real stickler for details and evidence!”

Having spent several ‘lives’ leading scholarly disputants in circles based entirely on available evidence, Shen Wei just smiled. “I’ll be sure to study carefully for him, then.”


At first, he thought the rumors of change and unrest were simply another tiresome round of the humans outgrowing another ruling clan (or party as they were calling it now), and he merely kept an eye out for sudden changes in news or fashion that might follow.

When the news that came was of yet more widespread war, and whispers of weapons that might break the very heavens again, he started to prepare a close to his current ‘life’. If whispers were even close to truth, the seal between realms might be at risk again. He remembered the chaos and upheaval, the last time the seal broke—the seas upending into land, the air and earth twisting to change places as the fabric of the world itself strained and tore. If it happened again… well, he would keep his bargain and his duty, even if it meant the death of his whole people and most likely of himself too.

But if it happened, he would seek out Kunlun, before he went.

This time, though, it wasn’t the fabric of the world that tore. It was the fabric of human lives and minds.

The waves of madness that swept the land shocked him the way no war or simple destruction before them had, shocked him with the way rage and fear twisted together, fired by the generative power of human souls to a reaping edge even his own people’s nature could hardly match. He abandoned any thought of keeping a human life or form and clung to the gateway, to the anchoring presence of the sacred tree, fighting for years at a time to damp the resonance of fear and hunger and desperation that consumed the land.

Let his people taste that, and no threat of his would stop them from besieging the seal.

When the taste of madness finally ebbed from the very air, and Shen Wei dared to leave the gate again, he found Dragon City still there. Many of its people looked very like he felt, though—like people who had lived through catastrophe, dazed and uncertain whether the ground under their feet was reliable. A quiet visit to the municipal library revealed an alarming breadth of destruction behind the neat shelves and now far fewer cases. Even if it had been some time since he’d bothered to read them, it was still a shock to see that the history texts had largely disappeared, replaced by slim new volumes purporting a history he barely recognized. The ‘treaty’ was among the missing documents, and Shen Wei was surprised at his own sense of loss, considering he’d forged the thing himself, centuries ago.

He’d meant to start thinking about a suitable new ‘life’, but that night he pulled concealment around his true form and retreated to the sacred tree. That presence, at least, was still constant. That night it felt as though the tree leaned into him as much as he did against it, and he reached up to pat the trunk. The madness of the recent years couldn’t have been much easier on something of the tree’s nature than it had been on him.

The slow, vibrant life of the tree nudged at his thoughts, a gentle press that felt like his own sorrow, threaded with a sip of bright comfort. The feeling slowly shaped itself into an image—the scroll he’d held in his hands, long ago, the token of the bargain between them. Shen Wei smiled faintly.

“Yes,” he answered, voice soft in the darkness. “We are still here. Our bargain still holds.”

Gradually the image hovering at the edge of his thoughts changed, flattened into a heavy sheet of pressed paper, characters stark and black, seals in red marching along the bottom. Shen Wei blinked at the words, in his mind’s eye. They were the same words he’d composed for the ‘treaty’. A feeling of offering and comfort curled through his perception, like a new leaf unfolding, and he laughed out loud for the first time in what might be decades.

“That would certainly be a lot harder to burn than mere paper, wouldn’t it? If I find who holds it now, can we change it?”

The image of the treaty strengthened sharply in his mind, wrapped around with a hint of smugness like incense lingering on the paper.

“You’ve done it already?” he asked, softly, astonished that the ancient life he’d bargained with so long ago would reach out with such immediate kindness to him.

Leaves rustled over his head, and he reached out carefully with the side of his nature that protected, touching the tree’s own life with his gratitude. This one thing would not be lost. It was a small thing, but it helped.

Remembering what else had helped, the last time the city had been razed, he looked thoughtfully toward the quarter where the university still stood. Perhaps, when he went forth again in his human form, he would return there—not simply as a scholar, this time, but as a teacher. Perhaps, that way, he could make a small place of peace for the young ones, again.

First, though, he should visit his own realm, and try to calm whatever echos of the humans’ madness had leaked through.


Shen Wei stared up at a dark sky, dark and flat as a stone ceiling, heart cold within him.

The light of the Lamp, the whisper of Kunlun’s presence and the brilliance of his sacrifice, was gone.

“The disruption was immense,” the Regent complained, at his shoulder. “I’m too old to deal with this nonsense.” He backed a step as Shen Wei’s furious gaze fell on him, holding up his hands. “It affected all of us, my Lord Envoy, is all I mean to say. Many lost what form and memory they’d managed to hold and fell on each other again, like our first days of existence, consuming each other to regain power and shape. You will see many new faces, and almost all have had to start over, to absorb thought and history from the echoes of the human realm that seep down to us here.

Shen Wei stilled, cold turning sharp in his chest. “And my brother?”

“The Pillar held.” The Regent fidgeted as Shen Wei stared at him, flat and demanding. “With, perhaps, some mild wear. His voice should not reach beyond the wastes, though.”

Shen Wei took a slow breath for calm. “I see.” Lower, hating it but unable to see any other way to keep his bargains, he added, “Do whatever is necessary to keep what peace and stability we may. I will seek the Lamp. And the other Holy Tools, in case they can show the way to it. If you know who, of our people, might manage to live among humans for a time without breaking, tell me now.”

That would not, he was grimly certain, be an easy charge. But he didn’t see that he had a great deal of choice. The longer his realm remained dark, the worse things would get.


