Chapter Text
Okay, so maybe Feng Xin isn’t the best with managing his time.
It’s easy to accuse him of getting distracted. That maybe, just maybe, he shouldn’t have started on the errands when it became clear rather quickly that the Xuan Zhen palace disciples were more than capable of taking care of things by themselves.
He said he was going to take the reins though damn it! And he’s definitely a man of his word!
One day isn’t enough to kill Mu Qing, he’s a martial god, the fact he got sick is still a bit too much to accept. Still, it feels like real idiocy on his part. If Mu Qing decided to get at him for the negligence he wouldn’t really be able to defend himself.
Would he try to? Sure, but it’d be pushing it.
At least he remembered now rather than later, Feng Xin reasons as he moves past bustling crowds. This market in particular is exceptionally crowded, people of all types hovering around stalls on their way to purchase snacks and the like. The thing he wants to make isn’t immediately apparent anymore until he gives it a long thought and--
Ah, right. Congee. He wants to make congee.
His favorite spots to travel all lie in the South Eastern territory, showing up plain as day is something he’s done before but Feng Xin isn’t looking to get too easily recognized. His worshipers, while a fine people, are not on his list today. It feels strange to say, but Feng Xin isn’t keen on getting distracted much longer.
He switches to a less conspicuous get up, similar to the one he used when pretending around His Highness, before arriving at a local market. Traversing from colorful stall to colorful stall, he hears chimes of vendors, intermingling with the sound of the average buyer. He hopes that something, anything, will remind him of the ingredient. The longer he walks, the more fruitless it seems. His memory is fine enough, but small details like this tend to escape him. At least this time it feels a bit more within reason, given that he was sick at the time he had it.
After perusing a few merchants with absolutely nothing to show for it, Feng Xin sighs, hanging his head in defeat. He has a plan, but the pieces of the plan are murky at best. Maybe not the best show he’s ever put on, but well enough.
“Do you need help young man?” One woman calls over the bustling crowd as he walks by, her voice tinted in vague amusement.
Feng Xin has no earthly idea what’s so funny. Maybe he’s making a face? “Er, no. I’m okay.”
She laughs again, but says nothing else, and he wonders if it might’ve been better if he had worn his armors. Intimidation to prevent anyone from perceiving him for too long, given how uncomfortable the attention makes him sometimes.
By the time he passes by the sixth stall, he considers calling up His Highness, but the likelihood of him being busy with Crimson Rain Sought Flower is high. Inseparable from the moment they met, and Feng Xin isn’t really keen on walking into something he should’ve known was coming.
Watching as kids rush by his legs, toy lanterns in hand, something dawns on him. If he can’t call His Highness, the only other person he could try would be Mu Qing. There’s a chance he might’ve remembered something. Not that he’s particularly keen that Mu Qing would want to remember much to do with Feng Xin.
Right?
Biting the inside of his cheek, he hums Mu Qing’s password to himself, expecting the usual barrage for his negligence.
But it’s a lot to expect of a sick man apparently, because Feng Xin doesn’t immediately hear the pompous twang of his voice. That condensed smarmy-...ness he’s grown accustomed to is absent, and in its place is something more strange and dazed.
Soft as it echoes in his head. “Ah…?”
‘Mu Qing?’ Prodding the array, he listens to the thrum, proof that they’re connected. He’s not hallucinating how strained Mu Qing’s voice is, even while communicating this way.
“Hm? What is it?” Crackly. Like he’s unfocused.
Sighing, Feng Xin picks up an onion before asking. ‘Do you know what tends to go in congee?’
There’s a long pause and he has to push at the connection again to make sure that it’s still there. That Mu Qing hasn’t cut him off, at least, not yet.
His voice flickers. “Congee…? Rice--depends on the type you’re making.”
Well that sure wasn’t helpful in the slightest. Setting the onion down and bidding goodbye to the salesman, he walks on ahead. ‘Alright, rice, whatever. Do you even fucking have rice?’ He stops. ‘You know what, just tell me how you’d make it.’
“Loud.”
Feng Xin’s eyebrow creases. ‘What was that?’
There’s another long thread of time that passes between Mu Qing’s last word and whatever he wants to say next. Patience never his virtue, Feng Xin has half a mind to disconnect himself and just wing the rest of the ingredients.
Mu Qing blips back to life just as he’s considering his options. “Ginger… Scallion. Rice--I have rice? Some kind of berry, I think. I haven’t made it in a long time.”
