Work Text:
Respite is something that Feng Xin finds himself ill acquainted with.
Music, his life’s work. Rhythmic passions, his defining trait. A perfect combination when mixed in with determination, hard work. A love for the fluid motions of strings, sweet lullabies rolling off his tongue with gusto.
At the peak of his stardom, he was beloved by many, adored and cherished in every performance.
Naivety, however, ended up being his undoing.
First, his relationship went sour. Jian Lan deserved a bit better, sure, but with his tour schedule what was there he could’ve done? He tried to give her the rest of his time, but ultimately she wanted priority. To choose between his professional life and his personal one, felt too much at the time. Eventually, things fell apart, and love songs could only do so much to fix that.
It would’ve been fine, but then the unthinkable happened. Tabloids got a hold of the details, spinning things out of control. He went from being the average run-of-the-mill guy, an adored musician from a small town, to something else entirely. Once relatable to the common person, now scrutinized in those very same eyes.
For what fans he did still have, there were an equal amount of dissenting opinions. His manager ended up making him swear never to look at celebrity news, citing concerns for his mental health.
Feng Xin, according to him, needed to focus on the bigger picture. A little controversy isn’t so bad in the long run, he had swore, despite Feng Xin not really trusting that so readily.
He decided to look anyway, against his better judgement, only to be hurt in the process.
Figures.
Frustration bubbled, at the time, leaving him with a rancid taste in his mouth. Piles and piles of comments, expressing dissatisfaction with everything he stood for. From his music, to his failed love life as written by an idiot paparazzi who frankly had no business saying fucking anything--hell, he even spotted a comment remarking on his wardrobe.
As if anyone had any right to comment on any of it.
Exhaustion left him brittle in its wake. Agitated, perhaps. He had expected his team to be able to at least stem some of the feeling, especially regarding the situation with Jian Lan--but nothing.
Absolutely nothing came of his repeated concerns.
A lot of his time ended up being spent like this, with Feng Xin leaning back in his office chair, staring up in vain at his ceiling. Wads of paper littered his feet, and he couldn’t muster the strength to be bothered by it anymore.
Lyrics no longer dance at the tips of his fingers, snuffed like candle lit flames. Ghost writers were hired, of course, because the production must go on despite the rising star being unable to find it in himself to continue.
A downward spiral, as far as Feng Xin understood. One that he carried with him where he walked, baggage that made him sick to his stomach when he sang a song that wasn’t his. As if the words didn’t fit on his tongue.
Despite things, his manager seemed happy, at least. Mornings were spent with calls to congratulate him on the good work; the “free publicity”, as he called it, was doing wonders for ticket sales.
Still, Feng Xin couldn’t help but wonder where the excitement was for himself. Where was the rush of adrenaline, missing the way his hands caressed the heavy strings of his guitar, bringing music to life.
Colorful arrays that no longer reach his eyes, leaving Feng Xin to ponder where he went wrong?
In that question, he wondered if the only way to know where it went wrong was to start from the beginning.
That’s how he ends up finding himself back on the streets of his old hometown, dressed as casually as he can be.
That’s also how he ends up running into an old face, one he narrowly misses in his rush to escape wandering photographers--paper trails are too easy to track it seems.
Still, this is an old face with a new hue in front of him, eyes like the dead of winter but with an air of certainty.
That’s Mu Qing.
Somehow.
Equally jarring is how he ends up in a cafe with him after, still dazed from the encounter. Mu Qing, in the past, had always been a perceptive bastard--with things outside of himself, at least. But this feeling of calm settling on his shoulders, much like the quiet found in the depths of the night, undemanding in its existence.
You’ve seen him for four seconds and you’re already waxing poetic over him, aren’t you?
The flicker of those narrowed eyes, the way they droop closed as he brings his tea to his lips, sipping with an inordinate amount of fragility despite being anything but fragile. It reminds him that the idiot Feng Xin met back in the day was too abrasive for his own good, too quick to let people go.
Going so far as to have an unspoken rule that he never gave much of himself to anyone. It was anyone’s guess how Xie Lian ended up loving this guy, swearing up and down that he was the sweetest thing in the world.
Pff. Sure, if coal could be considered chocolate.
But who’s he to argue with Xie Lian, Feng Xin ruminates silently, tapping at the edge of his iced coffee. How could he? Since he’d fallen for Mu Qing all the same.
A lingering nugget of a feeling, marked by impossibility, and thus forgotten about.
Especially now when he can hardly recognize the asshole.
He’s too relaxed, and for some reason, it’s making Feng Xin fidget.
Unable to take it anymore, Feng Xin adjusts his chair for the fourth time. “So--.”
Mu Qing hardly pays him any mind, the only sign he heard him a slight arch of his brow.
“What do you want?”
Though Mu Qing’s eye twitches in recognizable irritation, the first time he genuinely looks like Mu Qing since Feng Xin’s arrival, he remains relatively relaxed. “What do I want?”
