Work Text:
Feng Xin awoke to the sight of seafoam walls and silver hair. Blearily lifting his head up, his eyes adjusted to the rest of his surroundings - morning sunlight streaming through the glass balcony door, the small lucky cat serenely waving its paw atop the bookshelf across the room, and Mu Qing’s pale arms tangled in the wrinkled white comforter draped across their bodies. Feng Xin blinked, slowly, and let his head fall back onto his pillow. Mu Qing’s hair tickled his cheek, but Feng Xin didn’t move to brush it off; he felt as if he was still enough, the moment wouldn’t end, and he could stay intertwined with Mu Qing for eternity, both half-swallowed by the ridiculously soft mattress.
Mu Qing shifted, mumbling something incoherent, and Feng Xin held his breath. Everything felt simultaneously safe and dangerously fragile. It could have been the eve of the apocalypse and Feng Xin would still feel secure in this bed with Mu Qing, yet at the same time, he could almost hear the phone ringing, someone knocking on the door, or anything that could and would pull Mu Qing out of bed and out of his arms.
“Feng Xin.”
Mu Qing was awake. He didn’t move, and Feng Xin didn’t say anything. “Feng Xin,” Mu Qing repeated. Feng Xin traced the lines of drywall texture on the ceiling with his eyes.
“Feng Xin.” Mu Qing suddenly pulled himself out of their embrace, propping himself up on his elbows. He stared at Feng Xin, his gaze sleep-rumpled yet intent. Feng Xin marveled at the way the sunlight illuminated Mu Qing’s brown eyes, how it cascaded through his silver hair and turned it golden.
“Mu Qing,” Feng Xin said, almost a whisper, his throat dry.
“I can see your freckles so clearly like this.”
Feng Xin was silent for a moment, mind completely empty of coherent thought and full of indecipherable emotion. He opened his mouth, let out a small yeah.
“Did you lose your ability to speak overnight?” Mu Qing’s tone was bemused, but his voice was quiet, and his eyes were soft. “You usually have so much to say to me. So loud. Even when you ran out of words, you had a whole arsenal of curses to use. I thought you’d never stop talking.”
“You...your hair is tangled.”
Mu Qing frowned. “I prefer you when you’re silent, actually.”
Feng Xin stuttered, then turned his face into the pillow, and Mu Qing burst out laughing. It was a miraculous sound, and the ambiance of the morning seemed to fold around it, like the dewy atmosphere and newborn sun were the oyster that held the tiny yet invaluable pearl that was Mu Qing’s smile. Feng Xin wanted to tuck it into the little clear pocket of his wallet, keep it in his inner coat pocket and feel its warmth radiating into his skin.
Words clearly failing him, Feng Xin gingerly reached out a hand to cup Mu Qing’s cheek, thumb brushing the soft skin under his eye. There truly must be something intoxicating in the morning air or the sound of Mu Qing’s laughter because everything about him made Feng Xin want to combust in the most euphoric way; the mere blink of the shadow Mu Qing’s eyelashes cast made him want to cry.
Mu Qing quirked an eyebrow, still amused at Feng Xin’s uncharacteristic loss for words, and Feng Xin finally pulled him in for a kiss. This was new, kissing Mu Qing so gently. All of it was new - waking up and staying in bed with him, being able to tuck his hair behind his ear, simply feeling so full of affection and perhaps even something close to love.
The story that had previously been standard for both of them was this: they had spent high school as twin shadows of Xie Lian, Feng Xin’s best friend since first grade and Mu Qing’s since seventh, constantly bickering unless Xie Lian forcibly separated them or made them connect idioms back and forth. Feng Xin’s rashness and unquestioning loyalty paired against Mu Qing’s pride and cynicism bred inevitable miscommunication, despite any underlying desire to maybe, possibly be friends, giving rise to the kind of animosity that could have separated them for centuries, if they were to live that long. Even worse, they left high school on what were likely the most unfavorable terms possible, with Xie Lian disappearing and cutting off all communication after his parents’ death. Without the one person who had linked them together through their rivalry, it seemed that Feng Xin and Mu Qing had no reason to get along with each other. They attended the same prestigious university and majored in the same courses of study, and yet they still avoided any possible contact; their encounters consisted of averted eyes while they refused to acknowledge one another.