His answers are so honest, so unlike Mu Qing that it makes him feel awkward and out of place. Feng Xin can’t help but deflate a little, listening to him and coming to terms with the fact that he’s not much help at all. Actually winging the ingredients feels like a disaster waiting to happen, hell--he might even need to call Mu Qing up again later anyway.
But a Mu Qing like this is not helpful in the slightest, and the longer he listens the more he feels like he shouldn’t. A half guess tells him that Mu Qing might not even realize who he’s talking to. His voice lacks any of the scathing quality it holds at the edges, yielding like this isn’t… comfortable.
It makes Feng Xin itchy.
'Alright. Thanks, Mu Qing.' He manages to say. ‘I’ll stop by later.’
He doesn’t give him a chance to say anything else. Mu Qing needs the rest and besides it’s not like he really says goodbyes anyway.
His attention freed, Feng Xin turns his gaze up after spying some scallions, catching the gaze of an elderly woman. He hadn’t noticed her despite being the salesperson for the stall he stopped at. It’s not like he screams when he sees women! But the look on his face, the obvious widening of his eyes, things he felt she most likely noticed.
Taking clear note of his startle, she laughs. “I’m not that scary, am I young man?”
Feng Xin scrubs the back of his neck, ignoring how small his voice sounds. “Oh. Ah, no. No, of course not.”
“Do you need any help with anything? You were staring at the produce a long time.” The smile never leaves her face, crinkling the corners of her eyes.
He laughs sheepishly, doing his best to stand tall and proud as he answers. “Appreciated but no, ma’am. I’ll be out of your hair soon.”
She chuckles, offering a simple nod. “Take your time.”
Ducking his head to pay more attention to ginger roots, Feng Xin purses his lips. Between the deterioration of his conversational skills, Mu Qing being sick and how uncomfortable he’s felt the last two days, he makes a mental note to take a short vacation. Maybe sign up for some classes.
Settled with the ingredients at least, Feng Xin pays for them briskly before marching beyond the busy travelers market. A secluded spot in the nearby forest provides perfect cover to make his way back to the heavenly capital.
Above his head, the fading lights of a sleepy sun greet him. Taking one more cursory glance at the ingredients he’s picked out, Feng Xin’s confidence returns, sure that he’s done something right. Pride restored among gleams of orange, he rushes along to Mu Qing’s palace.
The gate and the doors open easily still, but this time he pays them little mind. Instead he runs down one of the halls, searching for....--
Kitchen? Where’s the kitchen?
Standing in the middle of one of the halls, Feng Xin frowns. The asshole needs proper signs if he’s going to have different rooms in his massive palace.
“Nan… Nan Yang?” Rings a timid voice from behind him. Something he immediately recognizes.
Whipping his head around, he spots them immediately. The shorter of the two startles noticeably, but remains attentive with his hands clasped at his center. It’s easy enough to register this one as the kid Feng Xin dragged around with him just yesterday.
Who he doesn’t really know is the taller kid that’s been trying to burn a hole in Feng Xin’s head with a glare from the moment he turned around.
Any other day and Feng Xin might’ve been bothered, and while he’s annoyed to a degree he has other shit to do. Besides, these are Mu Qing’s subordinates, some of them are bound to have a fucking attitude problem.
Oh well. “Residue kid. Do you know where the kitchen in this place even is?”
Surprise colors his features immediately. “Re-... Residue? Uh, I, or we?” He passes a quick glance to his companion, who scoffs. “We… can take you to the kitchen if you want?”
“That works, I don’t know where fucking anything is in this place.” Feng Xin admits plainly. “Lead the way.”
Feng Xin readies to turn on his heel, stopping in his tracks only when he hears a voice. This one is not timid, and obviously belongs to the taller of the two people behind him.
As he turns back around, he raises a brow at them both. He didn’t exactly catch what was said.
“Bless you?”
“His name is Chen Yun.” The taller kid spits, attitude marring rather benign words.
There’s the soft simmer of irritation burning Feng Xin’s forehead. “Gonna introduce yourself, too?”
Chen Yun looks too pale to be healthy, but the taller kid continues anyway. “Liu GeJing.”
He has guts, Feng Xin will give him that. Half of them learned from Mu Qing, without a doubt. A bit of bite does well, even if it’s aggravating. Enough to make his muscles tense, though Feng Xin isn’t one to fight weaker heavenly officials.
