Work Text:
The desk fan burns Feng Xin’s eyes as he works on adjusting his camera, scowling deeply as he flips it around. Peering through the glass, a heavy sigh leaves him as he sets it down on the counter island, feeling thoroughly defeated.
It’s too hot to be dealing with malfunctioning equipment, half under the impression that the sun’s very existence outside might’ve fried the compartments of his camera. Feng Xin supposes he doesn’t really have to worry too much, the video camera in question is mainly used for close up shots. He still has equipment to record his newest vlog without it, the tripod working beautifully--unlike the temperamental little bastard he has sitting uselessly right in front of him.
But how else would he get footage of himself chopping carrots very slowly to free use mp3s? Feng Xin isn’t someone without confidence, but he’s pretty sure that the novelty that comes with good knife skills is all that he has going for him on such a small platform. For now, at least.
Digging his elbows into the flat top, Feng Xin props his chin up on his hands while he pouts, leering at the camera for the crimes it’s committed against him until he hears shuffling coming from the hallway. Feng Xin shifts his attention with the mildest of interest, hearing Mu Qing before he sees him step beyond the darkened corridor. He’s already dressed up, for whatever reason.
“The air conditioner is on, you know. Won’t you get cold?” He asks, eyeing Mu Qing’s outfit.
Mu Qing raises a slender brow in his direction but ultimately says nothing, too busy quickly distracting himself by snagging something from the fridge instead. He makes it seem easy to just move on without contributing much, and most days Feng Xin would shrug and let him. Today isn’t a day where Feng Xin wants that, however.
He opens his mouth again, coming off more abrasive than intended. “Not even a good morning, huh? What an asshole.”
At that, Mu Qing raises his head, casting Feng Xin a pair of narrowed eyes. “What do you want?”
Despite the fact he does actually want something from Mu Qing, he can’t help but feel affronted. Defensively, he retorts. “What makes you think I want something from you of all people?”
Without missing a beat, Mu Qing hoists his arms over the open door of the fridge. “When you’re annoyed, you like making everyone else annoyed alongside you. So stop wasting my time, what do you want?”
Feng Xin scoffs. “Okay, whatever you say, prick. Hey, do you know how to fix a camera? When I look into it the symbols keep flashing at me and I don’t know what they mean.”
His eyes roll as he works on pouring himself a glass of iced tea. “Why would I know? And even if I did know, why would I help you?”
“Because I’m making fucking lunch today and I can’t make lunch unless my camera is working.” Feng Xin answers with a huff.
Mu Qing, unperturbed as usual, takes small sips from his cup as he leans his hip against the back counter. “Still not sure how any of this is my problem. It’s your shitty camera, you fix it.”
“If I don’t get in the groove then I don’t cook, and I know you go bonkers for my cooking.” Feng Xin snaps back, pride swelling in his chest as he turns his head. “So stop being a bitch, come over here and give me a hand.”
The amused snort he receives is three parts aggravating and one part deflating. His shoulders go a little slack listening to the asshole talk. “Keep telling yourself that. And just what are you making, hm?”
Feng Xin makes a face. “Vegan nachos.” Mu Qing’s eyes roll again as Feng Xin tries to find the words to defend himself. “You know what, fine. If you’re going to be like that, scram. I’ll fix my own fucking camera and have my nachos all to myself.”
The span of quiet between them makes Feng Xin think for one easy moment that Mu Qing would just up and leave him to it. But he’s never been particularly good at predicting what he’ll do. It means he’s both surprised and not when Mu Qing speaks up, hand placed on his hip. “Fine. I’ll help you since you’re useless--but only one one condition.”
Despite the comment, Feng Xin turns around properly to face him, arms crossed. Owing Mu Qing anything is dangerous, but at this point he’s willing to do just about anything. “Alright, I’m all ears. What do you want?”
“You’re taking time out of my schedule and I need to get a new video up. I got this new eye shadow palette from Crimson Rain & Co. but frankly I find the colors gaudy with nothing to show for it. If you let me put them on your stupid face instead, I’ll fix your camera.”
Feng Xin’s lips turn downward. Eye shadow isn’t the worst thing he’s propositioned, having already had experience with Mu Qing’s bartering before--he isn’t sure why he didn’t see this coming. Still, make up is easier to deal with than wax, a subtle ache in his eyebrows reminds him.
“Fine. You’ve got a deal.” Feng Xin agrees, extending his hand.
Mu Qing bypasses shaking his hand entirely, setting his presumably empty cup on the counter island. “Alright, follow me so you don’t get lost.” With words laced in thick sarcasm, he gestures for Feng Xin to follow him.
