[ He doesn't answer. There's unequal parts of anger and concern and a lingering fear that doesn't shake off, because it can't, anymore than the nightmares have ended. He's walking and silent, letting Binghe speak to an audience of whoever catches the words, because it's not fair, and he refuses to give that ground. He won't promise to be anything less than he is. If that's angry, then that's angry. If it's everything else, then it's also everything else.
This isn't a large village. It's prospering, in recent months practically blossoming, but it's no city, and Binghe is a recogniseable figure even in those city crowds.
Shen Qingqiu doesn't want to put memories of the rooftop of that fucking casino behind him. Not if Binghe hasn't learned one damn thing, if he knows he's neglecting his levels, when he could ask for the simple helps or offer even to carry the injured and spent the time hauling them around gathering chroma from the contact. Where he could clasp hands with those who couldn't fight to help fuel the fact he could, where there are a dozen little things that don't give away the sanctity of himself in order to be a functional fucking person here.
How is he handling Xin Mo, if he is at all, how is he handling his own nature's balance, how is anything stable if he can't even—he doesn't fucking know!
Only that he's angry and scared and fucking concerned, and Binghe was delaying, which heightened each of those emotions.
When he does find Binghe, he's Shen Qingqiu in every sense of the word, expression cold, countenance untouchable, and he's by Luo Binghe's side almost as soon as he lays eyes on him. They don't have anything like teleportation, but they move more than fast enough to be invisible to mortal eyes. ]
You admit your mistake.
[ He says, fingers curling into a fist as leaves his fan tucked into his waistband. His eyes flick over Binghe, cataloguing injuries and bandages, his overall state, before returning to his almost eye-to-eye stare into Binghe's face. ]
Yet you've learned nothing. In how many months, you've chosen to learn nothing.
[ His voice sounds less cold then, more resigned, distressed, and yes, angry, as well as... concerned. Because nothing in how he holds himself now speaks of violence; nothing in how he stands before his disciple, who he'd thought for years would be the end of him in a way far different from the end Shen Qingqiu had found himself facing, speaks of the desire to hurt. ]
We're leaving.
[ He reaches out to capture one of Binghe's hands, his other forming a seal that sends his no-longer-rental-sword flying out of its sheath, hovering steady and silver in light over the ground, ready for them to mount. Shen Qingqiu does so without comment, attempting to tug Binghe along with him, his mind far away from the chaos that had been before this place, trusting that the report of no casualties or soon-to-be-fatal injuries is true enough that people with the right skills and supplies will be better able to help than one fucking Peak Lord of a Scholar's Peak.
Instead, he can get the one fool he cares about most home, and for fucks sake, maybe lecturing him this time will have some effect. Or else he has no idea what the hell he'll do.
It's the same lack of clear path forward that haunts his mind when he orders the sword to fly with a thought, sending them soaring back toward the city that doesn't feel like home, but that is far more hospitable than so much of the rest of this foreign world. ]
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This isn't a large village. It's prospering, in recent months practically blossoming, but it's no city, and Binghe is a recogniseable figure even in those city crowds.
Shen Qingqiu doesn't want to put memories of the rooftop of that fucking casino behind him. Not if Binghe hasn't learned one damn thing, if he knows he's neglecting his levels, when he could ask for the simple helps or offer even to carry the injured and spent the time hauling them around gathering chroma from the contact. Where he could clasp hands with those who couldn't fight to help fuel the fact he could, where there are a dozen little things that don't give away the sanctity of himself in order to be a functional fucking person here.
How is he handling Xin Mo, if he is at all, how is he handling his own nature's balance, how is anything stable if he can't even—he doesn't fucking know!
Only that he's angry and scared and fucking concerned, and Binghe was delaying, which heightened each of those emotions.
When he does find Binghe, he's Shen Qingqiu in every sense of the word, expression cold, countenance untouchable, and he's by Luo Binghe's side almost as soon as he lays eyes on him. They don't have anything like teleportation, but they move more than fast enough to be invisible to mortal eyes. ]
You admit your mistake.
[ He says, fingers curling into a fist as leaves his fan tucked into his waistband. His eyes flick over Binghe, cataloguing injuries and bandages, his overall state, before returning to his almost eye-to-eye stare into Binghe's face. ]
Yet you've learned nothing. In how many months, you've chosen to learn nothing.
[ His voice sounds less cold then, more resigned, distressed, and yes, angry, as well as... concerned. Because nothing in how he holds himself now speaks of violence; nothing in how he stands before his disciple, who he'd thought for years would be the end of him in a way far different from the end Shen Qingqiu had found himself facing, speaks of the desire to hurt. ]
We're leaving.
[ He reaches out to capture one of Binghe's hands, his other forming a seal that sends his no-longer-rental-sword flying out of its sheath, hovering steady and silver in light over the ground, ready for them to mount. Shen Qingqiu does so without comment, attempting to tug Binghe along with him, his mind far away from the chaos that had been before this place, trusting that the report of no casualties or soon-to-be-fatal injuries is true enough that people with the right skills and supplies will be better able to help than one fucking Peak Lord of a Scholar's Peak.
Instead, he can get the one fool he cares about most home, and for fucks sake, maybe lecturing him this time will have some effect. Or else he has no idea what the hell he'll do.
It's the same lack of clear path forward that haunts his mind when he orders the sword to fly with a thought, sending them soaring back toward the city that doesn't feel like home, but that is far more hospitable than so much of the rest of this foreign world. ]