Feng Xin stuffs his hands into the pockets of his hoodie. “Yeah, what do you want? You made some weird comment about being used earlier, do you need compensation or something for your "trouble"?”
“Che.” Mu Qing’s nose crinkles. “Trust me, I don’t need your stupid money.”
“Then, what? You can’t just wanna say hey. That's not like you Doesn’t make a lick of sense if you ask me.” Feng Xin says, a frown set on his face.
The tension in the air becomes palpable.
“Good thing I’m not asking what you think.” Mu Qing answers simply, changing the subject. “Who were those people following you?”
“I’m sure you know the exact type, even without being in show business.” Feng Xin's laugh is more of a bark, absent of all mirth. “Fuckin’ paparazzi. Get into some trouble with cameras and suddenly they’re on you like flies to shit.”
Mu Qing’s lip curls. “Beautiful metaphor.”
“Thanks, gonna put that one in my next song. Dedicate it to you.” He mocks.
It’d be song number fourteen if he did.
“Don’t.” Mu Qing replies flatly. “So reporters are after you. Figures, your reputation precedes you.”
It takes everything for Feng Xin not to flinch at that, a tired anger brooding. “Didn’t take you for the kind of guy that would keep up with celebrity news, but I guess even listless fuckers like you get bored.”
Despite the barbed words, Mu Qing keeps a level head when Feng Xin could use a fight right about now, honestly. Cause that's exactly what he needs, a brawl in a cafe parking lot. “That’s not it, insipid moron. Word of mouth travels, and we did grow up here. Townspeople here would talk about you more--...” A pause. “Or shit on you, whatever you prefer to call it.”
“Home town disgrace?” He scoffs when Mu Qing doesn’t answer, beside himself with irritation. “Whatever.”
Mu Qing goes quiet, leaving Feng Xin to feel his eyes on him for who knows how long. He’s back to staring at ceiling fixtures, lips pursed before eventually deciding that this conversation wasn’t one he was keen on having. He already knows what critics thought of him, hell, who didn’t think something negative at this point.
What’s the point of having Mu Qing highlight it all for him?
Feng Xin is about to adjust his seat, ready to head to the till to pay for his dessert when Mu Qing speaks up.
“It’s stupid.”
He stops. “What?”
Mu Qing looks at his teacup, shrugging. “I don’t believe it.”
It takes a moment to process what he says, gaping at him in disbelief. “You’re not fucking with me are you?”
A risky question, since he can see the gears in Mu Qing’s head locking into place--probably deciding between throwing his tea in Feng Xin’s face or leaving.
He does neither of those things. “You’re an insolent man. A joke with a pathetic punchline. Insipid and stupid in every possible way, Foolhardy, with no real understanding of the mechanics of this world--”
Feng Xin raises his hand, bringing Mu Qing’s words to a halt. “Shut up for a second. Is this supposed to be uplifting? Because it really fucking isn’t. It doesn’t even answer my question.” He says, exasperation filling his lungs.
“You didn’t let me finish.”
“Do I want to let you?” Feng Xin asks, words a touch aggressive, digging blunt fingernails into the wood table. Mu Qing opts against answering that, instead staring at Feng Xin expectantly until his boiling anger lessens to a simmer.
Just where did he get the fucking patience?
“You’re all those things.” Mu Qing eventually says quietly. “But you wouldn’t intentionally hurt someone. That much I know.”
Feng Xin’s shoulders slack the moment his words come to an end. Fans, sure, they say the same thing on forums. But those are fans, blinded by stardom. Though it’s true in Feng Xin’s case, people like that would go down defending their idols even if their idols were wrong. Much like the people saying Feng Xin is all those things.
Mu Qing, on the other hand, has nothing to gain from being that way. He’s a person, to Feng Xin, rather than disembodied screams at a concert. He has a face, a name, and isn't the type to see Feng Xin for his music since he still doesn’t know if he even likes it.
As if that matters somehow.
Even still, with Mu Qing’s gaze steady, waiting for a response. Feng Xin feels the corners of his mouth tick up. Not a smile, far from it actually, but he feels light--maybe even airy. There’s enough in him to scoff.
“Who are you and what have you done with Mu Qing?”
Mu Qing’s eyes roll, and Feng Xin bends forward. “Never mind, the asshole is back. Already starting to regret mentioning it.”
“You’re insufferable.” Mu Qing sneers pointedly, and it’s like he’s come back to earth.
Feng Xin shakes his head, almost relishing in the troubled look that graces Mu Qing’s frigid features as he brings his drink back to his lips. He’s been away for too long, he thinks, the distance has started making these verbal beatings feel homey.
“And you’re an annoying twat, so I guess we’re a match made in stupid.” He snaps back thoughtlessly.
Feng Xin almost misses the way his finger clenches around the handle of his pretentious teacup.
Almost.
Before he can ask what that's about, Mu Qing’s moving on with the conversation. “Don’t you have a manager? A PR team? Why are they letting any of this happen?”
