Drifting through his mind came bits and pieces of memories of before Awakening ceremony. When Fang Yuan would still rarely hold him or pat his head, but also the day right before. When he hadn't slept a wink because he was so nervous, and when he peeked into his brother's room he saw him with Shen Cui—how close they were, how Shen Cui smiled—how Fang Yuan didn't smile back, but he didn't pull away either. He remembered thinking 'why doesn't brother push her away?'
He saw how Shen Cui would rub herself against him, smoothing the creases on his clothing—how she lingered, how she whispered things Fang Zheng couldn't hear. And Fang Yuan had just stood there, eyes half-lidded, neither encouraging nor refusing her touch. That image had haunted him worse than any nightmare—his brother's passive tolerance of something Fang Zheng would have killed to have for himself.
He had been jealous that day. Jealous of Shen Cui's audacity—her ability to stand next to Fang Yuan despite being an outsider, to touch him without hesitation while Fang Zheng, his own brother, hesitated even to meet his gaze. He'd been jealous of Fang Yuan who could even receive such affection from everyone, not just Shen Cui, while he had to claw his way through everything else—while Fang Yuan had everything come naturally to him.
How their Aunt and Uncle's biased love towards Fang Yuan was known to everyone, their affection shown blatantly as they spoiled him rotten—while Fang Zheng was barely given a second glance. But shouldn't that be expected? Fang Zheng had nothing to give, nothing to offer—while Fang Yuan had everything, including the ability to throw it all away without a care.
How Fang Zheng had spent his childhood trying to win Fang Yuan's attention, because he knew damn well no one else except for his brother who had raised him from the ground up would ever care about him—how his Aunt and Uncle were indifferent to him, how the elders only saw him as a potential way to get to Fang Yuan, how the clan only saw Fang Yuan's shadow—so Fang Zheng had latched onto Fang Yuan with a desperation that bordered on pathetic.
Because Fang Yuan was the only one who ever looked at him—even if it was with indifference, even if it was just a passing glance—it was still more than anyone else had ever given him, just that small drop of affection, Fang Zheng wanted to drown in it.
Fang Zheng remembered kneeling outside Fang Yuan's door one night—he couldn't recall why now—only the way his brother had opened it, expression unreadable, before stepping around him as if he were a misplaced stool. The sting of that moment had lingered longer than the bubbly feeling when Fang Yuan was nice to him.
But slowly in his own mind, he felt the memories twisting—because Fang Yuan had never been cruel to him, not really. Even now, what had Fang Yuan done except exist too beautifully? What sin had he committed except being born under kinder stars? His brother was the best person to Fang Zheng, never actively hurting him—just failing to love him the way Fang Zheng wanted.
Fang Zheng didn't know how long he had been passed out for when the infirmary door creaked open again. His mouth was opened slightly and his throat felt extremely dry. He blinked groggily as the door creaked open.
"Your his older brother, you should at least pretend to care," came Qing Shu's voice, low and laced with something sharp—not anger, but a frustration so palpable it vibrated in the air like a plucked guqin string. Fang Zheng's breath hitched. There was only one person that title belonged to.
The door creaked wider, revealing Fang Yuan's silhouette framed in the afternoon light—his posture loose, his hands tucked into his sleeves with that same infuriating indifference. The scent of plum blossoms and medicinal herbs thickened as Qing Shu stepped forward, blocking Fang Zheng's view. "He's been vomiting since morning," Qing Shu murmured, his voice barely louder than the rustle of leaves outside. "And you—what? You couldn't be bothered to check on him?"
Fang Yuan's silhouette didn't move. The light from the doorway outlined his shoulders in gold, but his face remained shadowed and unreadable[1]. When he spoke, his voice was smooth as river-worn stone. "He'll be fine. He always end up okay."[2]
Qing Shu's hands curled into fists at his sides, the knuckles whitening. "That's it? That's all you have to say?" His voice cracked like dry timber—too loud in the hushed infirmary. Fang Zheng could see the tendons standing out in Qing Shu's neck, the way his chest rose and fell with each ragged breath.
Fang Yuan's shadow stretched long across the infirmary floor, unmoving as Qing Shu's accusation hung between them. The silence thickened like congealing blood. Then—a shift. A fractional tilt of Fang Yuan's head that sent sunlight glancing off the sharp line of his jaw. "What would you have me do, Qing Shu?" The question was soft, almost curious. "Hold his hand? Wipe his brow? Would that make him better?"