What Feng Xin kept secret, however, was the way his eyes lingered on the sweep of Mu Qing’s long ponytail, how the briefest upturn of Mu Qing’s mouth would be imprinted on the back of his eyelids for a week. As much as he cussed at Mu Qing throughout high school, grumbling that Xie Lian was the only reason he tolerated him, Feng Xin had somehow memorized the way Mu Qing bit his lip, how he twirled his pen when he was bored in math class, how he raised his left eyebrow when Xie Lian presented his grotesque home-cooked lunch. Maybe Feng Xin had even kept this a secret from himself, at the time. It was so much easier to express irritation at Mu Qing’s chronic eye-rolling than to admit that no, he didn’t actually want to bash Mu Qing’s face in; yes, Mu Qing was an asshole, but no, he didn’t hate it. The complete lack of Mu Qing during Feng Xin’s undergrad years only repressed whatever he was feeling even further. Sometimes he would think about Xie Lian, guilt gnawing at his insides about how he had left him alone after the disaster that was senior year, and his thoughts would inevitably turn to Mu Qing. Feng Xin wondered if they had parted ways for good, if all that time together in high school really had amounted to nothing. He remembered Xie Lian had once declared the three of them lifelong soulmates, earnestly saying that they would be an unstoppable trio for decades, if not centuries!
We can’t live long enough to be friends for centuries, Mu Qing had replied, in his usual sardonic manner, his expression indifferent but not unkind. Though the subject was quickly dismissed, Feng Xin had never really stopped thinking about it. Unfortunately, he always seemed to have a class to attend or a deadline to meet, and all his Mu Qing-related thoughts were pushed to the back of his mind.
Later on, Xie Lian started attending their university for graduate school, moving into a nearby apartment with Hua Cheng, a new boyfriend of his, and Feng Xin and Mu Qing couldn’t stay away. Feng Xin had all but worshipped Xie Lian, and so did Mu Qing, in a way, even if he would never admit it. Moreover, there was something off-putting about Hua Cheng, and Feng Xin and Mu Qing expressed a shared distrust of him. It was strange, how in high school, Feng Xin and Mu Qing were connected by a mutual friend, and now, five years later, they were connected by a mutual enemy. The constant was Xie Lian, however, and everything else seemed to be the same as well. Feng Xin and Mu Qing started fighting again, somehow snarling over the same subjects over and over; Feng Xin would call Mu Qing a cocky, condescending bitch, Mu Qing would roll his eyes, Xie Lian would smile, kindly but firmly reprimanding them, and they would cease fire until the next time Feng Xin took offense to whatever comment Mu Qing made.
Of course, it wasn’t only the bickering that returned. Something about letting his feelings lie dormant for so many years made them flood back stronger than ever, and Feng Xin would argue with Mu Qing while feeling like he was drowning. To add to his agony, Mu Qing had started letting his hair grow out even longer and dyeing it silver, and it seemed as if Feng Xin had never wanted to comb his fingers through it so badly. This thought, I want to brush Mu Qing’s hair, came to him with startling clarity as he ate lunch with Xie Lian, Hua Cheng, and Mu Qing in a restaurant booth; Feng Xin had needed to excuse himself to reassemble his mind in the bathroom, and when he returned, he couldn’t look at Mu Qing in the eye.
After this epiphany of sorts, everything had fallen into place rather quickly. Feng Xin started consciously perceiving the slope of Mu Qing’s eyelashes, the slow chipping of his black nail polish, and just about every tiny movement in the corners of his mouth. Their precarious years of friendship-rivalry hadn’t dissolved in Feng Xin’s memory; he found that he knew Mu Qing so thoroughly and undeniably. He wondered if Mu Qing knew him, too, and stopped looking away when Mu Qing caught him staring. There was nothing he could do, Feng Xin thought, but make himself known. Mu Qing was the one who always schooled his expression to cold indifference, but it seemed that he was also the one who couldn’t read what was so plainly displayed across other people’s faces. Feng Xin didn’t know if Mu Qing would ever be able to allow himself to be vulnerable, didn’t even know if they would end up acting like strangers again, yet he found that he didn’t care. He thought that maybe he was in love, and maybe he had been for a very long time.
