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acoraxia · 7 months

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i missed you I watched elementals today with my friend, thus, short ficlet about mistyembers (2k words, and a little messy)

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Hm.

It’s annoying.

Almost truly tedious.

Hong Hai’er isn’t one to be sentimental about the past nor does he try to touch anything that comes with it. He leaves the events of the Samadhi Fire behind, he craves nothing of the past even if it means moving on from the fact his father left and his mother rejected every idea he had with a hint of malice. They’re growing now, being better parents, and he dubs everything down to stress and the inability to stop Heaven’s wishes of having his father imprisoned for over a hundred years. He doesn’t linger on it anymore, he moves on; and he stands there, garage and storage room burnt and charcoaled, wondering why he feels such an intense amount of woe over the fact he’s lost contact with her for over a year now.

He doesn’t miss the ice cold touch of the Bone Spirit’s hands, the shrill laugh that came with it—he steps over broken glass shards and his lips twitch in disgust at the ash piles that he steps into when he tries to dodge a car fragment. It’s been… well, a rough start ever since they moved so far out from the city where his Uncle now lingers. He’s kept in touch with him, brought important matters to his attention, and the two often see each other when he comes by, gift in hand, ready to greet his mother and father with a smile. Still, he wishes he has stayed in the underground areas of the giant, technology driven city than having agreed to move to this wasteland of an area. It’s empty and it lacks humidity.

He misses the beach, all of a sudden.

His relationship with water has always been tied to her, after all, and no matter how many times he refreshes and reloads and pieces his phone back together he hears no word of her. He looks on the positive, as Xiaotian would put it, and thinks she’s merely forgotten how to use the damn device despite his numerous well-written instructions being given to her with the object—he breaks one of the door handles to his newest vehicle and throws it down on the floor, hissing under his breath.

He lost contact with Chenxia for a few months when his father got possessed. She’s an acolyte for the very Master Subodhi that his uncle trained under, her hair long and black, eyes filled with a calmness to them that he could live without, throat drying at the thought of seeing them again after so long; she’s been near him since he studied under Guayin, learned her ways and was handed back to his parents after years of lectures and teachings—and he can never forget the cold, gentle touch of her hands on his, the way his embers seemed to shine brighter around her. She used to smile at him with calm and patience that could rival the lakes of purity that he’s seen in his travels.

Chenxia is—familiar, to put it simply, and he feels anger boil up inside him when the very last trace of her is ruined and gone by a mere misdemeanor from a bastardous spirit, upset that Heaven could not adhere to her ‘perfect world’. The selfish witch.

He sniffs. He runs a hand through his hair, annoyed at how easily it flares up into flames now.

Chenxia had always had a never ending flow of patience for him; she combed his hair and calmly asked him to remember to breathe when his fire got too out of hand, her hands untouched by the scorching flames that moved towards her as if she were made of wood. It was beautiful, somewhat, that she managed to find a way to help him control his fire until it did nothing but keep her warm when his emotions got out of hand. She was everything.

He wants to revive every cursed spirit and deity that had a hand in the ice witch’s plan solely to deliver them to Diyu himself. His teeth grind against each other out of habit, his mind focusing on how every rainy day was a reminder of her and her quiet voice against his cheek, pressing cold touches to his skin.

He misses her.

His phone buzzes when he manages to get to the supply closet that was somehow untouched by his flames, broom in hand when he squints at the messages from Xiaotian and Sun Wukong. He opts for the latter, the annoyingly bright comments of optimism that the boy would bring were not favorable for the demon at the moment. He’d rather tell Sun Wukong that he’s busy than deal with his acolyte.

It takes three messages before his patience runs out over the long intervals between texts and he just calls the damn simian, sliding his gloves on as he prepares to start reworking on all his inventions.

“Oh, bad time, kiddo?” Sun Wukong sounds… light, as always. Not the same voice he feigns when talking to Xiaotian or Xiaojiao, it’s a voice Hong Hai’er has grown up with since childhood, light and airy, like a sun’s warm ray on a snake’s back during spring. Warm. “I thought I could deliver you some good news today.”

“Please, Uncle, I’ve no time for your trickery. I have work to do, something you couldn’t even fathom considering you barely even attend all those Heavenly Court meetings about the ‘calamities of the world’ or whatever else happens up there—”

A choked laugh. “Who told you that’s what they do?”

“Nezha, of course.” He slides his goggles on, frowning slightly when he sees how dirty they are.

“Kiddo, Nezha doesn’t even like those meetings.”

“My point stands: I’m not going to waste time talking to you about whatever random person you bumped into or how inaccurate the latest movie about you was when I could be doing something more productive.” Hong Hai’er snatches a rag from his desk and promptly begins wiping the glass on his headwear, narrowing his eyes when the stains don’t come off. “Besides, don’t you have some scroll pieces to sort through?”

