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Sometimes, Mu Qing thinks that Xie Lian might be a cruel master after all.
He arrives at this conclusion not long after the three of them have settled into a routine in heaven. Temples still arise one after the other; demands for the Crown Prince’s attention grow by the hundreds and by the thousands, and Mu Qing and Feng Xin are both busy trying to relate the most important prayers to him.
Usually, Xie Lian separates them, sending them to different temples or letting them work on different days so they aren’t butting heads.
This time, however, he proudly announces that he’s thought of something better. “I’ve seen how well you two can collaborate,” he says, oblivious to the way Feng Xin pretends to gag and Mu Qing rolls his eyes. “Please work together for me! Just a few times!”
The list of things that would be more fun and more rewarding than sitting in a temple with Feng Xin is a long list; it’s a list that includes choking on a fish bone and stepping on an especially sharp rock, among others. Is it necessary for him to give commentary on every prayer, Mu Qing wonders? Is it necessary to swear every time? This is already the third day in a row that he’s had to endure it, and it’s starting to grate on his nerves.
“What the fuck do they think Dianxia is going to do about their fucking carp pond?” Feng Xin grumbles. “Don’t these people know how to help themselves? You can see the fucking river from right outside this damn temple, makes it pretty fucking obvious what to do if you ask me—”
Mu Qing sighs, and tilts his head back against the back of the divine statue where they’ve concealed themselves. It’s warm in here, and the thick cloud of fragrant incense isn’t helping; he tugs at the collar of his black robes and wishes for a cool breeze to make its way in from outside.
Next to him, Feng Xin suddenly coughs, interrupting his own monologue.
“Don’t hurt yourself,” Mu Qing says with another roll of his eyes. “Maybe if you stopped swearing so much…?”
Another cough—this one is rougher somehow. Feng Xin’s mouth flies up to cover his mouth, and for a second, his expression looks panicked enough that Mu Qing almost feels bad for mocking him.
When he lowers his hand a moment later and unfurls his palm, it’s to reveal a small cluster of pale pink petals, slightly crumpled. They look like the blossoms that come spiralling off the plum trees surrounding the Royal Holy Pavilion, neat and elegant.
Had he… his cough, had that produced those petals?
It’s Mu Qing’s turn for his eyes to widen as a memory strikes him—a story his mother had told, about a maiden in the land of Fusang whose heart had ached so terribly for someone who did not return her love that flowers began to grow in her chest. Soon, she could not contain them within, and she had coughed up the petals until they choked her to death. The story had frightened him, but he had never assumed there was anything truthful behind it. Poetic exaggeration, nothing more.
Feng Xin’s fist closes over the petals, though he reaches up to swipe his thumb over his lower lip, frowning indignantly.
Anyway, even if the story about the maiden was true, why would something like that appear again to afflict Feng Xin, of all people?
“Have you been eating something strange?” Mu Qing raises an eyebrow, and sticks out his foot so he can gently kick Feng Xin’s ankle. “The gardens here are for display, not for grazing like an ox.”
“Shut your fucking mouth,” Feng Xin answers, looking away. “It’s nothing. I don’t even know what you’re talking about. Fuck you.”
He’s right; it probably is nothing. The story his mother had told was just a story. After all, how many people must be harboring feelings that aren’t returned? If that condition really produced flowers in the lungs, the streets would be strewn with petals every day. Besides, the thought of Feng Xin actually falling in love with anyone is as ridiculous and improbable as the rest of the tale. He’s never cared for anyone at all except for the King and Queen and Xie Lian…
Oh. Perhaps…
Mu Qing feels something in his own chest twinge at that.
Now that he thinks about it, it would make sense, wouldn’t it? Feng Xin adores the ground Xie Lian walks on; sometimes it’s as if he’s specifically looking for danger so that he can give his life for his Crown Prince, eager to throw himself in harm’s way to save him. If his desperation to stay at Xie Lian’s side had crossed over from a servant’s devotion to become another kind of love, it really…
It really wouldn’t be surprising, Mu Qing thinks. Xie Lian is loveable, after all. Beautiful and handsome, kind and brave, clever and strong. Feng Xin tends to be idealistic anyway, so of course he’d be drawn to Xie Lian, the embodiment of an ideal.
