Chapter Text
Right from the start, something about the day feels wrong.
It went beyond getting up a bit later than usual, which while strange, didn’t necessitate any measure of “looking into”.
What really gets Feng Xin’s mind reeling is that when a meeting is called for the Upper Court officials to conduct business, he actually feels inclined to participate. While he’s not much for delegation, his presence is overall welcome as the other more prominent--talkative, if anyone were to ask him--heavenly officials got to business. Even if they’re equally surprised by his attendance.
That alone draws enough attention, but then it just so happened to coincide with something else that seemed out of the ordinary. Feng Xin notices whispers among the less busy of the delegates, murmuring in huddled clusters. It’s not like he has the desire to pay any attention to their chatter when it usually has something to do with those not-so-secret betting rings. Especially in today’s case.
Much to everyone’s bewilderment, Feng Xin cropped up and Mu Qing, whose attendance was mostly spotless, happened to be absent.
Since there’s been no word on why, not from Ling Wen or any of the other higher ranking officials, it sounds suspicious. To them, at least. To Feng Xin it sounds about right for the belligerent twat. Probably too occupied with something to concern himself with the affairs of his fellow gods, it’s not like he knows any of them, why care?
He’ll pop up when he wants to, Feng Xin had figured as the meeting winded down in the early morning.
Except the day goes on, and as Feng Xin walks along the pretty brick roads that decorate the entire Heavenly Capital, there’s still no sign of Mu Qing.
To say Feng Xin is looking for him is a huge overestimation of how much he cares. He’s not looking for him in the slightest. The paths he walks coincide with the paths Mu Qing walks, it’s just an unfortunate subset of their strained existence.
He just happens to exist where he’s not wanted; while Feng Xin happens to want to beat his face in when he exists too loudly.
The issue now is that he’s not existing at all. Feng Xin considers calling up His Highness, or hell, even Ling Wen, but the thought of doing so is cumbersome. He doubts Mu Qing would tell either of them anything anyway if it came down to it.
It’s not because of a mission, he knows that much. That sort of knowledge comes with sharing a territory, so he’s already crossed that off of his list. In the end, he finds he’s too restless. Curiosity be damned, he decides to settle it and go to the man’s palace himself.
Once he’s satisfied he can go back to his digs in the mortal realm; returning to his pleasant life of never really seeing Mu Qing.
Naturally, however--because things really can’t be normal when the day is already weird to begin with--shit gets even stranger when he arrives in front of Mu Qing’s palace.
The Palace of the General Xuan Zhen is a regal fucking thing, at least from the outside. A pristine sort of place he’s only ever been inside a couple times. Always for business, never for pleasure--that'd be assuming there’s anything pleasurable about spending more than five seconds next to Mu Qing.
Much like its owner, the place is a bit deceiving. Where the outside looks cold and sterile, as he steps beyond the gate--a miracle in more ways than one that he’s let in--Feng Xin’s met by plants. Lots of them. There’s a garden beyond the halls, somewhere to the side of the palace, but even the interior sports an impressive assortment. All well kept, bright green and blooming, almost glowing with pride as he walks down each hall.
The idea of Mu Qing nurturing something, hands kind and gentle enough to encourage growth is...odd.
Shaking that thought aside, he wanders around. Mu Qing’s subordinates stay out of his way, thankfully, since he’s not sure how he’d explain why he’s here if someone stopped to ask him.
Right. Curiosity, that’s all it is. Just one quick fucking visit to see what stupid thing Mu Qing is up to before heading back down for a reprieve. Not like it's anyone's business anyway.
He’s been to Mu Qing’s room once, and only once at least. His Highness had asked for a tour, and Feng Xin tagged along since he had nothing better to do. The fact he’s been able to retain such an innocuous detail is a little off putting, but if it’s a help it’s a help, it’s not like Feng Xin has room to be picky.
When he reaches his bedchamber, Feng Xin doesn’t bother knocking, though he’s surprised to find the doors completely unlocked. When he steps inside, he’s met with dark, curtains still closed as he steps further in without second thought.
Rounding the short corner though presents him with a rather pathetic visage.
There’s a mound, curled up in the center of a large bed, and while he knows better not to approach wounded beasts Feng Xin moves forward nonetheless. The loud clack of his boots should be signal enough, bringing a light sleeper like Mu Qing to rise. Not that it’s necessary. Even like this, Feng Xin knows his power is unmistakable, something Mu Qing has to have picked on the moment he approached his palace.