Especially not now, when he feels he’s already wasted too much time. That and Chen Yun seems ready to pass out.
“I’ll keep that in mind.” He replies, offering a smile despite thinking one of them didn’t really deserve it. “Chen Yun, lead the way.”
“Ah. Ah--yes, right.” He mutters, looking up at Liu GeJing, who narrows his visible eye.
“What?”
Shaking his head, Chen Yun sighs, cracking a small smile as he marches on ahead. “No-Nothing.”
Feng Xin watches, not really understanding but deciding it doesn’t really matter. The semantics of the way Mu Qing’s palace works are none of his concern. So naturally, the walk to the kitchen is a quiet one, with Feng Xin following after them as he considers how he’s going to make congee. How long does it take to make congee, anyway?
He hasn’t checked on Mu Qing in at least a day, and though he doesn’t really need to sleep at night it wouldn’t be smart to keep him up. Then again, Feng Xin didn’t think Mu Qing could get sick at all, so maybe he does need sleep after all and--
Seriously.
How did he even get sick!?
The kitchen is spotless when Feng Xin steps into it. A couple of hanging plants, artificial lights illuminating the space. He spots a giant ornate window where light would presumably shine through if it were still daytime.
“This-This-This... Here’s the kitchen. The-There are, uh, different types of rice in the, uhm, pantry.” Chen Yun speaks up, pointing things out as he walks around.
“You don’t need to give him a tour.” Liu GeJing snorts, arms crossed.
“I-I know that!” Comes the reply, exasperated, enough to visibly put Liu GeJing in his place. Surprising. “Any-Anyway, if you--uh--, need anything. Just call me.”
Lack of interest in the semantics of this place or not, Feng Xin can’t help but compare them to his own subordinates, how different they are. How readily Liu GeJing listens, and despite his timid nature, how capable Chen Yun is.
Feng Xin has never bothered with the details, since there’s no real need. He knows Mu Qing and that’s all he needs to know. But he does know that their subordinates have gotten into the occasional scuffle, he just doesn’t know which ones.
And now that he knows a few of them--well, it’s hard to imagine someone like Chen Yun kicking one of his juniors in the face.
“Gotcha.” Then, “Thank you.”
Chen Yun brightens up. “Lets go.” He gestures to Liu GeJing as he files out.
“Pff. Such a good boy.” He drawls as he follows along.
“Be-Be, ugh! Shut up!”
In singsong comes an: “Aye, aye.”
Feng Xin sets his chosen ingredients on the table, chuckling to himself, briefly considering he might be wrong about his previous assertion.
Now, for the cooking part. The part he knows next to nothing about.
It takes him some time to figure he should wash his chosen rice, maybe let it sit? He’s not sure how long he should soak it either. He ends up timing it by his impatience, eventually slapping a talisman on the pot. No time to try and get a fire going, spiritual power should be fine.
With that rolling along just fine maybe, Feng Xin spends some time searching for knives, and an equal amount of time trying to chop his vegetables evenly. Does it work? No. But a sick Mu Qing shouldn’t notice uneven scallions.
Proud of his craftsmanship, poor as it is, he turns his attention to the pot in time to see that nothing has changed.
There’s some bubbles, that might be good. Maybe his pot needs a lid? His mother used those for things. Feng Xin knows she used lids for rice, generally. He has half a mind to double check with Mu Qing, since it’s not like His Highness knows much about cooking properly.
He frowns, still staring at his rice, staring at the water--feeling like he’s missing something.
Oh!
A minute later after the vegetables are washed, Feng Xin is back to staring at the pot, having found a chair to sit on so he can watch. He acquired a lid, discovering quickly that the hardest part about cooking happens to be the part when he wants to keep lifting the lid to look at the rice. It’s steaming! It should be cooking.
Still, he really wants to look at it.
At some point, Feng Xin nods off a little, waking up only when the smell of rice is so prominent in the kitchen that it makes his nose twitch. It can’t have been that long, and impatience be damned, once he’s on his feet he removes the cover off the pot.
The lights let him see the rice, and it sure looks like--rice? Maybe a bit mushier? Feng Xin sticks his finger in it, only to recoil in pain. Well--it’s hot. Hot and somewhat mushy.
Sounds like a good descriptor for congee. There’s a fair amount of water loss, too.