Next to him, Feng Xin has fallen silent for once, and Mu Qing steals another glance. His expression is serious, one of his dark eyebrows twisted as usual while he chews on his lower lip; with his eyes downcast, long lashes sweep over his cheekbones. He’s handsome in a way that makes Mu Qing self-conscious sometimes, and he wonders whether Xie Lian thinks so too.
It’s making his chest ache to think about it, though, for reasons he’d rather not think too hard about right now while they’re supposed to be working.
He looks at the far wall of the temple, and is glad when a young woman walks in and prays for Xie Lian to help her find her lost pig.
Mu Qing hasn’t forgotten about it, but a few days later, it happens to Feng Xin again.
The three of them are in Xie Lian’s bedchamber in his heavenly palace, and Mu Qing is quietly undressing him, hands working efficiently to remove each layer of fabric and accessories. Feng Xin has no reason to be here, but he’s sprawling languidly in Xie Lian’s bed with the confidence of a large cat in a patch of sun, looking up at the ceiling with his customary frown.
“It sounds like there might be a formidable ghost near the city,” Xie Lian is musing, fingers twitching as he imagines swinging his sword at it. “We should descend and make more investigations, but it would explain what happened to the farmers, as well as…”
Feng Xin rolls over to his side, trying to disguise a quiet cough.
“Are you laughing?” Xie Lian frowns, but it fades when he looks over at his deputy, the expression replaced by something more concerned. “…Feng Xin, are you alright?”
Feng Xin’s shoulders heave, and he coughs again, wheezing as he tries to draw in more air. Even Mu Qing pauses his movements while Xie Lian stands half-dressed in the middle of the floor, feeling guilty for trying to continue his work while Feng Xin struggles. Xie Lian takes that as an invitation to rush to the side of the bed and kneel next to him, his hand going to Feng Xin’s shoulder to rub a comforting circle there.
Feng Xin props himself up on an elbow as he leans over the bed and spits out a mouthful of pale petals over the embroidered pillow cover.
Back in the temple, there might have been some ambiguity about where the petals had come from, but there’s no way he can deny it this time—they’ve definitely come from his throat, the source of his coughing fit. Maybe it’s nothing at all to do with love, like in the story, but whatever the cause, it looks painful enough that Mu Qing’s chest twists in sympathy.
“Feng Xin, what’s happening to you?” There’s a note of fear in Xie Lian’s voice. “What are these petals?”
“I don’t know.” Feng Xin closes his eyes, and sinks heavily back onto Xie Lian’s bed as he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. “Dianxia, please don’t worry about it, it’s happened before…”
“What do you mean, it’s happened before?!” Xie Lian’s eyes widen. “You—you’re dealing with some kind of curse, and you didn’t tell me? How am I supposed to help you if you don’t tell me about it?”
Feng Xin grits his teeth, and he makes a feeble attempt to push Xie Lian away, clearly not wanting to hurt him. “It’s fine. I said not to worry about it.”
“This isn’t normal, though!” Xie Lian reaches for one of the pale petals on his bed, ignoring the way Feng Xin weakly swats at his hand. “I mean, it reminds of a story that I heard a long time ago…Feng Xin, is there something you’re not telling us?”
Ah, the irony of him asking; Mu Qing winces on Feng Xin’s behalf.
“I don’t know any stories,” Feng Xin protests. “Can you just forget it? It doesn’t even hurt that bad…”
Xie Lian doesn’t typically like stories about love—he likes the ones about noble warriors and mighty gods and brilliant generals who engage in fantastical military feats. But perhaps this tale is more popular than Mu Qing realized.
“There was a noble lady in Fusang who fell in love with a soldier,” Xie Lian begins. “She was known for her beautiful flower arrangements, and when she sent love letters, they were scented like her favorite blossoms. But the soldier never felt the same way towards her, and he married another woman instead. The first woman couldn’t move on, and one day, she began to cough up flower petals as a sign of her affliction.”
“What the fuck,” Feng Xin says.
“She eventually died,” Mu Qing adds quietly.
“What the fuck,” Feng Xin repeats, louder.
“It’s just a story,” Xie Lian assures him, reaching down to smooth a loose strand of Feng Xin’s dark hair over his forehead. “But you see why we’re worried, right? I’ll go to the civil gods right away tomorrow and see if I can find anything about this condition—someone must have encountered it before. If it’s a curse, we’ll do something to lift it. I promise.”