The gates opened for him, after all, there’s been no resistance up to this point.
Feng Xin has half a mind to reach over, yank the sheets away forcefully. But before he can even think to lean over, Mu Qing jolts up with impressive speed. Ripping his own sheets away, he’s in Feng Xin’s face in seconds. Perched on his knees, blanket of dark hair covering half his face as his hand draws back.
Truly, the spitting image of a scrappy beast instead of a God.
Feng Xin is half tempted to meet him halfway, his own muscles reflexively tensing at the sight.
He manages to catch himself, however.
Mu Qing’s form, usually one of prestige, untouchable by the standards of mortal men--his words, not Feng Xin’s--, is disheveled. Though his hand is pulled back, flickering spiritual power centered at the heart of his palm, it’s weak. Incredibly so.
Mu Qing is a lot of things, but frail isn’t one of them, centuries of scuffles have taught Feng Xin that.
His breathing a touch too harsh, and before Feng Xin can think that he shouldn’t, he’s reaching his hand over. The tops of his knuckles brush momentarily against the overheated skin of Mu Qing’s forehead, right before Mu Qing manages to swat his hand away.
Feng Xin may not be the smartest man, but it doesn’t take a genius to put everything together. Drawn curtains, wrapped up in blankets, too warm skin coupled with his delayed reactions. Mu Qing at the height of his power is a force to be reckoned with, but this is…
“You’re sick?”
Predictably, Mu Qing doesn’t answer and instead lowers himself back down, nestling into previously abandoned sheets.
Realistically, Feng Xin can just leave him here. It seems to be what he wants despite the fact he’s wracked with shudders from head to toe. It’s a shocking display of vulnerability that Feng Xin isn’t exactly sure what to do with other than… just maybe…
“Oi. You need anything?” He asks, lips pursed. The words taste foreign on his tongue.
The eye Mu Qing doesn’t have buried into his pillow opens up, looking up at Feng Xin in that completely unwarranted squinted distrust of his. He still doesn’t say anything.
Feng Xin’s nails dig into his palms as he steadies his anger, patience wearing thin. He doesn’t need to do this.
“You don’t have to just deal with this, y’know. Just tell me what to do and I’ll do it.”
The glare directed his way grows in ferocity, cresting for a brief second before washing away entirely, leaving behind something that looks too tired to belong to Mu Qing. When he finally talks, his voice is quieter than usual, raspy.
“Close the door on the way out.” He spits, slowly flipping over.
Because of course, nothing has to be easy with him. Nothing can be fucking simple. Feng Xin’s anger swells, nostrils flaring as the power somersaulting in his fists strains against his control. He can’t beat down a sick man, no matter how absolutely fucking thoughtless that sick man is.
He wouldn’t call what he has with Mu Qing a relationship of any kind, far from it, he isn’t even really sure he can call it an acquaintanceship. While he can’t read him worth a damn, he’s known the fucker long enough to be able to gauge some things. His belligerence comes at a cost to himself, no one else.
It’s because of that that Feng Xin knows he has every right to leave. He has every right to just up and come back the way he came, take that break he told himself he was going to take. There’s no one in this world that has the ability to stop him unless taking care of Mu Qing became some kind of mission.
One quick anger filled sweep of Mu Qing’s figure finds those shivers again.
How did he even get sick anyway? Has he gotten sick before? And if so, when?
Feng Xin’s teeth grit. Why does he care!? He doesn’t have to stay! He’s obviously not wanted here! And yet!!
And yet…
Pressing his luck, his hand reaches for Mu Qing’s form again. He manages to press the tips of his fingers up against his shoulders slightly. There’s the slightest exchange of energy between them, but before he can blink Mu Qing has him pinned underneath him, canines bared.
The exertion is immediately evident, but despite the unintended proximity, Feng Xin knows better than to try and give him more spiritual power. A fight against a Mu Qing like this is unfair, it wouldn’t give him any of the usual satisfaction.
Through heavy breaths, Mu Qing seethes. “Do you have trouble following orders? Go home.” He says before sliding off of him.
“No.” Feng Xin replies simply, sitting up as Mu Qing curls against the edge of his bed.
