A Comic About The Spectrum Of Responses To Stress - We Talk Alot About The More Extreme Ends Of This

A comic about the spectrum of responses to stress - we talk alot about the more extreme ends of this and trauma, but the more subtle and every day responses can be harder to spot. if we can understand our own and other’s responses better, problems Are easier to confront and blaming is less likely to happen :) hope it’s helpful!!

Wei Changze and Cangse Sanren don’t die. Some things change.

Some things don’t.

~

Lan Xichen had told himself not to worry when he and his brother had been summoned to their uncle’s chambers just as the foreign sect’s children were arrive in Cloud Recesses. Looking at him now, he’s wondering if that was a mistake. Uncle looks moments away from pinching the bridge of his nose to stave off a headache.

“I didn’t tell you earlier because I thought there was a decent chance that he wouldn’t even show up,” he sighs. “But I just received word that he’s passed through the gate. Wei Wuxian is going to be joining the guest disciples.”

It’s unusual for a rogue cultivator to be invited, but not unheard of, especially considering the friendship between Uncle and Cangse Sanren that he’s almost certain actually exists and isn’t just rumors. “Do you foresee a problem? He’s a very accomplished cultivator.”

Despite being Wangji’s age and not being allied with any sect, Wei Wuxian had made quite a name for himself. He learned to cultivate under his parent’s tutelage, had been a guest disciple of the Jiangs, traveled for several years with the famous rogue cultivators Xiao Xingchan and Song Lan, and there were rumors that he’d even somehow snuck up to Baoshan Sanren’s mountain and convinced her take him on as a pupil, although Lan Xichen thought that had to be a just rumor.

While that was all impressive, what truly distinguished him had only happened last year. Yiling had come under near constant attacks from fierce corpses and resentful energy that most cultivators had refused to deal with.

Wei Wuxian had walked into the Burial Mounds, which of course was certain death. Three months later he’s walked out, somehow still alive and only slightly worse for wear and now wearing a flute alongside his sword. He’d gathered his parents, Xiao Xingchen, and Song Lan and they’d erected a barrier of glittering resentful energy around the base of the mountain, containing all the miserable and frightful things that had plagued the area of the Yiling. It harnessed the natural resentful of the energy of the mountain and channeled it through several complicated talismans and arrays.

Copies had been sent to the heads of every sect so to avoid rumors of demonic cultivation, something that reportedly had been Wei Changze’s idea. The arrays were deceptively simply, barely different than what most sects were already using. It’s just that no one had thought to use them quite like that before. Rumors credited everyone but Wei Wuxian, which surely meant he was the one truly responsible.

They called him the Yiling Patriarch and that he was still a teenager hadn’t seemed to matter much to anyone.

“Do you really think he’s here to learn?” Uncle asks, and Lan Xichen has to concede that it’s unlikely. There is little in their cultivation classes that Wei Wuxian would not be able to learn on his own or from his many mentors. “No, that little brat is working on another invention and he wants use of the library without having to go through formal channels. Little hellion. No matter what he pulls or what mischief he starts, you mustn’t get caught up in it, understand?

Even Wangji seemed taken back at Uncle’s vehemence. They hadn’t known that Uncle knew Wei Wuxian personally, but it seems he must, to be this disgruntled. “Disliking Wei Wuxian will not stop us from upholding the Lan practice of courtesy and decorum,” Wangji says.

Uncle stares. Wangji breathes like he wants to shift his weight, but doesn’t. “I never said you’d dislike him.”

Whatever either of them have to say to that is cut off by a loud, boisterous voice outside the door shouting, “UNCLE QIREN!”

Uncle grips the bridge of his nose.

The door slams open and in comes who must be Wei Wuxian, black and white robes with hints of purple along the edge and his hair bound up in purple silk ribbon much finer than anything else he’s wearing. He doesn’t bow or pause, instead crossing the room and throwing his arms around Uncle in a hug.

Lan Xichen wonders if perhaps he hit his head and this all a dream or perhaps a hallucination.

Uncle turns a shade of red he hadn’t previously known him capable of and a vein twitches in his forehead, but he doesn’t push him away. “Wei Wuxian!”