Mu Qing finishes undressing Xie Lian, and excuses himself first.
He usually excuses himself first under the impression that they would prefer not to have him around longer than necessary, but this time, there’s some urgency behind his departure. When he gets to his own quarters, he draws the doors shut, discards his outer robe, and doubles over the nearest table as his body is wracked with a fit of coughing.
The lump in his throat is unbearable—the edges of the petals feel needle sharp as they force their way out of his throat. It’s fucking chrysanthemums—the long yellow florets spill out over the dark wood beneath him, and he spits to get one of them off his tongue, disgusted with himself for the uncleanliness of it.
Fuck.
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
It has to be a curse—he’s going to fucking kill whoever is responsible for it, as soon as he figures that part out. He’ll even kill them again, if they’re already a ghost. It’s unbearable enough having to live with the fact that he feels something more for Feng Xin—
Feng Xin would never look at him with admiration and overpowering devotion like he does with Xie Lian. He wouldn’t take an arrow or a blow from a sword for Mu Qing’s sake without a second thought—he probably wouldn’t do it at all, for that matter, certainly not on purpose. He doesn’t understand Mu Qing’s quiet attempts at humor, even though Xie Lian’s flattest jokes make him laugh so hard he can’t breathe, and that hurts too.
He’s the worst person Mu Qing knows, yet they’re forced to be at each other’s sides all the time, and he blames that for the feelings that sometimes tug at his heart. Blames it more than he blames his own misguided first impression, when he’d met Feng Xin and wondered if he could be brave like him too.
It hurts badly enough even without these fucking flowers adding to his conflicted yearning.
He’s not in love with Feng Xin, he tries to tell himself. It’s just… mixed up somehow, mixed up into his desire to be worthy of his company and Dianxia’s, which somehow translates to wanting Feng Xin to smile at him for once, to act like Mu Qing’s worthy of protection even if he doesn’t need it like Xie Lian needs it.
He’s in the midst of another bout of coughs when he hears his name from outside the door. Worse yet, a second later, the door is being wrenched open with more force than is appropriate, and he can tell by the sound of the footsteps who is rushing towards him without needing to turn around and look.
“Mu Qing,” Feng Xin says, reaching for his arm. “Don’t tell me you—you also—”
Mu Qing turns to glare at him. “Get out. You can’t just come in here like that.”
Feng Xin’s eyes flash in annoyance. “So I should have kept walking when I heard you choking? Wouldn’t you have been angry at me for ignoring you, too?”
Mu Qing continues to glare.
Feng Xin sighs, though, and his eyes flicker to the pile of golden petals in front of Mu Qing before coming back to scan his face. “Who did this to you?”
“Why would I know?” Mu Qing refuses to meet Feng Xin’s gaze, and instead looks at where Feng Xin is still gripping his arm. “If I knew any more about this than you, I wouldn’t keep it to myself.”
“Right, but I meant…” Feng Xin’s thumb brushes over Mu Qing’s wrist in a gesture that’s probably accidental; Mu Qing is fairly certain that he’s looking down now, too, but he doesn’t want to glance up to check. “…the other person. Tell me who it is, and I’ll beat them up for leaving you like this.”
He’s standing too close, Mu Qing thinks. Close enough that he can hear Feng Xin’s quiet breaths and smell the warmth of amber and agarwood around him. Some small voice in his head wonders how it would feel if he gave in and sank his head onto Feng Xin’s shoulder and let himself be consoled, just this once. It hurts, after all.
He could tell him. Maybe he could even get Feng Xin to slap himself in the face, which he probably deserves. That would be nice.
While Mu Qing hesitates to answer, Feng Xin looks up again; he releases Mu Qing’s arm, and brings his thumb up to Mu Qing’s cheek to dab at the hint of a tear that he finds there, fallen as an unfortunate result of his coughing fit.
“Don’t touch me,” Mu Qing says quietly.
Feng Xin drops his hand like he’s been scalded. “Shit. Fine. Suit your fucking self or whatever. Forget I said anything, and choke in your sleep for all I care.”
Mu Qing would like to.