The Ministry’s new Special Investigations Division was more dangerous and prone to snap judgements than the tiny Office of Dixing Affairs Shen Wei had encouraged into existence long ago, but at least they were just as dedicated to containing the occasional trespasser. With a little extra emphasis on the non-interference clauses of the ‘treaty’, he could work with that. He was less certain about the Institute, also Ministry sponsored, that his erstwhile mentor Professor Zhou kept trying to convince him to join, but if that was going to cause problems, well he’d deal with them when they happened.

Between the current dead-end of the search for the Lamp and the constant, low-level unrest of his people under their dark sky, he had plenty of problems already.

Today, though, he would set all that aside for a few hours. Today was his first day of teaching a class of his own in this life, and he was already smiling when he opened the door to his classroom.

“Good afternoon, Professor!” his students chorused, most of them already answering his smile, and he let himself relax in the simple brightness of their interest. He laid his notes out on his lectern and glanced around the room, nodding approval for all the pens already poised.

“Good afternoon. Today we’ll be discussing a brief history of the biological sciences…”

Epilogue

Shen Wei stood with his hands and forehead pressed against the sacred tree, uncaring of the roughness of bark against his skin. He held nothing in his mind but his need and his hope. Need for a weapon, a trap strong enough to hold his twin brother, whose power had always matched his. Hope for aid, for permission, for blessing.

The rustle of the tree’s leaves was sharp and unsettled.

“I know,” he whispered, eyes closed against the pain of that knowing. “I know this will probably mean my death. My dissolution. But Ye Zun’s madness will kill me just as surely, injured as I am now, me and everything I love.”

He had been a fool to think that he could use one of the Holy Tools as a human might. Had he let himself forget, in the years of living human-like lives that he had no generative core to his being, that it wouldn’t be merely years of life he gave up? The Dial had done exactly as they’d asked, broken off part of his being to heal Yunlan, and unless Shen Wei wished to shatter all his oaths and bargains in one blow and find a living being whose energies he could consume, he was now at a serious disadvantage.

If he could use his remaining being to conceal a power inimical to ghosts, though…

Grief shook him harshly, grief he’d felt ever since he made this decision. It took him a moment to realize it wasn’t just his own, this time.

“Forgive me.” He reached out to the tree with as much of the divine side of his being as he could, unbalanced as he was by what the Dial had reft away. “I’m abandoning our charge, our bargain, and yet I have the selfishness to beg the gift of its power.”

The image of their bargain’s physical token settled into his mind, soft as a leaf falling, and Shen Wei’s breath caught short at the ease of that permission. “Thank you,” he whispered, voice choked tight.

Slowly, as the night wore on, he matched his remaining power with the tree’s, just as they had to create the bargain, and together they drew the token of it back. Like an endless breath in, like winding gleaming thread back into a spool, they drew the token back and fed it into Shen Wei’s being until he felt the pressure of that bright power running through every vein, pushing against the part of his nature that was ghost. Pushing so hard he finally called his sword to him and nicked his wrist to release some of the pressure twined so tightly with his blood.

Comfort brushed over his heart—comfort and trust, and he closed his eyes, leaning against the tree.

He could only hope he had earned enough of Zhao Yunlan’s trust, as well, to see this through to the end.

End

Back Burn

One

Rei felt that he was doing pretty well at the whole ‘having a partner again’ thing, especially after several years of human interaction that was almost exclusively business. But sometimes he still couldn’t help showing how long it had been, or, he suspected, the echoes of who used to be his anchor to human connection.

Shuuichi, who had just gathered Rei casually up against his side, was looking down at him, brows arched over sharp eyes. “This alarms you,” he stated quietly, holding Rei closer for a breath.

Rei huffed, trying to relax from that telling moment of stiffness. “I’m not alarmed, just startled. It’s been a while.”

The eyebrows went up a little higher, and Shuuichi reached over and stroked a knuckle gently down the line of Rei’s jaw to let it rest, very lightly, under his chin. Rei closed his eyes and laughed, short and a little painful. Only from Shuuichi would he ever get an offer to force the issue, an offer to help him defuse whatever made him react so strongly and unthinkingly. “Not yet,” he whispered.

After a long moment, Shuuichi pressed a kiss to his temple and gathered him closer. “All right, then. Not yet.”

Rei turned to press against him, winding his arms tight around Shuuichi’s ribs, and tried to fight down the sharp jolt of memory that the solid warmth of Shuuichi’s body against his sent through him. It was getting sharper, the longer he and Shuuichi were together, and he knew he really would have to deal with this soon. He’d gotten by, so far, by clinging tight to the code of care and duty he and Hiro had built between them, but he’d also been trying his hardest to not look directly at Hiro’s memory. It hurt like broken glass running through his hands, when he did. He’d made that awkward tension work, until now, but wasn’t going to work much longer. He knew that.

Just… not yet.

Not until he had the time to remember Hiro properly. And to finally say goodbye.

Two

Rei was just stowing his math notes, more than ready for lunch, when he noticed Fukuzawa and Seo swaggering over from their seats by the windows, clearly aiming for the new transfer student who’d been introduced today. Rei sighed. Some days, he really wished that Elena-sensei hadn’t been so right about what would work most lastingly on the bullies and assorted jerks at school. Fukuzawa was exactly the sort that made his fists itch, and re-discovering him and his little minion-in-training had been the number one least pleasant thing about Rei’s new middle-school homeroom class. For a moment, Rei was tempted to let the new kid fend for himself; since when was Rei the class peacekeeper? The class president was giving him a pleading look, though, and Tanikawa-san wasn’t a bad sort. Rei gave in and flapped an acknowledging hand at her, pushing up out of his chair. He used the grateful relief of her smile to brighten his own as he strolled back a few desks.