Removing the talisman and throwing in some salt after figuring pasty rice doesn’t taste good with just water, he adorns it with his chosen ingredients. Ginger and scallions like he was asked, an assortment of little red berries Feng Xin no longer remembers the name of.
Stemming anxious energy with pride, he picks up on Mu Qing’s spiritual signature, using that to make his way toward him.
The curtains are still drawn closed when he walks into Mu Qing’s bedchambers again, tray in his hands. From the crevices, glimmers of the night sky he’d forgotten about. The day is at an end, and here he is, coming to settle a tray of congee(?) on Mu Qing’s nightstand before sitting at the edge of his bed.
There’s a candle lit, making Feng Xin wonder how long he’s been asleep.
A weird feeling envelopes him the moment he lays his eyes on Mu Qing again, his brief respite a bit unwanted this time. He doesn’t need to look in the mirror to know his profile is somber.
Mu Qing’s breaths come softly in his slumber; there’s a strand of dark hair over his lips, raising with each exhale. Even now, there’s the slightest furrow between his brows, like he’s contemplating something, cursing the dream world he’s paying visit to.
It’s a bit stupid, Feng Xin acknowledges, but he almost doesn’t want to wake him up. It feels wrong to try.
Feng Xin reaches over, tentatively rubbing away the pinched look on Mu Qing’s face, surprised when he doesn’t stir too much. Instead, he relaxes further, achieving a look Feng Xin swears he’s never seen in the eight odd centuries he’s spent knowing Mu Qing.
Despite the sickly pallor to his skin, he looks pretty, fair faced maybe. It’s such a weird thought to have that Feng Xin reels, unsure what to do with himself for a good minute.
Still, it’d be a waste of potentially good congee if he doesn’t feed it to him. Even if it’s not some secret cure all, if it helps Mu Qing recover that--... that would absolutely be for the best.
Resigning himself a little, he reaches his hand over again, gently patting at Mu Qing’s shoulder. “Oi. Mu Qing, come on, wake up. I’ve got something for you.” Feng Xin urges, working to keep his voice low.
It takes a couple shakes, but eventually Mu Qing’s eyes open. Eyelashes fan along the crest of his cheeks as he stirs, blinking before frowning. “Hm… Feng Xin?” He looks up, then grimaces. “What are you wearing?”
Oh-- the... the disguise. Right. No wonder that one kid sounded so confused when he called out to him. It’d slipped his mind entirely.
Feng Xin takes a moment to change shape, feeling the real weight of his limbs return along with his height. A strange sensation, feeling his body morph. That pinched look on Mu Qing’s face is back, too.
“Slipped my mind. Anyway, I got something for you. So sit up.”
“Che, and I’m supposed to do whatever you want me to do?” Mu Qing answers, managing to be snide despite how absolutely weak his voice sounds.
The anger in his knuckles is so familiar, he relishes it as much as he relishes the soft look of recognition Mu Qing gave him within moments of waking up. Wait? Relishes?
Whatever.
“I meant what I fucking said, so sit up or I’m pulling you up.”
There’s a brief conflict in Mu Qing’s eyes, but eventually he slowly eases himself into a sitting position. “Going to feed it to me too?”
Feng Xin reaches for the tray, pitching a brow up at the remark. “Want me to?”
“Absolutely not!” His response is clipped, said too quickly. It draws a few coughs, which Mu Qing snuffs into his elbow.
It feels like the vein in his forehead might burst. Seriously? That bad if it’s him, huh?
Taking in a breath, Feng Xin passes the tray over Mu Qing’s covered legs, waiting until he takes it. When he does, Feng Xin decides not to say anything else, working on tempering whatever’s bugging him.
Mu Qing’s eyes are on him, but he also doesn’t say anything. Instead, he picks up the spoon and the bowl.
Feng Xin doesn’t watch him eat, not really. The few glances he takes only serve to highlight how slow of a fucking eater Mu Qing is. Every bite he takes is so fucking tiny he might as well be eating grain by grain.
There’s no complaints though, no comments on texture. Feng Xin didn’t really taste it, either, now that he thinks about it. Mu Qing isn’t chewing much, which might be a good thing. His hair is dangerously close to falling into the mush, though.
He’s mindlessly reaching a hand forward again to tuck unruly hairs behind his ear when Mu Qing sets the bowl down, throwing him a questioning look. “There’s no need to check my temperature.”
