There's Music in Us.

Shang Qinghua isn’t sure what makes him aware of the change in the room. A shift in the air, a sound, maybe just the slightest drop in temperature. He blinks, sleepy and bleary, at the pages of the novel he was failing to read, feeling warm and syrupy from whatever was in the medicine Mu Qingfang was dosing him with. “My king?” Mobei-jun steps from the shadows silently, and comes to sit at the edge of his bed. He’s dressed down, unarmored— just soft silk robes and simple boots, no weapons or jewelry save a pendant around his neck. Shang Qinghua recognizes it as one he gave his king when he was still a disciple, some ridiculous one-of-a-kind protection artifact that he’d known to snatch out of a crumbling temple thanks to special author knowledge, about forty years before it was going to become plot relevant. He hadn’t realizes that Mobei-jun still had it. Had he been wearing it all this time? Mobei-jun’s cold claw-tips brush through his bangs. “Shang Qinghua,” he says, rumbling and familiar. Shang Qinghua blinks up at him. “My king,” he repeats. And, suddenly struck by the memory of exactly what position(s?) the king of the Northern Desert last saw him in, feels his face heat in a way that has nothing to do with any lingering fever. “My king! I’m so—” Mobei-jun halts him with a raised hand. “You are recovering?” “Yes, my king,” Shang Qinghua says. “I’m doing much better already.” “Good.” Mobei-jun pulls over the chair that Shen Qingqiu was sitting in earlier. The sight of his hulking form dragging over and delicately maneuvering into the small chair sparks something warmer than amusement in Shang Qinghua’s chest. “This king… must apologize.” Shang Qinghua’s gaze jerks up. “W-what?” “You were sick. Humans are weakened by the cold. I allowed you to stay and work in the North anyways, and missed the signs of your ill health. Qinghua could have died.” “But I didn’t. I wouldn’t have! My king, I was just sick, it wasn’t… as bad as all that. I’m a cultivator, it takes more than some cold weather to take me out.” He gives an awkward laugh. “It does take more than the cold. Qinghua was overworking himself, and was hiding from this king.” “But I overwork myself all the time,” Shang Qinghua says, the words coming out more earnestly than he means them to. He drops the book and wraps his arms around himself, looking away. “I’ve been working like this since I was a disciple. I don’t understand what’s changed. I should have just felt bad for a little bit and then dealt with it and gotten better. It shouldn’t have been such a big deal.” “I am sorry,” Mobei-jun repeats. He runs his fingers through Shang Qinghua’s loose hair again, and Shang Qinghua leans tiredly into the touch. “I… regret. The part I played in not allowing Qinghua to rest. Then, and now.” Shang Qinghua’s face feels hot. He scrubs at his eyes, the feeling only intensifying as Mobei-jun continues to run his cold hands through his hair, his claws pleasantly scraping against his scalp, the touch comforting. “It’s fine, my king,” he says. “It is not. But I will endeavor not to make the same mistake again.” Shang Qinghua leans miserably into Mobei-jun’s cool touch.