He nearly lost it to massive eye-rolling when Fukuzawa opened with, “From Nagano, huh? Guess you’ll miss skiing to school. In Tokyo we have to take the train.” Fukuzawa was a failure, even at bullying. At least until things got physical.

Rei tacked his smile back on and prepared to deflect that momentum. “Well, it’ll be like summer all the time, then, won’t it?” he interjected, easily.

…at the exact same moment the new student said the same thing.

Their eyes snapped to each other and held. Rei felt recognition run through him like a shock, and after it came connections, drawing themselves in his mind the way they always did. Easygoing smile, but dull, bruised looking eyes, not as if he’d been fighting but like he’d been crying or not sleeping. A recent move, and no reason mentioned in his introduction—probably grief, then. Feet gathered under him but hands open and relaxed on the desk. He wasn’t a pushover but he didn’t resort first to his fists.

Also something he hadn’t seen before—eyes that flickered over Rei with the same kind of attention to detail.

They smiled at each other, real smiles this time, at the same moment.

“You guys are weird.” Fukuzawa shifted uneasily, glancing back and forth between them, and finally turned away. “Come on, Seo.”

“Well, that was easier than usual,” Rei murmured. “Hi. I’m Furuya Rei.”

“Morofushi Hiromitsu.” Morofushi relaxed from his subtle readiness, leaning his elbows on his desk, still smiling up at Rei. “So. What’s good for lunch, around here?”

Rei leaned a hip against the desk, considering. Fresh grief, hm? He remembered that. “The meatballs are always good, but the most reliable thing is the soup.” Which was true, but it was also usually the easiest thing to eat.

Morofushi’s smile turned a little crooked. “Yeah,” he agreed softly. “That sounds good. Thanks.” The thanks were obviously as much for taking a moment to consider that Morofushi might not have much appetite, as for the recommendation itself.

It was the first time someone Rei’s age had followed the leap of his thoughts, and he couldn’t help smiling at that. He could maybe get used to this.


Hiromitsu glanced at their names, written out next to the cleaning chores on the blackboard, as he pushed the broom past. “Huh. Your name really is written like the number.”

Rei’s sigh was dragged up from his toes. “I swear I’m changing it, someday. The way it’s written, at least.” And who cared if the most common alternative was usually used by girls? At least it would be a different set of predictable comments, for a while. Maybe he could switch back and forth, when he got bored of one set. He stacked a desk with a little more force than necessary.

Hiromitsu laughed and threw an arm around his shoulders. “Nah, it suits you.” His sidelong look said he hadn’t missed Rei’s reflex stiffening, and his next words were gentler. “Anything you don’t want people to know about you,” he snapped his fingers, “it vanishes, just like that. Zero.” He nodded, firmly. “I like it.”

“I’ll start calling you Hiro,” Rei threatened, though he also relaxed, slowly, as Hiromitsu’s arm stayed draped over his shoulders.

Hiromitsu grinned, not looking opposed in the least. “You think anyone else in our class will get the joke?”

Rei let himself lean into Hiromitsu, jostling him a little. “Why don’t we see?” He huffed a little at the pleased look Hiromitsu gave him, but didn’t pull away.

As much as he was Hiromitsu’s personal domestication project, keeping Hiromitsu distracted and content was his project. Their project scores were running about even, by Rei’s calculations.

He loved that they both knew it without a word being said.


Rei was willing to admit that Hiro had been completely right about joining the middle-school tennis club. It had taken care of the concerned looks he’d been getting from both their homeroom and history teachers. Everyone in or related to the club had immediately assumed an easy camaraderie, which his careful manners had cemented with no further effort on his part. Just as Hiro had predicted, the weight of a popular club behind Rei had let him head off confrontations with little more than a sunny smile. The game itself was even fun; Rei liked the whole-body effort and calculation involved in placing the ball where you wanted it to go.

But right at this moment, as Rei tried to subtly edge back from the club’s excited fans, Rei was definitely thinking twice about the whole idea.

“That last drive was so amazing!”

“Furuya-kun, you’re so strong!”

“We’ll definitely make it to Regionals this year, with you here, Furuya-kun.” Kanou-san actually batted her eyelashes at him, and what on earth was Rei supposed to do with that?

“I’m glad we have such a strong team, this year,” he tried, and nearly flinched at the wave of gleeful giggles that answered.

“Give the poor guy time to catch his breath, after that match!” Hiro’s arm draping over his shoulders was a welcome anchor, all the moreso when at least three quarters of the little crowd of fans aimed their giggling in Hiro’s direction. Rei breathed a covert sigh of relief, and leaned easily into Hiro’s side.

“There’s still two more rounds to go,” Rei added smoothly, now he’d had a moment to brace himself. “Let’s not jinx ourselves.”

The fans seemed content with that, and started to break up and drift toward the other members of the competition team. Rei relaxed some more. Hiro laughed quietly, against his ear.

“You are so bad with girls.”

“That’s what you’re for,” Rei pointed out, smiling.


Hiro leaned over Rei’s shoulder, brows raised at the (still) blank club selection form on his desk. “Not doing tennis again?”