He laughs and steps back, going into a picture perfect, formal bow. “This is from my father,” then he darts forward to yank on Uncle’s beard. Wangji’s eyes have widened in horror. “And that’s from my mother!”

Uncle rubs at his chin and glares. “Who was the hug from then?”

“Me,” Wei Wuxian says shamelessly. “I missed you, Uncle Qiren! We’re going to have so much fun, aren’t we? We should go to Caiyi so I can drink Emperor’s Smile and you can yell at me for being right in ways you don’t like, that always cheers you up.”

Lan Xichen can’t be seeing what he’s seeing. Uncle’s lips are pressed into a firm, tight line, like he does when he’s trying not to smile.

“Hi!” Wei Wuxian says, very loudly and right in front them. “You must be Lan Xichen and Lan Wangji! I’ve heard a lot about you.”

“And us you,” he says, after only a half second’s hesitation.

Wei Wuxian isn’t paying attention to him, instead focused on Wangji. “Aw, don’t look so disapproving, it’s good to keep Uncle Qiren on his toes.” Wangji’s face is in fact almost perfectly neutral. Lan Xichen can’t help but be impressed, since most of the clan elders wouldn’t have been able to pick up on that. His admiration quickly turns to horror when Wei Wuxian reaches out and uses his fingers to push his brother’s lips into a facsimile of a grin. “Don’t be mad, Lan Zhan!”

Lan Xichen has to resist the urge to gape. Using his brother’s given name like that, when they’ve just met! What’s worse is Uncle doesn’t even look surprised, just resigned.

Wangji scowls and he reaches for Wei Wuxian’s wrists, but Wei Wuxian slips away, just out of his reach, still laughing. “You’re going to have to be faster than that to catch me, Lan Zhan!”

He’s then darting out the door, which he hadn’t even closed in the first place, like he actually expects the Second Jade of Lan to go chasing after him.

Wangji takes a stop forward before remembering himself and freezing.

“Wei Wuxian!” Unfamiliar voices are calling the boy’s name. They all step outside to see a crowd of guest disciples grinning and waving.

“A-Cheng!” Wei Wuxian waves back. “A-Sang!”

He runs down the steps toward them, still grinning. “No running!” Uncle barks.

“Okay, Uncle Qiren!” Without skipping a beat, Wei Wuxian tucks his sword into his best and launches himself forward, doing continuous cartwheels down the steps even quicker than he’d been running. The guest disciples are cheering, and even Lan Xichen has to admit that it’s an impressive display of strength and balance.

Technically, there is no rule against cartwheeling in Cloud Recesses.

Uncle sighs. “The problem,” he says mournfully, “is that if I make a rule just for him, he and his mother will be far too pleased with themselves, and then he’ll just put even more effort into not breaking the rules in ways that make me add more rules.”

Lan Xichen notices how Wangji hasn’t taken his eyes off Wei Wuxian and thinks that perhaps they have bigger problems, actually.

I adore this. Like seriously! It's everything I want in svsss fic. Idc about papapa but I love platonic relationships. And this one is one of my favorites. The charaterization is spot on and goregous. And I want 50 more. Plus Shang QingHua is my favorite charater so I'm really in love. You really are fantastic! Thanks so much for writing this.

Ok let me set the scene: SQQ had grown used to his multiple layers of clothes, and it was never a problem untill the day he and (your closen love interest) decided it was time for papapa, que the twenty minutes of SQQ instructing how to carefully take off his each and every layer. The steamy vibes slowly disapear. The curtains close.

I know you wanted this to be steamy, cousin, but I slapped platonic cucumberplane onto it instead and it turned into a big Mess of Feelings instead of romantic comedy 😅 my bad! @overlordmoth

—

The first time Shen Yuan is forced to attend a inter-sect banquet is memorable, if nothing else. It doesn’t even have anything to do with the event itself, but what happened afterwards.

The food was alright. He’s been spoiled, he thinks, by his adorable disciple’s god-tier cooking, because though the organization committee had gone all out and hired the fanciest of catering staff, the food itself was… he wouldn't go so far as to call it disappointing, per say, but it had been a bit bland when he’d tried it. He finished off his meager plate of appetizers and resolved not to touch any other dish thereafter. He’ll just eat a meal when he gets back to his peak.