“Funny that you mention it, dearest nephew of mine, fellow member of the forged fires trio of the Heavens; did Xiaotian tell you what happened in the scroll during his time there?” He avoids the question. Of course he does.

Hong Hai’er scoffs. “Of course not. That boy is taking after every single toxic trait that flows through your peach infested vain—”

“So he didn’t tell you he saw Chenxia?”

Hong Hai’er swore, once, that he’d learn to control his emotions. He’s touched water with gentle fingers, watching it curl and coil around his own hand with a tenderness he wouldn’t ever forget. He’s learned to channel his energy into more productive things—his inventions and vehicles, machinery—and he learned to meditate to channel his inner flame.

And yet his phone nearly shatters from the way his hands burst into flames, fire licking at the nearby wrenches and screwdrivers, nearly melting with the intensity that comes with it. His eyes are burning —from tears? desperation?—and he screams into the phone about the information. He rambles and goes off on a tangent, eyes burning harder until he digs a palm into one, squeezing it shut to try and smother the flames out of existence. Sun Wukong waits, disturbingly patient, and asks, “When are you free?”

The remains of his sigil on the perfectly cut green grass of the temple base are going to remain for a solid year, seeing how deep they settled into the earth, and Hong Hai’er stands there with a black shirt and disheveled hair, his goggles sitting skewed atop of his head. The Monkey King raises a brow and Hong Hai’er coughs into his fist, waving away traces of smoke as he vanishes the goggles and fixes the jacket tied around his waist. A hand comes to stop him from moving further, profanity and insults sitting at the top of his tongue when his Uncle—Gods help him—proceeds to dust off his shirt, brushing away traces of ash and smoke.

“Gotta look good for your lady, kid,” he coos and Hong Hai’er almost burns him to a crisp right there and then.

The temple is nothing to bat an eye at; it’s pristine and clean—no doubt taken care of by the several acolytes running around, exchanging jokes and going off about lessons from their master. He eyes the youngest group, watching the way Wukong trails behind just enough that he expects him to tear away from him and go join them in their mischief. They carry on the hallways, the young adults promptly ignoring them as they do, surely already aware of their arrival by Hong Hai’er’s entrance.

(He makes a quiet, small note to open a portal further away from the temple next time, wringing embarrassment out of his system by saying it was a spur of the moment decision, nothing else.)

And—he’s quite sure he’s never felt this awkward to stand on the open area of the tree infested entrance to the temple. It’s hidden away, kept from mortal eyes, and yet, somehow, the group of miscreants had managed to find it—ah, no, they were taken to this place by the immortal master himself. Of course. How else would they have found the very home of the calmest person he knows? The one who stares at him now, with dark gray eyes and uncertainty on her face when they step into the clearing.

He looks to Wukong for guidance—a loud ‘are you serious?’ leaving his mouth when he finds the simian is absent from his side. He’s alone. With her. With Chenxia.

Gods.

Her hair is longer. She’s tied part of it into a top knot, her outfit still the same color as the other acolytes in the temple. He remembers her in brighter clothes, more reminiscent of her smile and better suited for her eyes. He wants to ask about it—and then she moves closer to him and he frowns, arms crossing over his chest to try and hide the rapid beating of his heart. Blood pusher. It was messing with his head, somewhat, how calm she was in approaching him. He should be angry—snap at her for not calling or informing him of her whereabouts—and yet when she reaches up to brush a smear of oil from his face he softens, fire soothing into a candle-like ember instead of a raging storm.

It’s terrifying how he leans into her touch, sighing out in relief when she smiles at him, familiar and comforting.

“I’m sorry I’m late,” she murmurs, bringing another hand to cup his face in its entirety. “I—your friend, Xiaotian, he-”

“He is not my friend,” he mumbles, turning his face to press a chaste kiss to her palm. It’s funny how she laughs at that, quiet and secretive, and he makes an effort to press another kiss for good effort. “I should be mad at you.”

“I know,” she says.

“You didn’t say anything.”

“I will,” she lowers her hands onto his neck and then his shoulders, holding her gaze steady as she does. Her eyes are serious and Hong Hai’er’s softness leaves him in small, gentle waves.

He reaches up and grasps her hands, gently, into his hold. “I… was beaten up by Sun Wukong when an immortal bone spirit possessed him.” She blinks, startled, and he laughs at that. Because it’s funny how easily her expression changes. “I’ll… tell you everything. Then you can explain what happened.”

Her lips twitch. “Alright.”

Hong Hai’er inhales, tugging on her hands until she’s closer to him, tilting his head down so he can press his forehead against hers, her skin cool against him. She closes his eyes after a heartbeat and he follows suit, inhaling the smell of the ocean breeze and soothing meadows.

“I missed you,” she says against his lips.

“Me too,” he answers and then leans in.

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