No real choice in the matter, Feng Xin follows quietly with little more than a huff in response as they head back down the way Mu Qing came.
The brief walk down the dark hallway is quiet until Mu Qing pushes his bedroom door open, nearly letting the thing fucking fall back into Feng Xin’s face before reflexes catch it. He swings it back into the wall roughly, wondering if that’d make Mu Qing react--predictably, it doesn’t. Instead, he’s jabbing a slim finger toward his bed.
“Lay down there.” He says as he moves over to his vanity, sorting through the various colorful cases scattered over top.
Feng Xin’s face scrunches in question, observing the various camera fixtures positioned closely to the bed itself. “Huh?!”
Mu Qing’s unaffected tone makes him bristle, and being a vague asshole really isn’t helping matters. What kind of makeup video needs a camera set up like that!? “I said lay down. Your head might hurt with that.” Mu Qing points at Feng Xin’s ponytail. “And I’d rather not listen to your incessant complaining if I can help it, so let your hair down.”
Seriously, what the fuck is wrong with this guy? Feng Xin thinks with a grimace, but ultimately ends up listening to the suggestion, though he makes the action as begrudging as humanly possible. Tucking his hair band into his pocket, he maneuvers around the hanging video equipment and lays himself down as comfortably as he can. The smell of Mu Qing’s conditioner, baked heavily into the pillow case, makes his nose hurt while he waits.
It’s no more than a few minutes after he’s laid down that Mu Qing finally comes over with the eye shadow in question and a couple other things. Feng Xin sees a pencil, maybe a brush, but other than that the angle obscures it--he’s not so curious that he’s willing to prop himself up on his elbows to see. Mu Qing doesn’t seem to notice, too busy fiddling with the cameras.
“So, how are you going to get on, need me to roll over or something?” Feng Xin asks.
Mu Qing clicks his tongue against his teeth loudly as he raises a leg, standing up on the bed. He steadies himself, walking over until he’s pretty much hovering over Feng Xin, feet bracketing either side of his torso.
“We’re both tall fuckers, don’t know if this piece of shit bed can take much more abuse.” He warns, looking up at Mu Qing, briefly wondering if this is what they look like to short people.
“Shut up.” Is all Mu Qing says before he eases himself with all the grace of a fucking giraffe, bare thighs straddling either side of Feng Xin’s hips. “This is going to be voiced over, so as hard as it is for you, don’t say a damn word while I’m working.”
“Unlike very specific assholes with bad dye jobs, I’m pretty good at following directions.” Feng Xin chides back, resting neatly against the pillows, relishing in the displeased tilt to Mu Qing’s lips.
“Whatever. Just don’t move.” He orders in the end.
Flipping the case open, Feng Xin manages to catch a glimpse of the colors, inwardly agreeing that they’re a bit too gaudy even for him as Mu Qing gets to work on one singular eye.
As he leans in, however, Feng Xin has a horrible realization. Tucked in the quiet spaces between his casual annoyance and whatever this is, he’s realized that he’s not really all that equipped to deal with the proximity. Without quips and biting words there’s nothing to hide behind, and while Feng Xin isn’t someone who has ever felt the need to hide--Mu Qing is right fucking there.
He’s lived with him for so many years, gradually becoming accustomed to his general presence without thinking about closeness. Often too caught up in his own thing to pause and really look at Mu Qing when he’s talking, existing, or being generally an annoying priss. Otherwise, Feng Xin feels he would’ve noticed that while Mu Qing happens to be all of those things, he’s also really easy to look at.
From the softest touch of whatever shiny gloss he’s decided to put on his lips today, to the way his jewelry compliments him. The slight squint to his eyes, making them small against his pretty face as he works. Feng Xin’s repeating those details like he didn’t already know them. The reality is that, of course, he knows them too well, so that’s not the problem. The problem is that Feng Xin lacked the foresight to understand that having him so close would mean coming face to face with all of that for the first time.
He knows him. Mu Qing is glares, razor sharp words, an incomprehensible mess of a person who also happens to pay rent. He’s known, he’s always known, but he’s never given himself the time to take in anything else that might define him. From what he's seen in the span of a few minutes, Mu Qing is also the slightest bite of of his bottom lip in honed concentration, silky hair that burns his nose the longer he stays close to it. He’s the kind of person that wears midriff cut shirts and shorts despite the fact the air conditioner is on full blast, which he knows should bother him because Mu Qing is a lizard turned person and--
He’s putting makeup on Feng Xin, pretty hands delicate in their work. Feng Xin has felt those knuckles, knows that looks can be deceiving, understands that power lies beneath those incredibly slim wrists. His lithe frame more so. Bastard.