There’s still the ghost to contend with. Xie Lian talks to the civil gods about the petals that plague his deputies, but bids Mu Qing and Feng Xin to descend with him after. The fits of coughing aren’t constant, at least, and haven't impeded their ability to wield a sword and bow respectively, and Mu Qing is honestly glad for the distraction.
In fact, it turns out to be two ghosts egging each other on in a spiralling rivalry—one of them a maimed farmer determined to get revenge on the cruel landowner who had forced him to work, the other the former owner of the nearby manor whose desire for profit had superseded his care for his tenants. Their quarrel itself isn’t really important, although it isn’t hard to piece together the details of it, what with the atrocious resentment they have for one another.
The problem is that the fight is messy, and the farmer isn’t alone. In the turmoil that follows from all the raised corpses clawing themselves out of the mud to join the cause, Mu Qing finds himself separated from Xie Lian and Feng Xin, driven backwards down a muddy hillside until he’s treading carefully along the edges of a rice field.
It’s more annoyance than danger, though; he doesn’t lose his footing, and the standing water confuses and impedes the corpses more than it bothers him. By the time the others rejoin him, the corpses aren’t in a state to be fighting back anymore, and Mu Qing has found a relatively dry patch of grass to try and dry off his boots.
“Nice work,” Xie Lian congratulates him as he rushes over, the hem of his robes splashed with mud. Mu Qing tries not to sigh audibly.
Next to him, Feng Xin coughs.
It starts small, but even after a few pale petals tumble from his mouth, his chest continues to heave until he’s clutching at his throat and doubling over. Xie Lian’s arms are instantly around him, supporting him as he guides his head to rest against his shoulder, and Mu Qing feels his heart sink in his chest.
Xie Lian might not return Feng Xin’s feelings, but he’s clearly better at giving comfort than Mu Qing could be; it’s natural that Feng Xin would turn to him. It’s not like Mu Qing would be the type to rub those soothing circles into his shoulders while he spits out another mouthful of petals. But it’s not fair, because Xie Lian doesn’t feel the same—this curse has to be what the legend says it is, and so it’s Xie Lian’s fault that Feng Xin is suffering in the first place.
Not that Mu Qing bears him resentment, but it still stings, like alcohol in a cut.
He’s in the process of opening his mouth to say that he’ll go back to the heavenly capital first, but it isn’t words that come out. It’s the damn chrysanthemum petals, forcing their way up and out of his throat until he’s gagging too. The yellow florets tumble over the front of his black robes and land in the mud, and he tentatively tears his gaze away to look up at the others.
“Aahh?” Xie Lian’s hands still their course over Feng Xin’s back. “You too?!”
Mu Qing grimaces. “I thought—” A petal gets in the way of his tongue; he spits. “I thought Feng Xin would tell you.”
“Why the fuck,” Feng Xing snarls, “would I fucking tell him? It’s your shitty problem.”
“Obviously it’s yours too!” Mu Qing feels his temper flare.
“Right, so can’t I worry about myself, and you worry about yourself?”
“Stop!” Xie Lian interrupts before it can escalate further. “Both of you, stop it. We’re going back to my palace right now, and you’re going to sit there and exchange idioms as best you can until I get back from the civil gods’ palaces. This has gone on long enough.”
There’s a trail of pink and yellow petals leading to the main hall of Xie Lian’s palace, and Mu Qing winces as he considers who’s going to be left to sweep them up later. But Xie Lian leaves him sitting back-to-back with Feng Xin and with a starting idiom, and fortunately, the bouts of coughing seem to subside for the time being.
The competitive spirit of the game keeps them occupied, too, until Xie Lian comes bursting back into the hall a little less than half a shichen later with a scroll clutched in his hands.
“They found something!” he exclaims as he folds himself onto the floor next to them, robes fanning out around him like an unfurling lotus. “It turns out it isn’t that uncommon—it’s a curse that relies on a particular kind of demonic cultivation. It relies on the pollen of flowers to spread, naturally, and can take root in someone whose romantic feelings aren’t returned.”
Feng Xin lets out an unhappy sigh. “How the fuck can it tell?”
“More importantly, how do we get rid of it?” Mu Qing adds.
Xie Lian pauses; he’s looking between the two of them, expression thoughtful—and, then, abruptly, sad. “Who wouldn’t love either of you back? You’re both brave and handsome, even if you’re a little difficult sometimes…”
“Dianxia,” Feng Xin snaps. “Please stop.”