Luckily, inter-sect conferences aren’t a constant occurrence. They only happened once every few years, as a way for the many sects of xianxialand to share information and gossip. Shen Yuan has had two years now, to get used to being Peak Lord Shen Qingqiu, and he’s grateful for the extra time he was given to learn his character before he was forced to debut into such a public setting, where Shen Jiu has long-since created himself a reputation.

Much like the reputation amongst his own sect, everyone in the cultivation world seems to know how Shen Jiu had been. Tonight is the first time since his fever (and Shen Yuan’s transmigration) that Peak Lord Shen steps into the limelight and shows exactly how drastically he has changed in character.

It doesn’t go as terribly as he expected it to, honestly.

When he’d first entered the hall, the amount of stares that had immediately zeroed in on him and began dissecting his every movement was… overwhelming, in a way. Shen Yuan is used to stares. He has to be, just to walk around his own peak. His disciples are nosy, gossipy young masters and maidens. For all that they seem to admire and respect him, there is never a single moment when Shen Qingqiu does not feel their eyes following him as he walks from one classroom hall to the next.

The banquet is much the same. Instead of his disciples, however, these are matured (in a manner of speaking) cultivators of sects not his own. Which means Shen Qingqiu has to be on the lookout and watch his own back.

Or he would have had to, had his fellow transmigrator not been in attendance as well.

He supposed he’s lucky, that all the peak lords were required to attend this ridiculous party.

He spends the first ten minutes or so proving to these cultivators that, though Shen Qingqiu has obviously changed, his tongue is still just as acerbic and barbed as it had been before, perhaps even more creatively so now that he’s changed. It puts strained, polite smiles onto the faces of men and women who had approached him in attempts to size him up and find a hand hold for themselves.

Joke’s on them.

As pleased as he is to discover them just as easily taken down a peg or two as his own sect members, Shen Qingqiu grows exhausted of this game rather quickly. Once he sends the last cultivator away with their tail between their legs, he snaps his fan closed with a flick of his wrist and turns on his heel before the next can even think to approach him.

It’s out of character, apparently, for Shen Qingqiu to throw the towel in when the first hour hasn’t even passed. Raised eyebrows and confused eyes follow him as he steps off to the side and sidles up to where the only other millennial in this world is leaning against the far wall of the hall, cradling a cup of tea in his hands and staring at the floor likely in the hope that no one will come speak to him.

As much as he whines that he never gets as much attention as the other peak lords, Shang Qinghua always prefers the sidelines. All the better to remain unnoticed, that he may more efficiently observe their guests without them realizing that the An Ding peak lord’s eyes see far more than any of them could ever think.

When Shen Qingqiu leans his back against the wall beside him, Shang Qinghua gives a startled jolt. His tea sloshes in its cup, thankfully not spilling over, and he raises wide eyes to meet Shen Qingqiu’s look of ridicule.

“Ah….” For once, his friend seems lost for words, and Shen Qingqiu resists the urge to frown at him. “What’s up?”

“If I’m going to make it even a single hour in this party, much less the full ten it’s scheduled for, then I’m going to need someone to listen to me complain.” Shen Qingqiu begins succinctly. “As my bro, that’s your job.”

Strangely, Shang Qinghua seems to perk up at this. He swirls his tea around — and from the sharp scent that wafts upward to Shen Qingqiu’s nose, tea isn’t the only thing in that cup — and casts Shen Qingqiu a cheerful smile.

“A party isn’t a party until you’ve made fun of every single partygoer behind their back at least twice,” his fellow peak lord agrees.

Shen Qingqiu smirks at him.

He snaps open his fan to cover it when he hears a few murmurs of shock from the people who are still watching him like hawks for any sign of difference between him and Shen Jiu. It’s so fucking tiring.

Shang Qinghua huffs a quiet laugh and shoots him a look of sympathy.

“How many bodies do you think you can help me hide before someone notices that guests are beginning to disappear?” He asks nonchalantly, and his mouth curls into a more genuine smile behind the safety of his fan when Shang Qinghua’s shoulders start to shake with laughter.

