Luo Binghe was fifteen when Shen Qingqiu began telling him about the lore of Naruto.
It had started as something silly. Luo Binghe had suffered a round of nightmares, nothing too terrible, but enough to shake him, and had asked, half shyly, if Shen Qingqiu could tell him a bedtime story to help him sleep.
Never mind that this was Luo Binghe, future master of dreams, king of the mind, tyrant of nightmares. Shen Qingqiu could have scoffed at him, could have said, “Aren’t you a bit old for cuddles and bedtime tales?” But when he looked at the boy’s wide, expectant eyes, he felt his resolve weaken.
He remembered sitting at the foot of the narrow bed in the side room, the oil lamp flickering softly, throwing long shadows across the wall. Luo Binghe was watching him, face open and eager, a sweet smile tugging at his lips.
And, Shen Qingqiu realized with a pang, he was homesick. Painfully, achingly homesick.
That day, he had caught himself wondering, absurdly, what had become of Naruto and Sasuke. A silly little thought, but one that had grown bigger and heavier the longer he let it linger. Shen Yuan had died before finishing the story; he remembered those nights when his siblings would crowd together in the living room, watching Naruto Classic. Later, after they’d moved out of their parents’ house, his older brothers had been too busy for Shippuden, so it had just been him and his little sister, side by side, cheering and crying at the screen.
Looking now at Luo Binghe’s face (so bright, so trusting) Shen Qingqiu felt that same warmth, that same tug of memory.
So he took a breath, leaned back against the bedframe, and began to speak.
“Once upon a time,” he said, feeling a bit ridiculous even as the words left his mouth. “There was a boy who was hated.”
“Shizun!” Luo Binghe protested immediately, his face twisting into a pout. “That’s so sad -”
“What?” Shen Qingqiu snapped, flicking open his fan and giving him a light smack on the head. “Little boys should keep quiet and listen.”
Luo Binghe ducked with a sheepish grin, rubbing the spot where the fan had tapped him. “Yes, Shizun,” he said, tone meek but eyes sparkling with amusement.
Shen Qingqiu clicked his tongue and continued, pretending not to notice the way Luo Binghe’s grin grew wider with every word. “There was a boy who was hated by everyone in his village,” he went on, voice even. “They thought he was a monster. But… he was just a lonely kid, really. Loud, clumsy, and far too stubborn for his own good.”
Luo Binghe’s smile faded into something softer. He curled up a little under his blanket, listening intently now.
Shen Qingqiu paused, the old ache in his chest returning for just a moment. Then he sighed, leaned his chin on one hand, and said quietly, “But even so… he still wanted everyone to love him.”
There was a pause and Shen Qingqiu could see the big blue eyes with blond hair and whiskers on his cheeks. He remembered his sister's smile and his older brother's laughs.
“He had no friends,” Shen Qingqiu said, his tone light but steady, “no talent, and no family.”
The words hung in the dim room, the lamplight flickering between them. Luo Binghe’s expression shifted, his brows knitting slightly, lips pressing together. “That’s horrible,” he murmured. His face was uncertain, as if he had looked into a mirror and saw somebody else.
Shen Qingqiu looked at him over the edge of his fan. “Yes, well. Life is rarely kind to protagonists.”
Luo Binghe frowned. “But… why would everyone hate him if he didn’t do anything wrong?”
Shen Qingqiu sighed, flicking his fan open and shut again, the soft snap of paper punctuating his next words. “Because people fear what they don’t understand,” he said. “Because sometimes, they need someone to blame.”
Luo Binghe was quiet for a long time. Then, almost in a whisper: “Did… anyone ever love him?”
Shen Qingqiu hesitated. He hadn’t expected the question to land so heavily. The sight of Luo Binghe’s earnest face, shadowed eyes, voice small and careful, made something twist uncomfortably in his chest.
He cleared his throat and said, more softly than before. “Eventually… yes. Someone did.”
There was another pause. They looked into each other's eyes.
“There was a teacher,” Shen Qingqiu continued after they blinked, his voice dropping to a gentler tone. “He was harsh sometimes… yelled, huffed, complained about how troublesome the boy was. But…” He hesitated, eyes half-focused on the flickering lamplight. “He also bought him food. Joked with him. They’d sit together in a little restaurant shop, the only one that didn’t turn the boy away, and eat noodles side by side.”