“No. I was thinking.” Rei glanced at him, sidelong, and back down at the paper. “I was thinking… I might do one of the martial arts clubs, now we’re in high school.” He turned his pencil between his fingers, quick and nervous. “I mean. It seems like that would be more useful, if I do decide to join the police.”

Hiro brightened, a smile taking over his whole face. “Zero! For real?”

“I’m thinking about it. I mean, it’s not like I haven’t gotten practice at peacekeeping, the past three years, and it’s just… I mean, someone has to do it. And we’re good at it." He tried not to squirm at the knowing look Hiro gave him. He was good at it, and he did enjoy that part, but there was more to it. Rei kept thinking of what Elena-sensei said, that people were all the same once you peeled the top off. He’d seen that, by now, over and over again. He still didn’t feel it, very often, didn’t feel part of it himself, but he’d seen it. And if everybody was really part of one thing… that was something important. He wanted to keep that safe.

It was a lot easier to explain the part about enjoying being good at it, though, so he ignored Hiro’s look and added, "Plus, the police get a lot of puzzles to solve, right?”

“To hear Nii-san talk about it, they sure do.” Hiro rested his chin in his hands, positively beaming at Rei. “So, judo club?”

Rei made a thoughtful sound. “I was actually considering boxing.”

Boxing?!” Hiro clapped a hand to his forehead as half the class looked around to see what the noise was about. “Boxing? How is my best friend such a barbarian?”

Rei laughed out loud. “Well, someone has to watch out for you, don’t they? I heard Tachikawa-san carrying on about how you don’t like to follow through when you have the advantage, at your last tournament.”

“Tachikawa-senpai has a big mouth,” Hiro grumbled, slumping further down in his seat.

Rei turned, propping his elbow on the back of his chair, to give Hiro a tilted smile. “As long as I’m around, you don’t need to worry about it.”

Hiro looked up to meet his eyes, level and steady. “Then, as long as I’m around, you don’t need to worry about forgetting your reason to do this. Deal?”

Even after years of knowing Hiro, it still came as a shock, sometimes, how far down Hiro saw—far past the smile that their classmates and teachers were satisfied with. Rei had to clear his throat before he could answer, and his voice still came out a little husky.

“Deal.”


Rei pressed a careful G chord down against the fretboard of his rented guitar, and then had to shake his fingers out with a wince. “This is either going to hurt, or it’s going to take a while.”

“Hmm.” Hiro slowly picked out a C, E, and G, on his bass, and flexed his own hand a few times. “Buzzes! So, is ‘a while’ longer or shorter than two months?”

“Probably longer,” Rei admitted. “But the class is going to choose either a concert or a play. Do you really want Tanikawa-san sewing you into a costume for the cultural festival?”

Hiro made a face. “If it weren’t you saying that, I’d take my chances, but you haven’t been wrong on a pattern analysis yet.” He straightened his shoulders. “All right, let’s do this.”

They played the first couple measures together, slow and stumbling, and Rei had no doubt it would have made a professional wince. But he could hear, this time, how Hiro’s notes changed his. The two places they hit correctly together in the same time, the sound rang, so clean and right that it took his breath away. “Once more?” he said, quickly, when they finished. “I think we almost got it.”

“Yeah, we’re almost… hm. Hang on a sec.” Hiro came around to sit behind Rei, back pressed against his. “Try this.”

Rei leaned back against him, smiling. He liked that. “On one, two, three…”

They were still slow, but this time they were together all the way through. Rei felt Hiro’s sound before he heard it, in the shift of Hiro’s back against his, felt Hiro listening to him, and the two lines of music wrapped around each other like climbing vines. The harmony rang through his whole body, pure and true. Rei had to take a moment, when they ended to catch his breath.

“Wow.” Hiro’s voice was soft, and Rei could hear the smile in it. He leaned back a little harder against Hiro, feeling the matching smile pull at his mouth, despite the burn in his fingertips.

“Yeah.”


Rei appreciated that the Academy gave students their own rooms, he really did, but he also perked up at the first knock on the door of his new sliver of personal housing. Two guitars and some clothes really didn’t do much to give life to the place.

“Can I help…” Rei blinked a few times at the three people outside his door, which included Hiro (expected) and two other young men (not as expected). “Hiro?”

His friend readily interpreted Rei’s request for introductions and explanations. “Zero! These are Matsuda Junpei and Hagiwara Kenji. I thought I’d bring them by with me.” His smile was innocent, but Rei spotted the gleam in his eye and braced himself. “I think they might be almost as crazy as you, so I thought we’d all get along.”

Rei snorted. “Just because I know how to get the most out of a motorcycle,” he started, at the same moment the better groomed guy (Matsuda?) pulled himself up indignantly and said, “What do you mean ‘almost’?” The two of them stopped and each gave each other a longer look while Hiro smirked.

“So,” said Matsuda, eventually, lounging against the door frame and giving Rei a winning smile, “what’s this about a motorcycle?”

Rei gave in, laughing, and waved them all inside.


“All right, next run!” The Academy driving instructor flipped to the next page on his clipboard. “You’ll be paired up for this run, so you can practice taking the wheel in case your partner is incapacitated.” He started reading names off, gesturing each pair impatiently into line. Rei made a thoughtful sound, already considering how much the steering and hand-brake alone could control a car in motion.

Date elbowed Hiro, grinning, as the unassigned numbers shrank. “Bet you’re matched with Furuya again this time. No escape, Morofushi!”