“Don’t ask me that,” the slightly shorter man breathes out in mirth, eyes bright. “Between the two of us, we can absolutely make it happen. It’s best not to even tempt it.”

“As you say,” Shen Qingqiu sighs despondently, fluttering his fan before his face. It’s beginning to grow a little too warm even in the huge, cavernous banquet hall. That’s what happens when you shove an entire crowd of people into the same room together. It gets stuffy.

The banquet passes a little quicker than it would have otherwise, with Shang Qinghua by his side to exchange quite jokes and banter with. A particular, good-natured target for them both is Liu Qingge, who’s squirelled himself into a different corner of the hall with three jars of alcohol and whose grave glare is enough to chase off anyone who’d wish to speak with him. The poor man just isn’t built for socializing. At least it’s clear that there’s someone who’s having a worse time here than Shen Qingqiu is. It might be mean, but it makes him feel better nonetheless.

It’s nice to have someone who actually understands every meme and pop culture reference Shen Qingqiu slips into his mockery of the banquet guests. The only issue is having to smother his real, genuine laughter when Shang Qinghua comes back at him with something actually hilarious. It would surely rock the cultivation world to its very foundation if Peak Lord Shen Qingqiu burst into laughter in the middle of an inter-sect banquet for all to see.

Even with the allowances he’s slowly acquired for himself in the time since he disabled the OOC lock, his martial siblings would certainly send for Mu Qingfang to check him over.

Still, the comfortable atmosphere of mockery aside, several hours is still several hours, and by the time Shang Qinghua is down to the dregs of his seventh cup of tea (plus the obvious pick-me-up he adds to it), Shen Qingqiu is incredibly fucking done with this entire farce.

Opening his fan to conceal his face, he leans over slightly into his friend's space and quietly says, “You wanna blow this popsicle stand?”

The clear effort it takes Shang Qinghua not to wheeze is gratifying. “Are we even allowed to do that?”

“We’re peak lords,” Shen Qingqiu says, shrugging his shoulders lightly. “We can do whatever the fuck we want. And, speaking as a millennial — who’s going to stop us, really?”

Good thing they’d dissolved into speaking English three hours ago. If someone heard the cold, and graceful Lord Shen verbally curse then he’d probably be forced to undergo another test for possession with Wei Qingwei when they all got home. Annoying as hell, those things. They took hours and he wasn’t even allowed to read to pass the time!

“Point,” Shang Qinghua admits.

“Plus,” Shen Qingqiu raises his fan up a bit higher to hide his entire expression and makes a face. “I, uh…. need a favor, from you.”

Shang Qinghua blinks over the rim of his teacup at him. He stares at him for a long, wordless moment, and then his eyebrows shoot up.

“The peerless peak lord Shen,” he says lightly, mouth quirking, “needs help—?”

“Airplane.”

“—from little ol’ me?”

“Imma gut you,” Shen Yuan mutters, fan fluttering.

Shang Qinghua beams at him. He pushes up off the wall and steps over to the nearest table to set his now-empty cup on its surface.

“Yeah, okay,” the man says.

Appeased, yet miffed, Shen Qingqiu raises his chin up and snaps his fan closed sharply enough to make a noise. “Good.”

They leave. There’s a multitude of stares that follow in their wake, from both strangers and their own martial siblings across the hall, but neither of them pay them any mind, aside from the way Shang Qinghua’s shoulders raise defensively almost on instinct. A nervous habit that the man will probably never rid himself of.

Three minutes later, they’ve closed themselves away in Shen Qingqiu’s guest quarters of the venue — the conferences are to last for at least three days, minimum, so each sect has their own pavilion for the overnight stay — and Shen Qingqiu stands grumpily in the middle of the room while Shang Qinghua collapses against the bed and laughs himself silly.

“Y-You need me to—?” The man wheezes, one hand pressed over his mouth as tears prick the corners of his eyes, his other arm holding his side. “To—?”

“Yes, it’s very amusing,” Shen Qingqiu deadpans, eyebrow twitching. “And what a friend you are, to laugh in the face of my plight. What, do you expect me to ask anyone else? Who would you suggest? Yue Qingyuan? As if! Of course I need your help, idiot!”

