Work Text:
"Shut up," Mu Qing says, draped out across Hua Cheng’s couch with his head in Xie Lian’s lap, tapping at his phone. “ Die Hard is not a Christmas movie.”
“It takes place on fucking Christmas,” Feng Xin waves his glass of eggnog emphatically. “Ergo, a Christmas movie.”
“Oh god,” Hua Cheng says.
“Honestly, Mu Qing, if you have such impeccable fucking taste, what’s your favorite Christmas movie?”
“ It’s A Wonderful Life ,” Mu Qing answers immediately.
Feng Xin snorts. He likes this. He likes the warm feeling of friends and drinks and arguing with Mu Qing. “ It’s A Wonderful Life ? Aren’t you supposed to be some try-hard hipster? Why the most basic fucking Christmas movie of all time?”
Xie Lian sighs.
“It’s a classic,” Mu Qing says. “And it reminds me that if I died, you all would be fucking sorry.”
“That is a really morbid way to look at that movie,” Feng Xin mutters.
“Hey, gege, you want another drink?” Hua Cheng says much too loudly. “I’m gonna go get another drink.”
“You saying you wouldn’t miss me?” Mu Qing’s cheeks are pleasantly rosy, even when he’s sneering at Feng Xin with a weird look in his eyes.
“I’ll come with you, San Lang,” Xie Lian says, stroking Mu Qing’s hair off of his forehead before slipping out from underneath him.
“What? No. Ew,” Feng Xin says. “You wish. Like you would even miss me.”
Hua Cheng takes Xie Lian’s hand, tugging him out of the room.
Mu Qing looks up, dropping his phone onto his chest. “Why do you care?”
“I don’t. You’re the one who brought it up.” Feng Xin’s cup is empty. He hates this, actually. The cozy feelings have been replaced by a strange buzzing right beneath his skin. He needs to get drunk. A single eggnog doesn’t even make him tipsy.
“Well, let’s just drop it.”
“You would, wouldn’t you?” Feng Xin blurts, and, oh, he wishes he were tipsy so he could blame the drinks for anything he says.
“Shut up. No.” Mu Qing sits up, looking away. “I absolutely would not. Shut the fuck up.”
“You would.” Feng Xin moves closer, jutting his chin in the air. “You would’ve said no sooner if-”
“Feng Xin, shut up,” Mu Qing says, rolling his eyes.
“You’re so pathetic.”
“Feng Xin. ” Mu Qing jerks his chin forward.
“What?” Feng Xin looks up.
Oh.
Oh.
“Yeah.” Mu Qing’s flush deepens.
“I fucking hate Hua Cheng.”
It’s a sprig of mistletoe, tied inconspicuously to the wall. Directly above them. Mocking them with its greenness.
“Don’t we all,” Mu Qing mutters. He drops his head to look at Feng Xin, and his eyes are dark and unreadable.
“Uh,” Feng Xin says.
Mu Qing snorts.
“You’re not seriously fucking thinking-”
“Hua Cheng would absolutely know if we didn’t,” Mu Qing says, and when did he get closer? Oh. This is bad. Feng Xin should not be sober for this conversation.
And Mu Qing looks… weird. Not bad weird, but Mu Qing has a weird look in his eye and a weird small smile on his face and his lips are pink and it’s weird that Feng Xin is considering this.
“He would,” Feng Xin says, and when did his voice get quiet? “So. Mistletoe.”
“Yeah.” Mu Qing swallows. “Mistletoe.”
Mu Qing’s lips have always seemed soft whenever Feng Xin absolutely doesn’t stare at them. They’re even softer when he cups Feng Xin’s jaw and kisses him.
It’s strangely gentle, the way that Mu Qing kisses. Feng Xin wishes he could hate it, but instead, his fingertips trace Mu Qing’s cheek, and then Mu Qing’s jaw tilts, and then they’re actually kissing, and Feng Xin is going to float away, high on one glass of eggnog and the fact that Mu Qing is a weirdly good kisser.
All too soon, though, Mu Qing is pulling away, flopping back against the couch, face red all the way down his collar.
Oh, fuck.
Feng Xin is completely fucked.