Mu Qing scoffs quietly as he makes himself comfortable. A quiet moment passes between them, uncomfortable and stifling in its entirety. But before Feng Xin can say anything to cut through the thick silence, Mu Qing asks a question.
Even if it’s nearly inaudible, something someone would need to strain their ears to catch.
“Why?”
“What do you mean why?”
His back is still turned to Feng Xin. “I mean, why are you doing this?”
He hardly has the answer to that question, but in the end, Feng Xin decides that the answer doesn’t need to be so complicated. So he shrugs where Mu Qing can’t see him, leaning back against the headboard. “Why not?”
A stupid question, even he has to admit. There’s a lot of reasons why not. Feng Xin has a few reasons just from this conversation alone.
They aren’t close. They grew up together but that doesn’t mean much for either of them. They’re all each other has left of a past later marred by misgiving and blood but that has done nothing to strengthen their bond.
Because even when Mu Qing said sorry that sorry was, at the time, for His Highness. But frankly, Feng Xin has eased up on caring about that little detail.
It's reasonable to ask why not. Because he’s Mu Qing and he’s done very little to give Feng Xin any reason to not just get up and leave him to his fever.
Still, that’s not entirely possible for him.
He may be Mu Qing, but Feng Xin is Feng Xin, and that means a hell of a lot of things he has no name for probably. But what he does know is that he’s not going to leave him like this, even if the asshole doesn’t want him.
Mu Qing should have known that the moment he let him in.
Feng Xin catches him snort in response. Slowly, he turns, grunting as he comes to rest on his back. His head flops over slightly, eyes rolling under the hair clinging to his clammy forehead.
“You’re just going to sit here and be a pest, I take it?” He asks, words holding none of his usual bite, hands resting on his stomach.
Though his eyebrow twitches anyway, Feng Xin remains calm. “How’d you get sick, even? Did you catch something?”
“Isn’t that how most people get sick?” Mu Qing digs, before his lips twists into a frown. “It doesn’t matter, I just am.”
Not a good answer, but getting answers out of Mu Qing’s mouth tends to go about as well as prying food out of a hungry tiger’s mouth would. It won’t work and he’s going to have to try something else if one thing doesn’t work. “How long?”
“A day or two, I think.” Mu Qing says lazily, eyes falling closed.
Feng Xin reasons that his stupid stunt from earlier may have been mostly propelled by the fraction of energy he had given him just moments before. To go so far as to waste it instead of circulating it properly through his system? Just how irresponsible is this guy?
Doing poorly to mask his disdain, he watches Mu Qing for a moment before rolling off of the bed. “Gotcha.”
As he stands, he catches Mu Qing opening an eye to look at him. His gaze seems questioning, ready to say something. About what? Feng Xin isn’t entirely sure.
Clearing his throat, Mu Qing finally asks. “What are you going to do?”
“Gonna take the reins of your fucking operation, so you don’t get up. Then, I’m gonna go get some stuff. You got a kitchen in this place?”
Amusement flickers loosely on Mu Qing’s face, the barest smirk gracing his lips. “A kitchen. Is the great General Nan Yang going to make something for me? How awful.”
“Yeah, whatever, we’ll see how awful you think it is.” Feng Xin grumbles. “Look, just answer the fucking question, Mu Qing.”
“I have one. I’m not giving you directions, but you can ask one of my subordinates.” He drawls in response, lolling his head to the other side. He can’t see his face anymore.
That reminds him, for some reason. “Does anyone know about this?” Feng Xin asks, though he’s already guessed the answer.
“Of course not. What moron do you take me for.” Comes the curt reply. “Why would I want anyone to know about this?”
Settling a hand on his hip, Feng Xin sighs. “You know, most normal, emotionally healthy people want to tell others if they’re sick. But I should’ve fucking expected as much from you.”
“Hmph.” Feng Xin can see his face again. “Whatever.”
His gaze stays trained on him a moment longer, thinking to himself about what he could do. Besides take command, maybe he can make congee? He hasn’t had to do that in a long time, but it should be easy enough. There’s even a faint recipe on the tip of his tongue, one he hasn’t had since he was a teen.
A congee so savory and nice that he remembers livening up exponentially after having it. The trouble ends up being that he doesn’t really remember who made it or the ingredients themselves. His mother cooked well, but Feng Xin has the distinct impression that it wasn’t something she made.