But therein lies yet another problem.
Feng Xin is having all these thoughts now. His hands--clenched painfully tight against his stomach, just to be out of the way while Mu Qing leans over--are getting uncomfortably sweaty. The cameras hovering by them, he can’t help but wonder if they catch the minute twitches of his eyebrow, bare attempts to keep from going bug eyed.
Mu Qing would chew him out if he got in the way of his stupid work.
A hopeful thought hovers at the forefront of his mind then. Thinking wistfully that Feng Xin can coax him back from that irritation, ease down that cat-like disposition. Like a daydream, that Mu Qing swats at his hands when Feng Xin tries to reach for him, only to reach back on his own terms. He can imagine a press of soft lips through the haze, the calm whisper of a promise between the two of them, that whatever cameras capture stays here--no one needs to know.
A--kiss? No, that’s. His entire body runs cold, like a splash of ice water against his features because--no. Wait. Feng Xin’s blinking now, rapidly actually, because what the fuck?
Above him, the real Mu Qing looks completely pissed off. “Couldn’t sit still for two more seconds, could you?”
Feng Xin is still blinking, eventually finding it in himself to furrow his brows in confused irritation. “What?”
Shaking his head, Mu Qing leans back against the tops of Feng Xin’s thighs. Because of course, Mr. Human Popsicle is entirely unbothered by the fact he’s still fucking on top of him. “Didn’t even notice, did you? Your eye started twitching, idiot. Smudged some of what I was doing.”
He was blinking--but twitching works. He feigns further confusion. “I did that?”
Mu Qing rolls his eyes for what has to be the third time in the last hour. “Whatever. I got usable footage for at least one of your eyes.”
That ineffable attitude sinks into Feng Xin’s skin and his lips purse. “You gonna get off me and fix my camera now?”
Mu Qing’s reaching above his head, tapping at the cameras when Feng Xin’s words seemingly give him pause. Normally, it’s something he’d miss, nothing Feng Xin would pay more than a passing glance toward. But maybe, whatever weird episode he was having mere moments ago woke something up in him. Because he can see his eyes, catch the notes of whatever conflict he might be having about something before it fades out completely.
He’s back with a frigid vengeance, leaning forward with a hand pressed against Feng Xin’s chest. “I’m a man of my word. I’ll fix your stupid camera.”
Raising a thigh, Mu Qing flops over ungracefully, giving Feng Xin ample opportunity to quickly throw himself off of the bed. As soon as he’s stepped beyond tripods, he’s scrubbing his hands furiously against the seams of his pants, watching Mu Qing slip off the covers with a yawn.
“It’s the shitty one you had sitting on the counter, right?” Mu Qing asks, attention clearly placed elsewhere.
“Uh--yeah. That one’s giving me trouble.” Feng Xin replies, head tilted.
Mu Qing slips beyond the bedroom, casualness lacking in his footsteps, each one far too heavy against wood floors and Feng Xin barely keeps up with him. It’s such a short walk outside, he really can’t be that fast, can he?
When they reach the counter island, Mu Qing raises the camera carefully. “What did you say was wrong with it?”
Feng Xin is mindful of their proximity now, standing a short distance away from Mu Qing as he explains. “I didn't. I was trying to test something out last night and it wouldn’t record anything, keeps flashing shit at me.”
“Isn’t this thing new?” He says, voice thoroughly laced with displeasure, pressing his eye into the glass.
“That’s why I’m fucking confused about it, Shits new, so what’s the problem.”
It’s less than ten seconds at most, from the moment Mu Qing looks into into the camera to when he gives Feng Xin the worst stink eye he’s received that week. “You are absolutely unbelievable, you know that?” He’s shoving it against Feng Xin’s chest. “Storage is full, nimrod.”
Feng Xin fumbles with it a little, ignoring the heated embarrassment flooding his face. “Well how was I supposed to know, dickhead!?”
“You read the fucking manual.” Mu Qing snipes back, lips pulled back into a sneer as he storms back off in the direction of his room. “Next time, don’t ask me for anything!” He shouts, slamming the door behind him.
Feng Xin stands there in simmering rage before he decides to squash it, for once. His camera works, that's all that matters. And Mu Qing isn't the only one who is a man of his word. So he yells. “Oi! Lunch is at one, fucker!”
There’s the sound of a mechanism clicking the reverberation of a creaking door followed by Mu Qing calling back. “Extra cheese!” Then, the door slams, again.
Despite the shake of his head and bubbling aggravation, Feng Xin manages a breathy laugh, pulling up his laptop and getting to work so he can record his video.
He’s got an idiot bitch waiting for him, after all.