Finally, finally, at 7:30 p.m. in Mu Qing’s apartment on a Friday night, slightly drunk on mid-autumn air and the sunset, Feng Xin’s hand moved with what might have been the culmination of all his years of longing to brush Mu Qing's hair out of his eyes, and Mu Qing had not drawn back out of his touch.
It was the following morning now, and with Mu Qing’s face cupped against his, Feng Xin felt as if he had emerged alive and victorious from a decade of war. Mu Qing smelled like moss, clean and earthy, something that had stayed the same since they were in high school, but now Feng Xin could truly sigh into it, wrapping his arms around Mu Qing’s neck and pulling him in closer.
“Your mouth tastes terrible,” Mu Qing said bluntly, breaking off their kiss to complain.
Feng Xin glared. “So does yours. We just fucking woke up. Prick.”
“I see your speech really is functioning again,” Mu Qing sighed, “and you’re back to punctuating every other sentence with profanities. I think just now was the longest I’ve heard you go without cursing.”
“You’re either rolling your eyes or making the people around you want to roll theirs, aren’t you?”
At this, Mu Qing almost rolled his eyes but caught himself, though not before Feng Xin noticed and started cackling. Mu Qing’s cheeks flushed slightly, and in between his laughter, Feng Xin thought about how he loved that Mu Qing’s pale skin was an unfortunate defect in his otherwise controlled expressions.
“You must think you’re so funny,” Mu Qing sniped. He sat up, shook his hair out of his face, and moved to get out of bed. Feng Xin let out a whine, and Mu Qing didn’t stop himself from rolling his eyes. “Get up. I’m hungry, and you owe me breakfast. I want baozi.”
“Since when did I owe you breakfast?” Feng Xin protested.
“Since that day in tenth grade when I gave you a packet of scallion crackers because you overslept and rushed to school without eating breakfast,” Mu Qing replied airily, as if he wasn’t invoking an obscure memory from seven years ago, making his way towards the bathroom and smiling back at Feng Xin over his shoulder before shutting the door.
Feng Xin found himself at a loss for words once again, though it wasn’t as if there was anyone with him to make conversation anymore. With herculean effort, he sat up and looked out the glass balcony door, blinking the sun out of his eyes. The sight of faded buildings and translucent morning fog greeted him, city noises in the distance. Some of Mu Qing’s clothes were hanging to dry on the clothes lines stretching across the balcony ceiling, clothes hangers in multicolored plastic but all pieces of clothing in varying shades of neutral blacks and whites. Mu Qing appeared like a black-and-white photograph, with his grayscale outfits and silver hair; looking at him, Feng Xin had sometimes felt as if he was gazing at an old memory of a past infatuation. He supposed that that was what Mu Qing could have been, an unrequited crush from his youth, someone he would reminisce upon when he was well into old age. Mu Qing could have simply been a dream. Sitting so soundly in Mu Qing’s apartment, though, seafoam walls washed by golden sunlight, Feng Xin felt wondrously lucid. He was sitting in Mu Qing’s bed, Mu Qing was in the bathroom, and they were going to eat breakfast. It was so simple, so concrete. Happiness could just be waking up with someone you loved and knowing that they would stay with you.
The bathroom door opened, and Feng Xin was startled out of his thoughts. He reached for his phone. “I’m ordering two pork baozi and two vegetable.”
Mu Qing made a noise of approval, combing his hair as he walked towards Feng Xin. “Go brush your teeth.”
Feng Xin dutifully extracted himself from the bed and made his way to the bathroom. When he emerged, Mu Qing was on the balcony, leaning against the railing with his back to Feng Xin. Feng Xin had tied his hair back into a bun, but Mu Qing’s hair was still loose, swaying slightly in the gentle breeze. Framed by the balcony door, he looked like a renaissance painting; Feng Xin thought that this must be how Hua Cheng felt creating all those murals and sculptures of Xie Lian.
Having heard him come out from the bathroom, Mu Qing turned around to find Feng Xin staring. He raised an eyebrow expectantly, and Feng Xin joined him on the balcony, their shoulders pressed together as they stared out into the city. Feng Xin spotted a couple of street cats in the alley below, one with brown splotches and one a sleek black, and pointed them out to Mu Qing.