“What the hell are you staring at?” Mu Qing’s voice drags him out of his thoughts.
“Sure as fuck not you. I was just thinking.” He murmurs, scrubbing at his chin in thought.
“You can do that?” Despite what sounds like a chuckle leaving him, Mu Qing’s expression is flat. “So, old dogs can learn new tricks.”
Feng Xin might’ve rolled his eyes if that wasn’t Mu Qing’s thing. “Shut the fuck up. Anyway, don’t get any more stupid ideas. I’ll be back later.” He orders, turning on his heel.
“Aye aye, General.” His tone is mocking but it’s not like the prick has any choice in the matter, bedridden as he is.
Giving Mu Qing one more quick glance, he stalks out of the room and heads a fair distance down the hall before his stride peters out entirely.
When he’s with Mu Qing, he finds himself saying a lot of things, most of which tend to be insults. They’re things he doesn't need to think twice about because there’s no need to. But now, he’s essentially said he’d of him. Him, take care of Mu Qing.
He sure said that.
He… He can do that! That’s not the problem! Whatever weird feeling he’s having isn’t doubt. Far from it! He’s sure he can absolutely do that. So why is he itchy? Like something isn’t sitting well with him?
Feng Xin’s shoulders go slack, figuring he might just need a plan.
Ah. Yeah, that’s it. He needs a plan of approach so he can deal with this properly. Mu Qing’s been sick for two days at most, and that’s two days to let things go unchecked. Feng Xin has no reason to believe that he wouldn’t still try and manage his duties alongside his illness, but it’s better to be safe than sorry.
Maybe a plan can be congee.
A bit more sure of himself, he watches as one of Mu Qing’s subordinates rushes by. A rather jittery looking person, short and unsure in their movements, watering can clutched between too pale fingers.
Someone like that being able to work for him…
Thoughtlessly. “Oi.”
The person jolts slightly, a stream of water ending up on the furniture instead of the plant. “A-Ah?”
Feng Xin winces a little, managing to catch the momentary fear ripple of their frame. “Sorry about that.”
Setting the can down on the stray desk, giving the puddle a rather dejected look before turning their attention entirely to Feng Xin. “No-No. Uh, it’s…. It’s fine. Does General Nan Yang need something?”
Tilting his head, Feng Xin continues. “Is it alright to ask?” Normally he wouldn't, but he's trying to be a bit more respectful.
Fingers tugging at the front of their robes, they clear their throat before nodding. “General Xuan Zhen has already given the order across our channels.” There’s a pause before they continue, voice timid. “Permission was granted some time ago, actually. No need to ask.”
That comes as a surprise. “Huh?”
Their voice goes tentative. “Oh-Oh.. Were you not aware?”
Some time ago? How long was some time ago?
It could’ve been as early as when the gates opened, since that alone can be taken as proof that Mu Qing was more than aware of his presence before he arrived at his bedchamber.
If that’s the case though, why play up the act? Why tell him to go home before acquiescing as if he hadn’t been about to acquiesce anyway? Giving him permission, without knowing what Feng Xin would do--or at least, he thought Mu Qing didn’t know.
Fuck, his head hurts.
Seriously. What an annoying, twisted little bastard. Any other time and this might’ve felt too much like a game, but games aren’t something either of them is particularly good at. For as little sense as Mu Qing makes, he’s not the trickster type. He’d have to be better at lying for that to be the case.
Sighing, he wonders briefly when the asshole will learn to just accept things as they come. If he’s ready to take the help, he shouldn’t push just because he can. Open and honest is how it should be.
“General Nan Yang? Is something wrong?” Comes the concerned inquiry.
Feng Xin’s quick to wave it off, offering a grin. “Titles are too formal, you don’t need to keep using it. But, I do need you for something.”
Seeming a bit too apprehensive for their own good, because really, it’s not like Feng Xin is going to eat the poor kid.
They step forward and bow. “How may I be of assistance?”
Grin unwavering, Feng Xin gestures before he starts walking. “Follow me.”
Despite the uncertainty, they follow along after him. “Oh… but I need to clean up the puddle?”
Scoffing from where he is, he turns his head slightly. “Just let it air dry, what’s the big deal?”
“Air dry…? Wouldn’t that leave residue?”
Feng Xin shrugs, continuing on his way. “Would it? Sounds weird, isn’t it just water?”
“Ah!?”