“The hell you say,” Hiro muttered, rubbing his ribs. “I’m too young to die. Matsuda, you’ll switch with me, right?”

“Matsuda and Hagiwara!” the instructor snapped.

“Sorry, Morofushi.” Matsuda propped an elbow on a grinning Hagiwara’s shoulder.

“Morofushi…”

Hiro clapped his hand over his eyes and made a small, pathetic sound. Rei rolled his eyes; he wasn’t that alarming behind the wheel.

“…and Date!”

Hiro sagged with relief. “Oh, thank you.”

“Hey.” Rei tried to sound indignant, and not like he was on the verge of laughing out loud at Hiro’s histrionics. Hiro winked as he let Date drag him toward the cars, and Rei shook his head, affectionate. Hiro was still better than he was at managing people, and had smoothed over any resentment Date might have felt toward Rei with an expert’s touch. “So, am I with you, for this run?” he asked the instructor, politely.

The man snorted. “I’ve watched you drive all day, Furuya. I know you can drive from the passenger seat, and I doubt you’d lose control, even if you were shot.” The distinctly teacher-ly gleam in his eye kept Rei from relaxing, which turned out to be wise of him. “So! We’re going to immobilize your arm, and you’ll get to prove it to me.”

Rei considered that, and smiled slowly. Sounded like a fun challenge.

All right, maybe Hiro had a little bit of a point about Rei and motor vehicles.


As time went on, they’d started getting more guest speakers, in the investigation classes, each bringing in details of a case they’d worked on for the students to try their hands at unraveling. It was usually interesting. Today’s guest, Kureha-san, had a different look to him, though, and Rei watched him narrowly as he pinned up evidence photos and explained the situation he’d found his team in.

“…arrived to find Sagami standing over Kakinoki with a gun. Kakinoki was shot high in the chest.” Kureha-san stepped back and leaned against the lectern, spreading a hand toward the class. “So. What should the officers have done?”

A rustle passed through the class as almost everyone looked at each other in confusion, obviously wondering if this was supposed to be a trick question. Rei tapped a quick search into his tablet.

“Well… grab Sagami first thing, right?” Kawashima ventured. “I mean, you secure anyone with a weapon first.”

“Render first aid to anyone who’s injured, until the ambulance arrives,” Ishige chipped in.

“Secure the scene and make sure no one leaves,” Miura added, nodding.

The last connection locked into place, in Rei’s mind, at those words, and his voice rang over the small sounds of agreement, hard and level. “No. Sagami has to get away with his escape.”

The entire class turned toward him, some startled, some outraged, some just curious. Kureha-san’s eyes narrowed as they met Rei’s. “Why’s that?”

“Kakinoki was the other half of their shell game. They used shipping containers from the same supplier.” Rei jerked his chin at the first row of photos. “Two of the photos you put up there have the labels swapped, between the two transport lines. Scheduled right, between the two of them, any given container could pass through all the freight check-points that were active that month without ever actually having been checked.”

Date straightened up, dubious expression turning sharp. “A smuggling operation. Guns?”

Rei shook his head and held up his tablet. “Wherever Sagami got his, it wasn’t directly from their shipments. The news photos of those new check-points show one of the inspectors holding some kind of sniffer. So probably drugs or chemical weapons.” He cocked a brow at Kureha-san, who smiled thinly.

“It was chemical weapons, yes.” He twirled his fingers in a little ‘keep going’ motion.

Date was frowning again. “Okay, I follow so far, but why not grab both of them while we had the chance, and roll up the whole operation?”

“Money.” Rei flicked his fingers at the timeline drawn on the whiteboard. “This investigation went on for months, which suggests this wasn’t a one-off thing. This was an ongoing operation, and neither Sagami nor Kakinoki had deep enough pockets to be the ones buying or selling that volume of weapons.”

Hiro leaned back in his chair beside Rei, whistling. “I see it. Whatever caused them to fall out so badly, one of the first things Sagami will want to do is contact their boss and make sure whoever that is hears his version first. So the priority, if we want whoever is really behind the smuggling, has to be letting Sagami think he got away clean while actually getting a tracker on him.”

Another rustle of agreement went around the room, this one subdued. Rei stifled a sigh, wondering if there was going to be another around of being frostily ignored during meals for being right too often. Hiro wasn’t tense or frowning, though; he was watching Date, who had his arms folded on the table in front of him and his head down. “The thing is, though,” Date finally said, stilling the rustle, “I don’t know if I could do it. If I saw someone shot right in front of me, I don’t know if I could think through all that right then and let the shooter go.”

Rei felt the words settle into his chest like a connection settling into his mind, solid and certain. If even Date couldn’t do it, then this—this exact thing—was why Rei was here. It wasn’t a feeling he’d ever had before, not back when Tanikawa had been maneuvering him into being the class peacekeeper, not when classmates had started coming to Rei and Hiro to solve problems, not even when he’d stood beside Hiro during the entrance ceremonies. The certainty of where he belonged and why was like solid ground under his feet, though, and he spoke out of that solidity, quiet and sure. “Don’t worry about it, then.” When Date looked up, startled. Rei met his eyes, steady with that certainty, and repeated. “Don’t worry about it.” Rei would take care of it.

After a long moment, slowly, Date nodded, accepting Rei’s unspoken promise.

