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Mu Qing didn’t think he’d ever be able to get over that twisted mess of emotions laying taut in his chest when it came to Xie Lian, too embittered by the remnants and remembrance of moments filled with anxiety and feelings of worthlessness.
(He remembers the chief eunuch explaining what the expectations of Mu Qing were, of how he had to meet all of Xie Lian’s needs despite his own youth and inexperience and fears. The offhand, dismissive comments of how he’d get used to it.
Even before then, there were lords, young and old, eager to press their hands to Mu Qing’s skin until the pale flesh was bruised with blacks and blues, some bold enough to leave them even through the heavier robes Xie Lian had donned Mu Qing in, pulling him aside where no one could hear or see their demands. Some spilled sickly-sweet compliments, words they never ever would mean, and others were cruel, honest in the way they stabbed at all of his insecurities.
Slipping away from those lords, with secret doses of opium or overflowing cups of alcohol, with nimble feet and quick-witted lies, only reminded Mu Qing that when it came to His Highness, he wouldn’t be able to.
He’d watch Xie Lian train (desperately ignoring the aching ghost of some untoward noble’s hand around his wrist or upper arm) and listen to the disciples sing praises of: “His Highness is so strong!”
The harder it was to get away still whole, the more it hurt when he finally freed himself, even when his status became one that others shouldn’t quite touch, the worse that fear became because Xie Lian was stronger than them. And he had no choice, no escape, in being nothing but Xie Lian’s.)
It would feel ridiculous now if his fear hadn’t been so real, if it hadn’t consumed every moment of his being for so long, as short as those years may seem when reviewing the life spent in over 800 years. It was hard even now to not look at Xie Lian and think ‘master’, no matter how adamant Mu Qing was to never refer to the other god as ‘His Highness’ ever again. Hard because, even after all this time, Mu Qing still looked at himself and saw a servant, too poor to ever matter.
But Xie Lian seemed determined to break that out of him.
“You needn’t serve me—!” Mu Qing protested, stiltedly.
He’d come to visit Xie Lian, as he’d done once a week for the past few weeks now— ever since Xie Lian caught him outside with the village kids and an empty basket. But today, rather than busy themselves around the shrine or village or answering the prayers of Xie Lian’s devotees, they’d found themselves with nothing to do. Nothing but sit down together and actually learn to be in each other’s company without distraction.
“You’re a guest in my home, it is only right,” Xie Lian said firmly, deliberately pouring tea for Mu Qing first before serving himself. He settled down at the table, sitting across from Mu Qing, a small smirk on his lips. “Is that not proper, Mu Qing?”
Mu Qing clamped his mouth shut stubbornly, echoes of his own soft lectures and Feng Xin’s mother henning rebukes of propriety still ringing in his ears. For someone so prone to losing his memories, it felt unfair to have Xie Lian remember those habits that Mu Qing once held and try to use it against him (holding the past as fodder for future interactions was Mu Qing’s thing). He would not humor such...such blatant —
“You’re overthinking again,” Xie Lian sighed, taking a careful sip from his cup.
“Y-you’re trying to-to provoke me!” Mu Qing argued, turning pink.
Xie Lian laughed. “Into doing what?”
He didn’t have an answer to that. “Eat your dumplings,” he huffed, instead. After a long, prickly moment where Xie Lian idly nibbled on a dumpling, watching Mu Qing all the while, Mu Qing spoke again to dispel the flustered heat rising in his neck like a swarm of angry ants. “...I’m surprised you remember that.”
“Oh? How could I forget?” Xie Lian snickered, a wicked gleam suddenly brightening his eyes. He pitched his voice slightly higher, a breezy softness to it that made Mu Qing flush in embarrassment. “Taizi Dianxia, you mustn’t-- how can you be so s-shameless? Dianxia, you c-can’t just speak so o-openly-- ”
“I-I do not sound like that!” Mu Qing protested. Nothing had changed. Xie Lian has clearly only grown more shameless with the centuries that had passed.
“You do!” Xie Lian said gleefully. “Feng Xin would agree with me. That’s exactly how you speak.”
“I do not! And Feng Xin doesn’t get an opinion on this!”
“That sounds like an admission,” Xie Lian teased. “You’ve the softest voice-- really, it suits you.”
This conversation was quickly becoming a mess, spiraling away from where Mu Qing could control and guide it to only focusing on what he wanted to focus on. “W-what do you mean by that?!”
“You’ve soft features. It only makes sense that your voice would match.” Xie Lian said this as if it were okay. As it were appropriate to tell a martial god he looked soft. “Delicate. It was one of the things about you that first drew me to you-- how you seemed so...dainty. Elegant, even, more than I’d seen of others then, but you are so strong as well. Honed like a fine sword--”
Mu Qing’s eyes go wide. What were these— these compliments? ‘Tenacious’ he knew, just as well as he knew bullheaded stubbornness. ‘Effeminate’ and ‘pretty’ were ones he’d heard often enough, too. But elegant? ‘A fine sword’?? Xie Lian’s fondness for weapons wasn’t lost to him, but it doesn’t sound like it would’ve sounded to Mu Qing before. It’s different now; sentence of, Mu Qing dared to say, Xie Lian’s admiration rather than possession of him.