“I’m sure Sect Leader would be very obliging if you were to ask,” Shang Qinghua giggles from where he’s curled up on top of the blankets. He waggles his eyebrows. “Very obliging.”

“You disgust me,” Shen Qingqiu sniffs. He tugs at the front of his robes, and casts his friend a helpless look. “Seriously, how am I suppose to get out of this — this death trap?!”

Because, for such a fancy and important occasion as an inter-sect conference opening banquet, the guests are of course expected to wear their most formal robes. And, in xianxialand, formal robes mean layers. Layer upon layer upon layer. And extra baubles on top of that, like multiple-section headpieces and jewelry and gauzy, sheer, bedazzled over robes.

Truly, the opulence and over-the-topness of the cultivation world never ceases to make Shen Qingqiu raise his brow.

“I get what you mean,” Shang Qinghua chortles. “Stop your bitching, bro, I know how to escape these things, no problem.”

He hops up from the bed and makes his way over, reaching for the outside clasps of the over robe without even asking first. Shen Qingqiu does mind, holding his arms out to give his friend better access. Honestly, there is never any dignity lost between the two of them, what with their modern sensibilities. Not that Shen Yuan ever had much dignity to begin with, being a lifetime recurring hospital patient in his last life. As Shen Qingqiu, peer immortal master that he is, however, he at least has to pretend he does.

With everyone other than Airplane, that is.

“Thanks,” he says, grumbling but grateful, as Shang Qinghua carefully but without ceremony shucks off his outer robe and the one underneath it.

The man steps closer after laying those out on the bed, and tugs at the ties of the belt that hold the next robe closed. After a series of finger gymnastics that Shen Qingqiu can’t really make head nor tails of, his friend reaches up and pulls the silk down from his shoulders and reaches a hand inside to pull at the smaller ties hidden within. Which is absolutely ridiculous. Shen Qingqiu had seriously felt like he was putting together a piece of IKEA furniture when he’d originally gotten dressed. Overly complicated, the instructions were all in Swedish, and it was nearly impossible to accomplish on one’s own. But, he‘d done it!

Dismantling it all, however, was another thing entirely, and he thanks whatever higher power there is, that Airplane is here to lend him that hand without any of the awkwardness that someone with ancient Chinese sensibilities would bring.

“Thank god these things are only like, twice a decade,” he groans, leaning back so his fellow transmigrator has easier access to free him of the next stifling layer. “If this body didn’t have that handy cultivation temperature regulation magic bullshit you came up with for that scene in chapter one-hundred twenty, I’d be sweating buckets right now. Next time I get an invitation to a banquet, I’m refusing, no matter how much Yue Qingyuan puppy-dog eyes at me”

Shang Qinghua directs an odd, slanting smile down at the belt he’s working free, nimble fingers pulling and tugging gently at the ties so they don’t accidentally tighten instead of loosen.

“Yeah,” he says, quiet. “... I’ve never been a fan of banquets either.”

Shen Qingqiu holds back a scoff. And then lets it free, because there’s nobody here but Shang Qinghua, who knows him and won’t ever begrudge him for showing actual emotion. “I can’t imagine anyone being wrapped up in thirty layers and expected to socialize with sharks for ten fucking hours and actually enjoying it.”

Shang Qinghua ducks his head down, smile disappearing. He tugs the ties free and reaches up to slip another layer off of Shen Qingqiu’s shoulders, but he keeps his eyes lowered. Shen Qingqiu pauses, frowning at him. Something’s off.

“...Airplane?”

“It’s not that,” Shang Qinghua shrugs helplessly, tugging at the ties of the next robe without much effort to pull them loose. There’s a slightly uncomfortable expression on his face that makes Shen Qingqiu frown deepen. “I actually don’t mind all the layers. My parents dressed me in hanfu all the time when I was a kid in my past life, so I was already used to it before I even transmigrated. The food at banquets is really good, too, and the socialization isn’t so bad once you look at it as just a political pissing contest. Banquets could be fun, really.”

“But they’re not,” Shen Qingqiu guesses, and reaches out to clasp his friends hands in his, pulling them away from his belt. They twitch in his hold, like Shang Qinghua wants to fidget, a nervous tick.