A faint smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. The memory of dim lights, family, steam rising from a bowl, it all felt strangely vivid, like something he’d lived himself. He could remember her sister begging to try to do some homemade ramen. It turned out to be untasty (they were horrible cooks), but the experience was nice.
From under the blanket, Luo Binghe let out a small sigh, soft and dreamy. His eyes peeked out just above the edge of the fabric, lashes heavy with drowsiness, cheeks faintly flushed from warmth.
“That sounds nice,” he murmured, voice muffled by the blanket. “We should go eat sometimes.”
Shen Qingqiu looked at him for a long moment, his fan resting forgotten in his lap. “…Maybe,” he said quietly. Then, after a breath, he added, “Now hush. The story’s not over yet.”
“Like this, the teacher always said the boy was a nuisance to the village he lived in,” Shen Qingqiu went on, his tone wry, half fond, half exasperated. “Too loud, too reckless, always causing trouble.” He glanced at Luo Binghe, who was still peeking at him from under the blanket, eyes bright despite the drowsy edges of his expression. “But,” Shen Qingqiu added, his voice softening, “even when he said those things, the teacher never truly meant them. He’d sigh, scold the boy, and still buy him another bowl of noodles.”
Luo Binghe’s lips curved in a small, contented smile. “That teacher sounds like you, Shizun.”
Shen Qingqiu froze mid-sentence, fan half-open. “Excuse me?”
Luo Binghe ducked quickly back under the blanket with a muffled giggle. “Nothing!”
Shen Qingqiu huffed, snapping his fan shut with a thwack. “Brat. If you interrupt again, I’ll turn this into a lecture on Qi theory instead.”
Luo Binghe’s laughter bubbled from under the covers. It was soft, sleepy, and full of warmth. “Was the teacher pretty?” He interrupted again, his smile widening until his cheeks nearly dimpled.
Shen Qingqiu blinked, caught mid-thought. “What kind of question is that?”
“I just want to know,” Luo Binghe said innocently, though the sparkle in his eyes gave him away. “You said he was kind sometimes. Usually, pretty people are kind.”
Shen Qingqiu gave him a long, unimpressed look. “That’s not true. Look at your Liu Shishu. He is a brute.”
Luo Binghe laughed quietly, the sound soft and pleased. “So he was pretty, then?”
Shen Qingqiu groaned and raised his fan as if to strike him again. “If you interrupt one more time, I’ll make the teacher bald and ugly just to spite you.”
Luo Binghe only grinned wider, tucking himself deeper under the blanket. “Then he wouldn’t look like you at all, Shizun.”
Shen Qingqiu froze for a beat, feeling heat creep embarrassingly up his neck. “Go to sleep,” he muttered, flicking the lamp lower.
Luo Binghe hummed contentedly and closed his eyes, still smiling.
The next day, Luo Binghe found him again, this time in the courtyard, sitting beneath the old peach tree with a book in hand. The afternoon sun slanted through the branches, scattering soft light over Shen Qingqiu’s robes.
“Shizun!” came the familiar, drawn-out whine from across the garden.
Shen Qingqiu didn’t even look up. “No.”
“You don’t even know what I was going to say!” Luo Binghe protested, already crossing the distance in a few long strides.
“I know exactly what you were going to say,” Shen Qingqiu replied dryly, flipping a page. “You want me to finish that ridiculous story.”
Luo Binghe crouched beside him, eyes wide and pleading, his tone dropping into a practiced softness. “But Shizun! He didn’t even get to become the strongest cultivator yet! You stopped right when it was getting good.”
“Mm.” Shen Qingqiu made a thoughtful sound, gaze still on the book. “And whose fault is that, I wonder? Someone couldn’t stop interrupting with useless questions about whether the teacher was pretty.”
Luo Binghe grinned unabashedly. “You never answered, though.”
Shen Qingqiu finally looked up, giving him a glare that was far too weak to be convincing. “You! Are insufferable.”
“Please, Shizun?” Luo Binghe tilted his head, his voice warm and coaxing. “Just one more part? I’ve been thinking about the boy all day.”
Shen Qingqiu sighed, snapping his book shut with a soft thump.
“Fine,” he said at last, feigning reluctance as Luo Binghe’s face lit up like the sun. “But if you interrupt even once this time, I’ll have the a demon eat the teacher alive.”
Luo Binghe beamed. “Deal!”
Shen Qingqiu muttered something under his breath about “greedy disciples” and “ungrateful brats,” but when he began again.
“So. The boy and his teacher continued their training…”
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