Mu Qing quietly curses his own thin face, knowing that his cheeks and the tips of his ears must be bright red. At least Feng Xin sitting at his back won’t be able to see it. “That part isn’t important. Just tell us how to fix this.”
Xie Lian nods, and opens the scroll. “There are two ways listed in here,” he says. “The first one, like the curse itself, relies on demonic cultivation—it can be removed. Literally cut out of you from the root, if I’m reading this correctly. It will come at the cost of your feelings for the other person, however. Or, if the ritual is not performed correctly, your ability to ever feel love again could be permanently damaged for the rest of your life, but I wouldn’t let that happen to either of you.”
Despite Xie Lian’s quiet confidence, Mu Qing shudders, and involuntarily curls backwards against Feng Xin.
Pragmatically, of course, there’s something to be said for that procedure; if someone were stabbed with a blade, no one would suggest leaving the blade inside of them. Without distraction, he could better serve the palace of the Crown Prince of Xianle and focus on his own cultivation.
But he already feels like there’s a lonely, cold void inside of him, and sometimes he thinks it’s only made bearable because he gets to be at Xie Lian’s side with Feng Xin.
“Fuck that,” Feng Xin answers bluntly.
Of course it would be more difficult for him—his love for Xie Lian is probably more inextricably bound up to his service to him. Removing one would damage the other, like hacking out the foundations of a building and expecting it still to stand.
“You said there were two ways.” Mu Qing is at least able to keep his voice measured and calm.
“The other way isn’t a procedure, as such,” Xie Lian replies. “It just says that the curse can be dissipated if the afflicted person’s feelings are returned. So all we need to do is find them, and make them love you! Simple, right?”
“No,” Feng Xin and Mu Qing answer in unison.
The amused glint in Xie Lian’s eye dims, and his face quickly grows serious again. “I’d like to think that is the most painless way. No one can be forced to love anyone else, but maybe it’s only a matter of them getting to know you better, seeing another side of you that they haven’t seen before. I will do whatever I can to help you earn that opportunity, if each of you tell me who it is.”
It’s almost funny; Feng Xin has to listen to Xie Lian saying that while nursing his feelings for him, and Mu Qing’s left to sit next to him while knowing Feng Xin is yearning for someone that isn’t him.
“Fuck,” Feng Xin says. “Shit. Damn. Fuck. This is fucking unfair. Isn’t there anything else we can do?”
“Probably,” Xie Lian concedes. “There’s always another way. I don’t know how long it will take to find it, though, and I’m worried that we don’t have much time. It doesn’t hurt to try this in the meantime, does it?”
“Dianxia, believe me when I say that it’s not going to work,” Feng Xin continues to protest. “They’d rather die than give me a chance, and I know this. Can’t we just find whatever shitty cultivator caused this, and punch them until they revoke the damn curse?”
Mm…? Dianxia would rather die…? That doesn’t sound right.
“Have you even confessed to him?” Mu Qing sighs, and rolls his eyes. “Isn’t it better just to tell him now so that he knows what he’s getting into by trying to help you?”
He expects another quick volley of cussing. Instead, he’s met with silence, except for Feng Xin’s very quiet intake of breath. Mu Qing feels his back tense up behind him.
“ He, ” Feng Xin finally says, and there’s a strange emphasis on it. “ He hasn’t made a single damn effort to try and help me, despite knowing about my condition all along, and he even mocked me for it on more than one occasion despite fucking suffering from it himself. So why the fuck would I want to confess to him? It’s obvious he doesn’t feel the same, so I’ll avoid fucking making a fool of myself in front of him, thank you very fucking much!”
It takes a moment to parse that.
Xie Lian is demonstrably trying to help Feng Xin, and has never mocked him, even if he tries to lighten the mood with smiles and positive affirmations. Xie Lian is also pointedly not coughing up petals like Feng Xin and—
It’s not Xie Lian. It can’t be Xie Lian. If it’s not Xie Lian, then who…?
Mu Qing’s heart makes a sudden lurch before he can reign his emotions back in. It’s probably a mistake, Feng Xin can’t be referring to him, Feng Xin doesn’t even like him. Feng Xin can’t like him, or else Mu Qing wouldn’t have a chest full of flower petals, unless this fucking curse is too fucking stupid to tell the difference, in which case someone should really go and throttle the idiot cultivator who’s responsible.