“If that’s your instinct, it’s not a bad thing.” Tomoyuki-sensei stepped forward from where he’d been leaning against the wall for most of class, drawing everyone’s eyes. “That instinct is what will make you a good detective or patroller. We need that at least as much as we need analysts, to make a solid police force.” He smiled around, inviting them into the joke. “We need people who can be in the bomb squad, too, but just imagine what a whole force full of them would be like!”

The class laughed along, even Matsuda and Hagiwara, everyone settling back. When the class was dismissed, though, Hiro’s shoulder against Rei’s steered them out of the stream and toward their guest speaker. Kureha-san made an interested sound as he glanced back and forth between them. “Now, that could be useful. Have the two of you decided on a specialization, yet?”

Hiro gave the man an easy smile. “Didn’t we just do that?”

Rei glanced at Hiro, sidelong and rather rueful. Of course Hiro had seen Rei’s realization coming. “Sorry I made you wait.”

Hiro’s answering smile was far warmer than the one he’d aimed at their guest. “It’s okay. I figured it’d take a while.”

“If you’re sure now, then start looking at more public security courses,” Kureha-san directed, briskly. “You have the mindset, and there are a lot of ways we could use a team like you, if you can handle the work.”

They both murmured polite acceptance and excused themselves.

“So.” Rei tucked his hands into his pockets, as they made for their next class. “Do they want a field team or cross-division liaisons, do you think?”

Hiro’s grin showed his teeth, and he draped an arm over Rei’s shoulders. “They’re probably thinking the second, but I think we should make it both.”

Rei leaned into him with a smile, satisfied they were on the same page. “Deal.”


Rei waited for the soft clack of Hiro locking his apartment door behind them before finally giving in to the laugh that had been in the back of his throat ever since he’d walked out of the home base of a Red Siamese Cats copycat gang with evidence to convict in his pocket. He leaned back against the door, feeling a little dizzy with it, glee fizzing through him.

“It’s a good thing I do come with you, when you go out in the field,” Hiro chuckled. “You get more and more like this, the higher the stakes get.”

Rei stretched luxuriously, reaching his arms over his head, reveling in the lingering intensity of every sensation. “What can I say? I like knowing I’ve got them.” He let Hiro steer him away from the door and over to the couch and bounced down onto it, grinning up at Hiro’s snort of amusement. He took one of the two beers Hiro fished out of his fridge and settled comfortably against Hiro’s side when he joined Rei on the couch.

“I’ll never need to get a cat while you’re around.” Hiro’s fingers ruffled through his hair, and Rei leaned into them, laughing. He tool a long swallow of his beer and let a slow breath out, starting to relax from the sharp edge of a successful job, here in the security of Hiro’s presence.

Every job he came back from reminded him of how much sanity he owed to their friendship. He didn’t know quite what he’d have been, without it.


See you later, Zero.

The breath stopped in Rei’s throat, and the sounds of the night fell away, and the world fractured around him, broken apart like the drops of blood blown out from Hiro’s chest. The only thoughts that connected together any more were Rye and Kill him.

They were the only ones that made sense, bone deep, for a long time after.

Three

Rei stood on edge of the building overlooking the roof where Hiro had died, hands closed tight around the safety rail, and let the memories come. Let himself remember the weight of Hiro’s arm over his shoulders; the endless warmth of his real smile, so much brighter than the one he put in front of his thoughts to keep them to himself; the bedrock steadiness of Hiro standing beside him, and the easy comfort of leaning against him. Rei swiped a hand across his face to wipe away the tears, and muttered into his palm, “I loved you, you idiot.” He could almost feel Hiro’s fingers ruffling his hair. I know, Zero. A laugh tangled together with the tears, and Rei put his head down on his folded arms and let both things shake him apart.

It took a while before he could get words out again, but finally he stood upright and looked up at the underlit night sky. “Goodbye, Hiro,” he said softly. It was the first time he’d actually spoken the words, and they hurt. But he wasn’t as afraid as he had been of falling down somewhere dangerous if he admitted the reality of them.

He also wasn’t particularly surprised to feel body-heat at his back and arms folding lightly around him. He’d known Shuuichi was following him, tonight. He leaned back into Shuuichi’s solid warmth with a sigh, and his breath only hitched a little bit when Shuuichi’s arms tightened, gathering him close. “It isn’t that I don’t want this.” Rei lifted a hand to wrap around Shuuichi’s forearm. “It’s just, for so long, it was him.”

“And so you look for him,” Shuuichi said, quietly, against his ear, “but it isn’t him you see, and for just a second it’s a shock.”

Rei stirred against him, glancing back, and caught Shuuichi’s tilted smile.

“The look in your eyes, right after you’ve made a decision you don’t like. It’s very much like hers.” He tucked Rei a little closer against him and asked, softly, “Was it only ever him?”

“Pretty much,” Rei admitted, looking up at the sky again so he wouldn’t look at the roof across the street by accident. “Hiro was the only one who could keep up with me, right from the start.” The corner of his mouth twitched up. “And he was always better at people. I saw more, but he was the one who could use what he saw to move people the way he wanted. Usually without them even noticing.”

“I remember some of that,” Shuuichi murmured, and then added in a curious tone, “Even you?”

Rei laughed, remembering their first year of knowing each other. “I noticed, but I could also see he was doing it to look after me. I usually went along with it.”

“Ah.” Shuuichi’s voice turned serious and soft, against his ear. “Then I promise both of you. I’ll look after my partner.”