Not much one for business, Feng Xin deflates a little, pinching the space between his brows. “Manager said any publicity is good, inexpensive too. Apparently, people like controversy, so--”
Mu Qing’s mumbling before he’s even done talking. “What kind of idiot…”
“I had a rough spot, I can admit that. My ex girlfriend and I didn’t work out, I fucked up. But I’m not some fucking monster.” Feng Xin sighs, resting his forearms on the table. “But the guy swears up and down that this shit is good, somehow and--”
Mu Qing interjects. “Have you lost your will to fight?”
Feng Xin raises his head. “You implying I’m not trying to?”
Mu Qing snorts. “I think you’ve given up, Feng Xin.” His name is enunciated slowly, each word knocking him upside the head. “Do you want to fight it?”
“Are you joking? Of course I fucking do--I’m--This fucking blows, alright?”
“Articulate.”
“Shut the fuck up. What do you know?” Feng Xin settles back against his chair, brushing stray bangs back only for them to flop back in his field of vision.
Mu Qing hums. “I’ll concede to that, I don’t know.”
“How much did it hurt your pride to admit something like that?”
“Shut it. I may not know everything, but I do know one thing.” Mu Qing snips, raising his cup. With Feng Xin simply raising a brow in his direction, Mu Qing continues. “Your manager? He’s useless. You should fire him.”
Feng Xin’s brain screeches to a complete halt, stuck staring at the unperturbed look on Mu Qing’s face, like he hadn’t just suggested something outlandish.
“Wha--.”
“Fire him.” Mu Qing repeats again, as if clarity is the problem with what he just said. “He’s useless. Just fire him.”
“Huh!?”
The obvious question is who would he even hire if he did fire his current manager. He’s worked alongside the man for so long, and despite grievances, finding someone to replace him? Where would Feng Xin even begin? His lackluster reputation wouldn’t do him any favors.
He isn’t even sure how to get that across, entirely dumbfounded while Mu Qing takes a long sip of tea, eyes closed.
And then, Mu Qing drops the most unexpected lifeline of the century when he stops. “Hire me.”
Feng Xin practically leaps out of his seat, hands pressed into the wood as he yells. “What!?”
The entire cafe stops dead as a result of his outburst, and a stifled cough brings him back to reality. He’s about to curl into himself a little, openly apologize, when Mu Qing catches his attention.
He’s setting his teacup aside, elbows propped on the table as his chin comes to rest on the tops of his laced fingers. Without the noise of fellow patrons, his words ring louder.
“Hire me.”
Very slowly, the chatter returns, the world bustling once more. Feng Xin still hasn’t found the words, if there were any to be said. Mu Qing doesn’t seem too troubled, unsurprisingly. He hasn’t been troubled the whole time they’ve been talking to each other.
That's when Feng Xin realizes rather belated that the time they spent apart was lengthy. It only makes sense for Mu Qing to change, of course, that’s not the problem.
It’s that he doesn’t know when or what did change him. Why he can catch slivers of who Mu Qing was, and not know why they’re just slivers now. Thirteen songs about this guy, and he can’t help but wonder if they’re outdated.
Well, they would be anyway, he reasons. Those were love songs after all.
The spell of nostalgia breaks when Mu Qing checks his watch. “It’s about time I go, not all of us have spare time to waste.” He says, sifting through his pockets for a moment before pulling out a pen.
Feng Xin just watches him, confusion marring his features until he sees Mu Qing fish out a pen, snagging an adjacent napkin before writing something down. In mere seconds, he’s handing it to Feng Xin, who somehow manages to take a whole minute to register that he’s been given a phone number.
That sure is a phone number alright.
He blinks.
--Wait, is this?
“Call me when you make a decision. I know simpletons need extra time.” Mu Qing says, a light smirk unfurling on his lips as he turns to leave, not even giving Feng Xin a chance to retort.
He leans back against his chair, staring at nothing for what feels like an impossibly long time.
Two minutes, perhaps, is what it takes him.
Two minutes to come back to himself. Two minutes to realize what was just handed to him, and pocket it safely. Two minutes to call one of the wandering waitresses to pay for his portion of the meal only to be told as she leaves the receipt right next to his cup that the whole thing had already been paid for.
Somehow.
Even though Feng Xin knows Mu Qing spent the whole time talking to him, hardly giving his phone a passing glance from the moment they entered. If he made a quick stop at the cash register after he left, Feng Xin didn’t notice. Could he have spaced out for that long?
... It wouldn't be the first time.
He sighs, feeling exponentially more tired than when he arrived. Getting up from his chair finally, he spies the teacup Mu Qing had cradled the whole time they spoke. No tag or bag, something fancy by the remaining buds sitting at the bottom. A quick glance at the receipt left at the table reveals it to be rose.
How absolutely and insufferably bougie of him.
Leaving a tip for their waitress, he makes his way out, humming an unknown tune to himself as he ventures along desolate streets on his way to his hotel. His thoughtless humming gives him momentary pause, and while he doesn't necessarily know the lyrics to it yet--
--He might just know the name.