He’s only half dressed at this point, but right now he’s more concerned with the shuttering expression on Shang Qinghua’s face than anything else. “Not for you, at least. Why?”

Shang Qinghua glances nervously up at him from beneath his lashes, only to look back down again and grimace. “They’d be a lot of fun, if I wasn’t… me, I guess? Today is the first time I’ve actually enjoyed a banquet since I first started attending them as a head disciple.”

Shen Qingqiu presses his lips together as his friend lets out a mirthless, unamused laugh. He squeezes the hands he’s holding, and Shang Qinghua‘s shoulders droop.

“It was also the first time anyone’s actually stuck by me and actually talked to me, though, so,” the other finally glances up, an odd and fragile smile on his face as he chuckles weakly. His eyes are shining a bit damply, and Shen Qingqiu locks his teeth together when he sees it. “I guess it makes sense? Banquets are a lot more fun when you’re not, um… totally alone the entire time! Haha…. who knew, right…?”

Shen Qinghua shakes his head slowly. He ignores his state of undress and reaches out to draw his friend into his arms.

Sometimes, Shen Yuan wishes he’d transmigrated into Shen Jiu’s life earlier than he had. Sure, the cons far outweigh the pros, in such a situation, but at least his friend would have had someone in his corner for all the times that their martial family had snubbed him. Airplane may have brought the anxieties and insecurities of his past life along with him into this one, but Shen Yuan doesn’t doubt for a single second that in the decades that Airplane has been Shang Qinghua, they have been made much stronger (and oftentimes crippling) by the actions of the people who are suppose to stand by him and have his back.

It’s infuriating, when he lets himself think about it for too long, so usually he doesn’t. And then it smacks him right in the face, like now, and Shen Yuan feels nothing but bitter resentment toward those people who are supposedly his friend’s martial family.

Shang Qinghua makes a quietly surprised sound, but doesn’t protest. In fact, the other melts against him, hands coming up to grasp at the front of his robes, and he tucks his face into the junction between Shen Qingqiu’s shoulder and neck. He sucks in a slow, stuttering breath that makes him tremble, and Shen Qingqiu reaches up one hand to bury into the back of his friend’s hair, curling his fingers into the strands.

“It must’ve been extra rough when the original goods was still around,” he comments quietly.

Shang Qinghua shudders, and then nods his head against his shoulder. “H-He was a real jerk, but usually he was too busy verbally flaying all the guests from the other sects alive, to pay me much mind. Thankfully.” The An Ding lord lets out a wet chuckle.

Shen Qingqiu allows another frown to cinch at his brow as he pets his hand through his friend’s hair. “And none of the others ever…?”

“Why would they? I’m just — I’m just… An Ding.”

Shen Qingqiu tightens the arm that he has wound around Shang Qinghua’s waist, and his scowl depends when he feels his friend shake.

The door opens then, because of course it does. Someone peaks their head in, and who else is it going to be but Yue Qingyuan, looking for his precious Xiao Jiu, who apparently isn’t one to leave a banquet early when there are still guests left to verbally knock down several pegs and cripple the self esteem of?

The sect leader opens his mouth, and closes it. Shen Qingqiu watches impassively the journey of emotions the man’s face undergoes as he takes in the scene of a half dressed Xiao Jiu holding a trembling Shang Qinghua in his arms. Yue Qingyuan’s face is pale and there’s two splotches of bright red on both his cheeks. He looks both mortified and horrified in equal measure.

Shen Qingqiu wraps his arms tightly around the other transmigrator, holding the still-trembling Shang Qinghua to his chest, and narrows his eyes at the sect leader viciously.

“Leave,” he snaps. His best friend doesn’t deserve having anyone spying on this moment of real vulnerability.

Yue Qingyuan beats a hasty retreat. The door closes softly behind him.

Shang Qinghua gives one last shudder, before going lax in his arms, letting Shen Qingqiu hold him up with his strength alone. The An Ding peak lord reaches out his arms to wrap them around Shen Qingqiu and return the hug, clutching tightly at him.

“I’m really glad you’re here,” the man says, voice slightly choked, and Shen Qingqiu swallows thickly. It’s clear that Shang Qinghua is talking about more than just tonight’s banquet.

“Me too,” he says, and finds that he actually means it.

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