Rei’s breath caught and stopped for a long moment, because that was why he’d finally been willing to try to say goodbye, yes, but he still hadn’t thought to hear Shuuichi actually say it out loud. When he finally managed to inhale again, it was unsteady, and his grip on Shuuichi’s arm was probably leaving bruises. “Shuuichi…”

“Shhh. I’ve got you, Rei.”

Rei leaned back against him, laughing low and on the edge of tears again. After more than three years of feeling like he was hanging on to his balance with his fingernails, there was a shoulder against his again, human warmth beside him again, a connection to what he protected again. “Yeah,” he agreed, husky. “Okay.”

They stood quietly together, and Rei slowly relaxed against the warmth of Shuuichi’s body, letting it sink in to his senses. This was his. When he finally calmed enough to snuggle back against Shuuichi, Shuuichi made an entirely approving sound, folding him in a little closer. Rei found himself smiling again, because as much as Shuuichi had decided to take care of Rei, Rei seemed to have found another person that he enjoyed keeping content.

Of course, there was one significant difference in what Shuuichi was willing to do to take care of Rei, which he was reminded of when Shuuichi turned his head and closed his mouth softly on the shell of Rei’s ear, shockingly hot in the cool night air. “Shuuichi!”

“Mmm?” Shuuichi sounded quite innocently inquiring while his mouth slid down, tongue stroking delicately along Rei’s ear. Rei gasped, his whole body pulling taut with the rush of soft, wet sensation as Shuuichi sucked on his earlobe. He couldn’t help a breathless laugh, though. Maybe Hiro had never been his lover, but Rei knew perfectly well Hiro would have approved of Shuuichi’s teasing.

“All right, yes,” he agreed, husky. “But in a bedroom, not on a roof!”


As soon as Rei tossed the last of his clothes over a chair, Shuuichi pulled Rei back against his chest and wrapped around him again. Rei’s smile tilted, rueful. He supposed he could have predicted that being so wrung out would set off Shuuichi’s protective streak. With the memory of his last partner fresh in his mind, he lifted his arms and reached back to run his hands over Shuuichi’s shoulders. Shuuichi’s hands spread wider, over his chest and stomach, and Rei rested his head back on Shuuichi’s shoulder, relaxing into his hold. Shuuichi’s quick, hard inhale made him smile. Hiro had liked knowing he had Rei’s trust, too.

“You’re also pretty good at getting people to do what you want, you know,” Shuuichi murmured against the arch of Rei’s throat.

Rei laughed, husky. “Yeah? Take me to bed, then.”

“Certainly.” Shuuichi pressed a kiss to his throat, hands stroking down his body to settle on his hips. “Shower first?”

Rei’s smile softened, memories of horseplay or just quiet talks with Hiro coming easier now. “All right.”

They stayed close, under the hot spray, trading the soap back and forth. Rei made small, pleased sounds as Shuuichi’s hands slid over his back, down his arms, enjoying the simple touch. He flushed a little, though, when Shuuichi knelt to run soapy hands slowly down Rei’s legs. “Shuuichi?”

Shuuichi looked up at him, eyes dark and steady, one hand resting on Rei’s knee. “Is it all right?”

A new connection suddenly drew itself, clear and solid, in Rei’s mind, one that Hiro would have seen weeks ago and probably been laughing at Rei’s obliviousness to. Akai Shuuichi had a strong tendency to protect, yes, but he held what he protected at arm’s length. Unless the one he protected could hold their own, could be a partner. Then, it seemed, he wanted that one very close indeed. “Yes,” Rei answered, a little husky. “It’s all right.” When Shuuichi stood and gathered him close, Rei let him, sliding his hands up Shuuichi’s arms to his shoulders.

That turned out to be a very good move, because Shuuichi promptly stroked a soap-slick hand down his back and slid his fingers between Rei’s cheeks, working them slowly against him. Rei’s knees unstrung a little at how good it felt, so intimate and deliberate. “Shuuichi…”

Shuuichi’s arm tightened around him, and he murmured against Rei’s ear, slick fingers still fondling Rei’s entrance. “I’ve got you.”

Rei moaned against his shoulder, unable to dispute that right at this moment. He let Shuuichi take more of his weight as Shuuichi’s fingers drew firm circles against his entrance, fingertips just pushing in before easing back. The slow surge of sensation left him panting for breath, knees shaky. Just when he thought the hot, heavy pleasure of it was going to undo him completely, Shuuichi’s hand stroked slowly back up his spine, and Shuuichi held him close until the tautness eased back out of his body.

“You feel like teasing tonight, hm?” Rei finally managed, breathless.

“Not teasing.” Rei scoffed at that, and felt Shuuichi’s silent chuckle. “Just taking it slowly.”

“I think that’s what most people call teasing,” Rei said, dryly. A smile curved his lips, though, and he leaned against Shuuichi, content to stay there, until the water started running cool.

Back in the bedroom, Rei only stepped away long enough to strip back the blankets before he turned to reach for Shuuichi. “Bed,” he demanded, husky, pulling Shuuichi down after him as he stretched out against the sheets. Shuuichi followed him obligingly, and Rei made a satisfied sound, winding his arms around Shuuichi and hooking a leg around his for good measure. Shuuichi laughed, quietly. “I’m right here.”

“Good.” Rei kissed him, slow and hot, and purred when Shuuichi kissed back with just as much concentration. The tingle of want running through him didn’t fade, but the solid weight of Shuuichi’s body against his, the feel of hard muscle under his palms, the care in Shuuichi’s hands as they curved around Rei’s ribs relaxed him again. When Shuuichi kissed down his throat, Rei tipped his head back with a soft sound of pleasure.