“They look like us,” Mu Qing mused, and Feng Xin was taken aback at how sentimental the statement was. He supposed that Mu Qing just had a soft spot for cats, or maybe, as he had come to know recently, a soft spot for him. Thinking about it, Mu Qing was a bit cat-like. An image of Mu Qing with cat ears popped into Feng Xin’s mind, and he let out a snort.
“They do,” Feng Xin agreed. “You would make a good cat.”
“I hope you mean that as a compliment.”
“I don’t.”
Mu Qing scoffed. “If you were a cat, you would be run over.”
“I’d be the most agile fucking cat out there, and you know that.”
“I would scratch your eyes out in a cat fight.”
Feng Xin laughed, because Mu Qing most certainly would.
He turned to look at Mu Qing, who was still bending over the balcony railing to watch the cats weave between rows of parked scooters and bikes. The black cat did a particularly impressive maneuver from the seat of one scooter to the handles of another, and the corners of Mu Qing’s mouth quirked upwards. His silver hair was luminous in the sunlight, and Feng Xin felt that it was unfair, how Mu Qing seemed to be perfect from every angle.
“Let me braid your hair,” Feng Xin said abruptly.
Mu Qing turned to look at him, a little surprised, but he complied and turned to give Feng Xin access to his hair.
As he braided, Feng Xin was fascinated at how Mu Qing’s hair was still implausibly soft despite the bleach that had to have damaged his naturally black hair. The large assortment of hair products lined up on Mu Qing’s bathroom shelf wasn’t for nothing, he supposed. Feng Xin thought that if he had more money, he would buy Mu Qing all the hair products he wanted, though in truth, he might do so anyway.
“I love your hair,” Feng Xin said softly, and then, unable to stop himself, he continued. “I think I have since...since we were in high school, maybe. I’ve always wanted to braid it. To tangle my fingers in it, mess it up, and then smooth it down again, tuck it behind your ears. I’ve wanted to for a long time. I wanted—I wanted you. And I know you know, by now, but I want you to know again.” He was nearing the end of Mu Qing’s braid, the strands he wove becoming thinner, and his hands were shaking a little, but he made every twist slowly and carefully. “I was thinking, just now, that I might buy you all the expensive hair products you wanted, even if you bled my wallet dry. I don’t know, really. I—no. No, I do know. I really would. I really would, Mu Qing, and I think I would do anything for you, anything you—”
Mu Qing whipped around, roughly grabbing Feng Xin’s face with his hands. Feng Xin made a noise of protest, his handiwork having been snatched from his hands, most likely rapidly unbraiding at Mu Qing’s back. Mu Qing rolled his eyes. “Shut up.”
They were standing face-to-face, noses inches apart. Feng Xin could remember how in high school, he had always been a few centimeters taller; now, Mu Qing met him at eye level, both reaching the same exact height. It was something Feng Xin was sure Mu Qing took some sort of satisfaction in. Frankly, he didn’t mind either, not when he could see so deeply into Mu Qing’s dark brown eyes, lit amber by the sunlight. He wondered if Mu Qing, who was staring intensely back at him, was counting his freckles. Feng Xin had tried to do so when he was seven, laboriously counting his way across his face in the bathroom mirror, but he had always given up a few minutes in. Something made him believe that Mu Qing could succeed if he really tried.
“Mu Qing,” Feng Xin said. Mu Qing was still silent. “Mu Qing. Mu Qing.” It was nice, saying Mu Qing’s name over and over again, turning the tones in his mouth; Feng Xin was not repeating himself out of impatience. It seemed that they had all the time in the world, that he had all the time in the world for Mu Qing.
“You have 398 freckles,” Mu Qing responded, kissing him, and that was enough. Feng Xin would lay out his emotions underneath direct sunlight, each completely uncovered, and Mu Qing would give Feng Xin his in inconspicuous yet meticulously wrapped packaging.
There was a loud knock on the apartment door, and Mu Qing turned at the sound, hands still framing Feng Xin’s face, fingers entangled in his hair. “The baozi are here.”
Feng Xin smiled. “Let’s eat breakfast.”