Qing Shu recoiled as if struck. Behind him, Fang Zheng's fingers twisted in the sheets—because just a bit of performative affection from Fang Yuan would make him feel better, and wasn't that pathetic?
Fang Yuan stepped fully into the infirmary then, pushing Qing Shu outside before slaming the door in his face which Fang Zheng would have found funny if he wasn't so preoccupied with trying not to puke again and die. Fang Yuan's robes brushed against the edge of Fang Zheng's cot as he passed, trailing the faint scent of fermented rice wine and something darker underneath. maybe, old blood.
Fang Yuan's shadow loomed over the cot, cutting off the fractured sunlight from the window. Fang Zheng swallowed hard—his throat still raw from vomiting—and forced himself to meet his brother's gaze. Fang Yuan's eyes were blacker than ink, empty as the space between stars.
"You look terrible," Fang Yuan said, and blankly Fang Zheng felt as if his face had became blurry, was his vison deteriorating?
Fang Zheng blinked rapidly, his vision swimming—not from tears, but from the fever blurring the edges of everything. Fang Yuan's face above him fractured into jagged pieces, then reassembled, colder than before.
Fang Yuan exhaled through his nose—slow, measured—as if Fang Zheng's feverish state was a minor inconvenience. He reached out, his fingers hovering over Fang Zheng's damp forehead, but didn't touch. "You're burning alive," he noted, as clinically as one might comment on the weather.
Fang Zheng's breath hitched when Fang Yuan's fingers finally made contact—cool as mountain stream water against his scorching skin. The touch lasted barely a second before retreating, but it left Fang Zheng trembling harder than before. He wanted to chase that fleeting coolness, press his brother's palm back against his forehead and keep it there until his fever broke.
Fang Yuan's sleeve rustled as he withdrew his hand, the fabric whispering against itself like dead leaves. "You'll live," he said, turning toward the infirmary door. The dismissal carved through Fang Zheng sharper than any blade.
"Wait—" Fang Zheng's hand shot out, fingers hooking weakly into his brother's robe. The fabric was silk-thin under his fingertips, barely there at all. "Don't go." The plea slipped out raw and cracked, worse than begging—it was the whimper of a kicked dog still crawling back to its master's feet.
Fang Yuan didn't pull away. He stood perfectly still, the fabric of his robe taut between them like a thread stretched to breaking.
Fang Zheng watched the pulse in his brother's throat. It didn't quicken. Didn't falter. Just that steady, metronomic rhythm beneath pale skin, untouched by the ragged gasps Fang Zheng couldn't suppress. His fingers tightened their grasp, silk slipping like water through his grip. "Stay, please…" he whispered again, the word crumbling at the edges.
Fang Yuan's exhale was slow—deliberate—like a man counting seconds before an execution. His fingers twitched once against his robe where Fang Zheng clung, then stilled. "You're being ridiculous," he said, and he still left space for Fang Zheng to deny it.
Fang Zheng's grip slackened. His fingers trembled against the silk, the fabric slipping through them like sand. "Sorry," he rasped, though he wasn't sure what he was apologizing for—existing? Needing? The words tasted like bile in his mouth.
Fang Yuan turned fully now, his silhouette blocking the last streaks of sunlight from the window. The infirmary shadows deepened around them, swallowing the edges of Fang Zheng's vision until his brother was the only thing left in focus.
Fang Yuan stood there for three heartbeats—long enough for Fang Zheng to be able to start hoping his brother wouldn't actually leave—before he reached down and pried Fang Zheng's fingers off his robe one by one. And a sinking—aching feeling filled Fang Zheng's chest as he realized Fang Yuan was going to leave anyway.
Fang Yuan's fingers were methodical as he peeled Fang Zheng's grip away—not cruel, just precise, like plucking petals from a flower. "Rest," he said, and it wasn't a suggestion. The word landed between them with finality, sealing Fang Zheng's fate as surely as a coffin nail.
The infirmary door clicked shut behind Fang Yuan with a softness that felt obscene—too gentle for the violence it did to Fang Zheng's ribs. He stared at the empty space where his brother had been, his fingers curling into the sheets again, nails biting into his own palms as pathetic tears welled up in his eyes.