“Mmm, there we go.” The open satisfaction in Shuuichi’s voice made Rei laugh. Shuuichi leaned up on an elbow to smile down at him. “Turn over for me?”

The heat that had settled low in Rei’s stomach curled abruptly tighter, because now he thought he knew where this was going. His voice was husky when he answered, “Yeah, all right.”

Of course, once he’d turned and stretched out on his stomach, the first thing Shuuichi did was knead gentle hands over his shoulders and back until Rei unwound against the sheets, heat soothed back down to a whisper along his nerves. When Shuuichi pressed an open-mouthed kiss to his nape, the shiver that ran through Rei was soft. Feeling the heat of Shuuichi’s mouth moving down his spine, though, Rei knew he’d been right about what Shuuichi planned, this evening. When Shuuichi’s thumbs spread Rei open, it was anticipation that made his breath catch.

The soft, wet heat of Shuuichi’s tongue against his entrance was still a shock through his senses, and Rei moaned with it. The touch was so intimate that it unstrung Rei even as he pushed back into the softness of it. Shuuichi moved with him, hands curving around Rei’s hips to support him, until Rei had pushed all the way back onto his knees, and those soft, lapping strokes just kept going. “Shuuichi,” Rei moaned into the sheets.

“Shh. I have you, my own.”

A shudder rolled through Rei at the feel of Shuuichi’s breath over wet, exposed skin, but it was what Shuuichi said that pulled a breathless sound out of him. He’d heard echos of it before in the tiny silence before Shuuichi said his name, but Shuuichi had been careful, until now, not to lay any claim on Rei. Until now. Until he was sure of Rei’s acceptance, and that care shook him deeper than the rush of sensation as the tip of Shuuichi’s tongue circled slowly against his entrance. It was Shuuichi’s words he was answering when he gasped, “Yes.

When Shuuichi’s hands tightened hard on his hips, he knew Shuuichi understood.

Rei moaned, low and open, as Shuuichi’s tongue stroked his entrance, slowly, steadily. The heat and softness stroked down his nerves until he was panting for breath, fingers wound tight in the sheets. It was good, so good, but he was going a little crazy with how slowly the pleasure was building. When Shuuichi’s tongue pressed, just a little, into him, and Shuuichi’s hands held him still through his reflex push back to meet it, it was finally too much. “Shuuichi, please…”

“Of course.” Shuuichi pressed a soft kiss to the base of his spine, easing Rei back down to the bed and curling around him. It felt so good, the solidity of him after all that slow, soft sensation; Rei snuggled back against him. Shuuichi chuckled against his shoulder, reaching over him for the pump bottle tucked into the headboard of the bed. “Do you want me to open you up?”

“No,” Rei said firmly, “I want you to fuck me right now.”

“Thought you might.” Shuuichi slid a hand up Rei’s thigh, sliding his knee up until Rei was spread out, half on his stomach. Rei made a pleased sound as Shuuichi’s leg slid up behind his; that was what he wanted, to have Shuuichi as close as possible, pressed up against every inch of him. He relaxed more as Shuuichi’s arms wrapped around him and moaned, soft and open, at the blunt thickness of Shuuichi’s cock pushing into him, stretching his muscles hard. “Mmm, yes, like that.”

Shuuichi’s mouth curved, against his shoulder, and his voice was low and rough. “I couldn’t agree more.” He rocked back and pushed in deeper. Pressed this close together, Rei could hear the breathless sound Shuuichi made, the assurance that Shuuichi was with him in the rush of pleasure. When Shuuichi’s hand wrapped around Rei’s cock, long fingers still slick, Rei groaned out loud. “Yes.”

“You’re so beautiful like this,” Shuuichi said against his ear, soft and intimate enough to make Rei shudder. “So brilliant when you let yourself go. I love knowing you’ll let go for me.”

Rei laughed, breathless with the heavy heat running through him, the slow, hard rock of their bodies together, the knowledge that his lover wanted all of him. “All yours,” he promised, and gasped as Shuuichi’s hand tightened on him, urgent.

“Yes, my own.” He stroked Rei hard, and the slow heat finally broke into a burst of pleasure that raked through Rei, sweet and wild. The way Shuuichi groaned against his shoulder, grinding deep into him, wrung another burst through him, and he moaned out loud, shuddering.

They came down together, unwinding against each other in the late-night quiet. After a few minutes, Shuuichi stirred against Rei’s back and murmured, “I thought you were lovers. You and Morofushi.”

The connection snapped into place immediately, and Rei huffed softly against the sheets. “So when I was fine with sex but tense about being held…”

Shuuichi laughed, soft and rueful. “Having your own emotions involved always does degrade accuracy.”

Rei turned onto his back and smiled up at him, wry and crooked, lifting a hand to ruffle his fingers through the sleekness of Shuuichi’s hair. “I trust you with all of me,” he said, very softly, and felt the catch of Shuuichi’s breath against his chest.

Shuuichi leaned down to press their foreheads together, hand sliding up to cup Rei’s cheek. “That you match me, on every level, is why I don’t think I could ever leave you.”

The assurance settled into Rei’s chest, warm and solid and exactly what he needed to know; his breath shook a little with it. “There, you see,” he said, husky. “We do know each other.”

Shuuichi smiled for him, small and soft. “Yes.”

They lay twined together, quietly, for a long time.

End