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If he hadn't sworn to never again curse the palace of Ling Wen, Mu Qing would be cussing up a storm right about now.
“No one’s coming until tomorrow,” he reports from where he’s propped up on a log, letting his hand drop from his temple as he leaves the communication array. “And I’m… fresh out of spiritual energy, so you’re going to have to be the one to get off of your ass and fight this if you want to get out of here sooner.”
Feng Xin looks up from where he’s poking at the fire between them with a stick, raising an eyebrow. “Seriously?” he says. “I’d think you’d fight tooth and nail to get out of spending any more time with me.”
Mu Qing rolls his eyes, scratching his arm. “Yeah, well.” I just had to fight tooth and nail, no thanks to you.
Feng Xin looks away.
The mission had started normally enough. They’ve been working together more and more since the fall of Jun Wu and the heavens’ attempt to “promote unity among the martial gods,” or whatever nonsense all the others had begun spouting.
It was going marvelously until Mu Qing misstepped.
Now they’re stranded in the middle of a forest, Mu Qing’s spiritual energy depleted, the remnants of a bloody nose making his head feel light.
His hands ache. The horde of mid-level ghosts they fought off released an irritating, itching powder when killed, and Mu Qing hadn’t caught it in time to avoid his hands and arms becoming covered in it. Little red welts dot his hands, itchy and aggravating no matter how much he scratches.
“You’re gonna scar if you keep that shit up,” says Feng Xin helpfully, jutting his chin forward. He, of course, avoided the worst of it by staying at a distance with his bow and arrow. Fucking typical, Mu Qing thinks.
“I don’t see you offering any better ideas,” Mu Qing hisses as his nail catches on the underside of one of the welts.
“I just gave you one. Stop itching.”
This is going to be a long, long night.
“Please tell me you at least had the forethought to pack a tent.”
“I’m not a fucking idiot,” Feng Xin says. He eyes Mu Qing’s hands. “Though you must be if you’re stupid enough to risk ruining your hands.”
Mu Qing is spiritually and physically exhausted, and it takes everything in him to not launch at Feng Xin when he knows it’s a fight he won’t win, not in his current state. “Why do you care, anyway?”
“I don’t,” Feng Xin snaps. “I just don’t want to put up the tent alone.”
Mu Qing scratches the back of his forearm viciously. “I don’t care. If you’re too weak to put it up alone, then we can sleep under the stars.”
Feng Xin huffs, watching as Mu Qing itches his palm. “Fine.” He takes his qiankun pouch with him, walking past Mu Qing to the flat stretch of ground between the trees behind them.
Mu Qing feels uncharacteristically squirmy with the unbearable itching that covers his hands. Is it spreading? He can't tell if it's spreading. He wants to crawl out of his own skin.
“Put some snow on it, for fuck’s sake,” Feng Xin calls, the sounds of shuffling and poles clanking together following him. “You’re going to scratch your hand off.”
Mu Qing wants to snap back, but Feng Xin… may have a point. Possibly. He scowls down at his welt-covered hands, at the packed snow between his boots planted on the ground. Huffing, he scoops some up, trying to avoid as much dirt and ash from the fire as possible before pressing it against the back of his hand.
The effect is instantaneous. Mu Qing moans before he can stop himself, the ice stinging the back of his hand, though not painfully. In fact, it soothes the itching for only a moment, the tips of his fingers tinting red as the snow melts against his hand.
“Told you so," Feng Xin says.
"Fuck off.” Mu Qing scoops up another handful of snow, simply holding it in his hands. “It’s- I would’ve thought of it eventually."
Feng Xin snorts. "You're welcome."
Perhaps Mu Qing should thank him, but Mu Qing is not a kind person. Instead, he relishes in the relieving sting of the snow, barely listening as Feng Xin grunts his way through setting up their tent.
"Would it kill you to put up the tent quietly?" Mu Qing asks when a particularly loud grunt is paired with the sound of metal clashing on metal.
"Would it kill you to help?"
Mu Qing huffs. The snow drips from his hands as it warms, the stinging against his palms aching and growing then fading like ocean waves. He lets out a small sound before he can help himself, eyes fluttering closed and mouth falling open at the feeling of delicious relief.
Mu Qing just barely hears Feng Xin’s mumbled curse and a shuffle, but it’s enough to pull him back to the present. He changes out the snow again, the light from the fire flickering dim in the night. He wonders if he could get Feng Xin to add more wood. The pile is right next to him, sure, but Feng Xin seems to be in a weirdly helpful mood already. Mu Qing hopes it doesn’t stick; it’s honestly really fucking annoying. He picks up a fresh handful, his hands wet and warm and slick.
“Hey, uh, Mu Qing?” Feng Xin’s voice wavers in the way it does when he knows he’s fucked up; Mu Qing can practically see him scratching the back of his neck in his mind’s eye.
“What?” Mu Qing barks.
“Did you…” Feng Xin audibly swallows. “Did you pack any extra blankets?”
Mu Qing is so, so fucking tired. “I don’t know, Feng Xin. What do you think? I was planning on fucking ascendin;, you’re the one that packed a tent like some sort of creep.”