Outside, Qing Shu's voice rose in sharp protest, then cut off abruptly—whether by Fang Yuan's indifference or some unseen gesture, Fang Zheng couldn't tell. The cicadas' screaming reached a fever pitch, drilling into his skull until his vision blurred. He pressed the heels of his hands against his eyelids, willing the headache to recede, but the pressure only made the nausea surge again.
Wasn't he just pathetic?
He already knew Fang Yuan would never stay—but gods,he had hoped anyway, he had wished so badly that his brother would just this once stay and indulge him in his pathetic little fantasies.
.
.
.
That first day… his aunt and uncle had brought back Shen Cui—a youthful girl with ink-black hair and a smile like delicate porcelain to serve Fang Yuan, Fang Zheng remembered the way she had introduced herself, kneeling elegantly before them—how her fingers had folded neatly into her lap, how she had smiled prettily up at Fang Yuan and murmured, "Young Master." then he saw Fang Yuan's reaction—or lack thereof. His brother had simply stared through her as if she were a particularly uninteresting piece of furniture. And yet, Shen Cui hadn't cared. She kept returning—kept pressing closer—until Fang Yuan's indifference became a sort of reluctant tolerance.
Fang Zheng had found Shen Cui beautiful in that first moment—extremely beautiful, perhaps he was in love? but she belonged to Fang Yuan. He remembered watching from the doorway as she poured tea for his brother, her fingers brushing Fang Yuan's wrist as she passed the cup—how Fang Yuan hadn't flinched, hadn't even blinked. Just accepted the contact like it was nothing. Like he hadn't even noticed. That was the moment Fang Zheng's stomach had twisted itself into all kinds of knots.
"As for you Fang Zheng… uncle noticed you prefer to be alone so i've decided to not disturb you with someone."
Fang Yuan had offered to ask their aunt and uncle to assign Fang Zheng a servant too—that fleeting moment of consideration, tossed out carelessly like crumbs to a starving dog. Fang Zheng had refused, of course. What use was a servant when all he wanted was his brother's attention?
The infirmary sheets clung to Fang Zheng's sweat-damp skin as he curled onto his side, facing the wall. His fever burned hotter now—a wildfire beneath his ribs, consuming every coherent thought until only fractured memories remained. Shen Cui's laughter echoed in his skull, high and bright like wind chimes. The way she'd press close to Fang Yuan during lessons, her sleeve brushing his arm, her knee nudging his beneath the table—small, casual touches Fang Zheng would have traded his cultivation for.
But then, Shen Cui…she would called out his name softer than with Fang Yuan, she would say "Fang Zheng" instead of "Fang Yuan" with such gentleness that Fang Zheng would forget to breathe—and he didn't know why she did it, or what game she was playing—but he wanted to drown in her attention, too, even if it was fake, even if it was just a trick to get closer to his brother—because at least she pretended. At least he could pretend it wasn't fake, deny the reality of his life.
'Cui'er'
She was the only one willing to call out his name—the syllables soft as plum petals against her tongue. "Fang Zheng," she'd murmur when passing him in the courtyard, her sleeve brushing his arm like an accident. He'd memorized the exact tilt of her head when she said it, the way her lashes dipped just so. Sometimes, when the loneliness clawed too deep, he'd mouth his own name in the dark, trying to replicate her cadence, surely there was something about it that made Fang Yuan able to tolerate it more than his own—if Fang Zheng learned to speak softer would his brother also look his way?
"Your brother is extremely talented…theres a high chance he'll end up a Grade A talent.."
"But he's just too cold to get along with.."
"But rather than that…i think i'd still prefer to be with someone warm like you!"
The words echoed in Fang Zheng's mind hopelessly, twisting like a knife—Shen Cui's voice, bright and honeyed, confessing her preference while her fingers traced idle patterns on his sleeve during one of those rare moments she'd strayed from Fang Yuan's shadow. He'd replayed that moment until it frayed at the edges, until he couldn't remember if she'd really said it or if his feverish longing had stitched the lie together.
[1] By the end, FZ flowkey won’t even see Fang Yuan’s face because it’s gonna get scratched out, speed running base volume to get to Yaoi part (biggest fujoshi)
[2] Fang Yuan knows Fang Zheng’s goofy ahh is probably protected by the heavens so only a lil pain no death💀