His head spins, and he feels his chest tightening again like it’s trying to remind him that nothing’s been resolved yet.
Feng Xin also lets out a shaky breath, and coughs again. Mu Qing can imagine the little plum blossom petals on his tongue, delicate and pink.
“There’s someone else with this condition too?” Xie Lian frowns. “How widespread is this? Feng Xin, how did you…”
Mu Qing lowers his head. “Dianxia, could you… could you give us some time alone?”
He can hear the confusion still in Xie Lian’s voice when he agrees, and hesitantly sees himself to the door; he can feel Feng Xin’s shoulders slumping forward, too, as Feng Xin leans forward with his elbows on his knees and his head propped in his hands.
“Just go ahead and say it,” Feng Xin mumbles once they’re sure Xie Lian is out of earshot. “Call me names or whatever you have to do. I don’t care anymore.”
Mu Qing considers that he should move; that he doesn’t need to stay sitting here on the wooden palace floor with his back turned to Feng Xin, studying a screen painting he’s seen a hundred times rather than Feng Xin’s scowling face. But there’s also a sense of safety in knowing that Feng Xin can’t see him, either, can’t see the way his pale skin always betrays his blushes before he’s even aware of them himself.
“You aren’t in love with Dianxia,” Mu Qing clarifies, just to be sure.
“What the fuck?” Feng Xin replies. “I’m not trying to fight you for him. If you two want to try your sexless cultivation partnership together, then I’m happy for you both. As long as you can get rid of this curse for me, then I don’t care, I’ll get over it eventually…”
What…? “You think I’m in love with Dianxia?”
“Aren’t you?” Feng Xin’s voice is a bitter snarl, in contrast to his words, and it leads again into a cough.
Mu Qing rolls to the side and onto his knees with a grimace before crawling to Feng Xin’s side, drawing himself up to sit next to him.
There is a small shower of petals on the floor around Feng Xin, delicate and pink in contrast to the strong lines of his face and the armor strapped across his broad chest. His expression looks incendiary, and he refuses to look at Mu Qing, gnawing on the inside of his cheek as he levels his furious gaze onto one of Xie Lian’s jade ornaments instead.
“For how long?” Mu Qing asks.
Feng Xin still won’t look at him, but he sighs. “Don’t ask if you’re just trying to torment me.”
“For me—” Mu Qing feels his voice waver, and he swallows, forcing himself to continue. It’s not as if it’s easy to discuss feelings; he hadn’t wanted his mother to worry at home, so he had tried his best not to share with her, and since then it’s been the same—Xie Lian doesn’t need his burdens on top of his own, and there’s no one else at the palace or the Royal Holy Pavilion who would have cared to listen. “I wanted you to like me from the start, but I think it was later that I realized.”
“Hmm…?” Feng Xin finally uncurls a little bit, and there’s a faint trace of something hopeful in his voice, even from the single word he speaks. “You…”
Mu Qing hesitates, then holds out a hand, palm upwards, waiting for Feng Xin to take the invitation.
He finds himself watching in fascination as Feng Xin’s fingers slide between his; his hands are warm, though Mu Qing can feel the rough edges of calluses from training with bow and sword. Still, Feng Xin squeezes lightly once his fingers have locked into place, and when he looks up, he sees the furrow has finally released from Feng Xin’s brow.
“I’ve thought of another solution,” Xie Lian announces excitedly, after Feng Xin goes to find him and invite him back into his own palace. “Since you two are convinced the other person won’t return your feelings, what if we can find a way to persuade you to fall out of love with them? All we’d have to do is expose you to their worst traits. You could see that they’re not that great after all, and that trying to romance them would be a terrible idea.”
“That wouldn’t work,” Mu Qing answers calmly as he pours a cup of tea for Xie Lian. “I’ve already attempted that method. I’m sorry, but it really didn’t work at all.”
“Same,” Feng Xin agrees.
Xie Lian glances between them, his skepticism evident. “Did you two just agree on something?”
Mu Qing happens to catch Feng Xin’s eye, and gives him the trace of a smile. In fact, they agreed on more than one thing, but who’s counting?