Oh--Oh sure. That’s a good excuse, he’ll take it.
Mu Qing sets the tray aside, but places the half finished bowl of food on the nightstand. “You can leave it there.” He mumbles before Feng Xin has a chance to ask.
Once he’s laying down again, Feng Xin talks. “All your crap is in order, by the way.”
“My subordinates can take care of themselves.” Mu Qing says against his pillow, not looking at Feng Xin.
He still can’t fight a sick man, Feng Xin reminds himself. “I believe that, I met some of them. The quiet one, Residue kid. Seems like he makes quite the leader.”
Mu Qing’s face scrunches, and he props himself up on his arm. “What? Who’re you talking about?”
“The tiny one. Looks like he’s scared shitless all the time? Never thought you’d take someone like that under your wing.” Feng Xin clarifies, though honestly, his name escapes him. Again.
“Chen Yun?” Settling back against his pillows, Mu Qing rolls his eyes. “Don’t give my subordinates any more trouble. They already have enough to do without having to babysit you.”
“Would you shut the fuck up! Everything’s fine!”
“Is it?”
“Yeah!”
Mu Qing goes quiet and then his gaze softens. It’s indescribable, frankly, and Feng Xin has nothing to call it. The closest thing he can come up with is weird. Weird, at least, until Mu Qing finally talks.
“Thanks. I guess.” He finally replies, eyes drawing closed.
Confusion washes over. “... You’re welcome.”
The quiet between them doesn’t feel cold, or forced. Mu Qing doesn’t seem like he’s asleep, but he looks comfortable.
Feng Xin seriously doesn't get it. Does he want him or not?
Illness takes a lot out of a person, Feng Xin knows that much. It can disturb memories, take thoughts, lower walls. Someone as closed off as Mu Qing wouldn’t be immune to that… but this.
It’s fuels the exact same feeling he had the other day. The feeling that he shouldn’t be seeing any of this. A door opened that Feng Xin can’t help but reach for.
But it’s not his place to, is it?
There’s reluctance, but he doesn’t understand from where. Feng Xin wants Mu Qing to get better, so they can go back to their every day. Because it’s familiar.
Because it’s not Mu Qing relaxing in front of him, showing him the things neither of them has. They aren’t close damn it!
Mu Qing doesn't like him. He doesn't like Mu Qing much either.
But it wasn’t until these last two days that he realized how absolutely fucking tired he is of what they have now. Eight centuries. Eight ill-gotten centuries.
Feng Xin looks at the congee. A poor replica of something that made him feel warmth, a replica that Mu Qing actually ate. Gratefully, slowly, with no complaints although complaining is his favorite pastime activity.
A frown.
Eight centuries, but they don't hate each other, do they?
“Mu Qing.”
An eye cracks open, exhaustion plain for Feng Xin to see. Exhaustion he wants to rub away.
“I’m gonna ask again. Let me take care of you, so you can get back to everything.” Sensing Mu Qing is about to say no, Feng Xin gets the rest of his sentence out. “I won’t bring this up. Ever. I’ll pretend it never fucking happened. Just let me.”
Even if a part of him, mysteriously, doesn’t want that. He wants to keep seeing what's not for him for some reason.
But that isn't right.
Mu Qing watches him, then sighs, slowly pulling himself back up. He shuffles closer, his lips a thin line from the exertion until he comes to rest. Though they're lined up, they're facing away from each other, opposites even here.
There’s nothing but a candle and a bowl of congee between them, Feng Xin thinks as Mu Qing leans his shoulder against his.
Feng Xin turns his head, and they’re face to face, close in a way that he’s never experienced without blood covering their skin.
“Do what you want.” Mu Qing finally says, words whispered like a closely guarded secret, protected by the dark.
Not an exact answer, but Feng Xin will take it.
Through that touch, he circulates his own spiritual power with the intent to heal.
He wants to see this view for himself, without the guise of sickness between them. Without wondering if Mu Qing is pretending, or if the misgivings between them are so strong that even after everything has been settled there’s no hope.
The door to his highness isn’t closed, there’s hope there. So there has to be something here, he’s caught glimpses of it these last two days.
Mu Qing’s stupid plants. The people Mu Qing has chosen to work with him. The door is cracked, and beyond it lies… something.
Something he can latch onto, right? If he’s allowed.
Something Feng Xin can recognize, so he can say: nice to meet you.