“Shut up,” Feng Xin retorts. “Just- shit. How’s the fucking snow going?”
“What? Why do you care?”
“I don’t know. Shut up. It’s just fucking cold, and you’re fucking poisoned and treating me like a pile of dogshit, and is it too much to fucking think about the fact that I might actually fucking care that you’re alright?”
Oh.
Oh.
The fire crackles. Feng Xin’s breathing feels too loud among the silence, and if Mu Qing were a weaker person, he’d find a way to fill it.
“Shit,” Feng Xin says, his voice much closer now. Mu Qing looks up, Feng Xin’s breath puffing out warm against his face. “You’re fucking bleeding. What the fuck, Mu Qing, why didn’t you fucking say something?”
“What?” Mu Qing looks down at his hands. Oh. No wonder his hands are warm now; the blister-like pocks from the wound have burst in the cold, his hands red and shiny with blood.
“Fucking shit.” Mu Qing can only watch as Feng Xin steps over the log, taking a seat beside him and ripping a piece of his sleeve off his teeth in the same motion. “You’re such a fucking idiot in an asshat.”
“Shut up,” Mu Qing says, wiping his hands off on his cold stiff robes and rolling his eyes. “It’s my hands, you dimwit. It’s not like I hurt you .”
Feng Xin shakes his head, silent as he takes Mu Qing’s hands in his own. The snow is beginning to fall again, now, coating the side of Feng Xin that isn’t facing the fire in white, snowflakes blinking against his cheeks for just a moment before it melts. Feng Xin’s breath is warm against Mu Qing’s hands in contrast to the cold of the night, puffing against his skin as Feng Xin pulls his bottom lip between his teeth and props Mu Qing’s hand on his knee.
The world shouldn’t feel as small as it does in this moment, with Feng Xin’s calluses brushing against the back of Mu Qing’s hand. Feng Xin works with strangely practiced precision, the same expression on his face as when they fight. It’s different seeing that face up close, the drawn eyebrows and sharp eyes, the tongue poking out from between his lips as Feng Xin absentmindedly brushes a strand of long dark hair off of his forehead. The fire crackles in the background, painting Feng Xin in sharp orange light.
“You’re staring,” Feng Xin says without looking up. He tucks the cloth in on itself before letting Mu Qing’s first hand drop to rest on his leg and taking the second one in his grip.
Mu Qing’s hand curls against Feng Xin’s thigh of their own accord, scratchy fabric against his fingertips. “I’m not.”
Feng Xin shakes his head, chuckling. “Whatever, Mu Qing. Do whatever the fuck you want.”
“Don’t get a big head over this.” Mu Qing rolls his eyes, knee bumping against Feng Xin’s as he shifts. “I could’ve bandaged myself.”
“I could’ve just fucking left you to bleed. Either shut up or say thank you.”
Mu Qing shuts up. He doesn’t stop staring, though, even now that he’s been caught. Something about the dense forest around them feels safe in a way Mu Qing doesn’t in heaven.
Feng Xin tucks the fabric against the second bandage, imbuing the hand with spiritual energy. Mu Qing expects Feng Xin to drop his hand, to turn away and complain about the tent again, but he doesn’t. Instead, Feng Xin pauses, looking up at Mu Qing.
“What-”
Mu Qing’s breath catches in his throat when Feng Xin presses his bandaged knuckles to his lips.
Even though it’s through a layer of fabric, Mu Qing swears he can feel heat against his skin, flooding down his arm and making his cheeks flood with color. Feng Xin kisses his knuckles, then his palm, then his wrist, not once taking his eyes off Mu Qing.
“Wh-” Mu Qing swallows, throat suddenly dry. “Who’s staring now?”
Feng Xin pulls away. “Don’t be a dumbass.” He presses his thumb against Mu Qing’s pulse point. “You’ve never fucking noticed me staring at your ugly ass before, so why the fuck would it be so different now?” And with that, he slides off the bench, boots crunching in the snow as he returns to the tent.
Mu Qing stares at the fire for a moment, hands numb. His hand twitches.
Wait.
“What do you mean I’ve never noticed you staring before?” Mu Qing jumps to his feet, hands playing with his loose sleeves.
Feng Xin drops a sack in the snow, pulling his ponytail over his shoulder. “What the fuck do you think it means?”
Mu Qing blinks. “I-” he swallows. “I don’t-”
Feng Xin stretches his arms over his head, adjusting a rope at the top of the tent. “You really are a little shithead.” He turns back to Mu Qing, shoulders tense. “Do I need to kiss you again?”
“Yes,” Mu Qing says before he can stop himself.
Feng Xin catches himself, stopping abruptly. “You-”
Mu Qing takes two steps forward and kisses him.
Feng Xin’s lips are like the rest of him, callused but warm, firm but brash against Mu Qing’s. Mu Qing props his hands on Feng Xin’s waist as Feng Xin cups his jaw in his hand, deepening the kiss with a slide of his tongue against Mu Qing’s own.
“Dumbass,” Feng Xin mutters against his lips.
“Idiot. I’ve noticed you staring, you know.” Mu Qing says. “You just never noticed me noticing.”
“I’m noticing now, aren’t I?”
“Shut up and kiss me again.”
He does.