Mu Qing’s breath catches. It was impossible. Even if Xie Lian’s words have always held an openness that felt brazen for all that it was too honest, he often kept his affection, his caring, closer to his heart than wore it on his sleeve. Mu Qing might realize now that he was much too quick at misunderstanding them, but, even so, there were still things too factual to deny. Praise…they’d never truly been bestowed to him in kind, without a criticism following or leading into it. Still,
“Something happened in heaven,” Mu Qing stammered out the lie, barely touching his fingers to his temple and quickly climbing to his feet. “I must get going.”
Xie Lian reached for his own temple, rising to his feet. “I don’t hear anything in the array--”
But Mu Qing had already hurried away, face as red as the accents in his old Xianle robes, the sound of gentle laughter trailing out after him.
————————
The other god leaned forward, voice pitching low and conspiratorial. “What if we do something else?”
A wave of alarm rushed through Mu Qing. He’d meant to return, of course, but Xie Lian’s patience was oft limited when it came to Mu Qing. He knew that, knew it from their youth and somehow expected it to change in the years they’d spent apart. But it hadn't. So when Xie Lian just appeared at the Xuan Zhen Palace, a mere three days later, Mu Qing really shouldn’t have been surprised.
Mu Qing had asked, rather innocently, if Xie Lian needed help with something, valiantly trying to fight the blush raging to reappear at the thought of their last conversation. He should’ve known better.
“I have an idea…”
When Xie Lian spoke like that, it never meant anything good. Mu Qing knew this, too. He knew all too well.
(“Ever wonder if ribbons could be used as weapons?” Xie Lian mused, twirling a lengthy piece of silk about in the air.
Mu Qing and Feng Xin glanced at each other, oddly in harmony for once, both confused and wary as to where this was going.
“I have not, Your Highness,” Feng Xin frowned. “Why—”
“I think I’d like to try.” Xie Lian paused in the middle of their walk, the speckled sunlight falling through the thick leaves of the forest trees brightening and shadowing him in patches.
Feng Xin blinked. “Try what, Your Highness?”
“Using a ribbon as a weapon!” He grinned, deviousness all along the pull and stretch of his lips. And then he struck out, hand snapping through the air quickly. The ribbon, a deep, pretty red, lashed through the air and, with a flick of Xie Lian’s hand, wrapped around Mu Qing and Feng Xin’s waists.
“Taizi Dianxia!”
“Your Highness!”
They both cried out as Xie Lian yanked the ribbon back, tugging Feng Xin and Mu Qing forward forcefully, too quick and strong for them to brace their feet and avoid the head-on collision right into their prince. Their bodies slammed into each other, feet slipping on the leafy ground, and suddenly they were tumbling. Bodies fumbling over and over, unable to stop as they rolled down the slight incline just off the side of the path. They’d finally stopped at the bottom, tangled together.
“Your Highness—” Feng Xin groaned, wincing, and trying to pull his limbs away from where they were caught in some weird knot with Xie Lian’s and Mu Qing’s. Leaves were tangled in his hair, sticking out of his robes. There was dirt smudged onto his face like soot from a pot.
“A warning would have been nice,” Mu Qing thought, grumbling, as he tried picking himself up, already cringing from the feel of broken leaves and sand in his own clothes. Xie Lian and Feng Xin turned to him suddenly.
“The fuck did you say?” Feng Xin snapped.
Mu Qing paled. He must’ve spoken aloud. He dropped into a bow quickly, swallowing harshly. “T-taizi Dianxia—”
But Xie Lian laughed, hands curling around Mu Qing’s shoulders and guiding him up. “I suppose it would’ve.” He smiled, something soft as he glanced over Mu Qing. “But I would rather keep you on your toes.”
Xie Lian had another servant clean and fix what could be salvaged of the ribbon after that fiasco, originally for himself but then tying Mu Qing's hair with it when the black one Mu Qing had frayed apart completely, overused as it was. Mu Qing still had it, kept it beside the hair pieces his mother once owned and let him wear. He'd worn it when he was disguised as Fu Yao, still wore it here and there in the mortal realm. But he never wore it in the heavenly realm or among other officials. For all that they mocked his poverty, for all that he bit his tongue and ignored, he would not allow them to mock the gifts he'd been given then.)
“What idea?” Mu Qing asked, already regretting something that had yet to happen.
“I’d like to spar with you,” Xie Lian hastily reassured, waving his hands. “Just a friendly one.”
“Now?” Mu Qing blinked. He’d sparred with Xie Lian before on friendly terms, back in Xianle when Mu Qing had the bare minimum training from his new permission to cultivate compared to Xie Lian who’d trained his whole life. Defeat had been inevitable.
But now. Now Mu Qing has 800 years more experience. Missions and wars and brutal fights between him and Feng Xin decorating each and every month, every week , of them.
“If you’re willing and able, I mean,” Xie Lian said quickly. “I wouldn’t want to interfere with your work.”
Mu Qing mentally reviewed all that he needed done, a daily list of tasks always at the forefront of his mind. Nothing was so pressing that he couldn’t take some time for a spar.
“I’ve some time,” Mu Qing stood, suddenly eager though he took care to hide it. “Weapons or no weapons?”
Xie Lian grinned widely, standing as well. Mu Qing could practically see the energy rolling off of the other god, that enthusiastic bounce on his toes so reminiscent of the days they used to spar and battle alongside each other. “Weapons, of course. Unless we can unarm each other.”
Mu Qing nodded, wrapping his hand around zhan madao’s hilt and leading away from the main hall. “The pavilion or the training ground in the garden?”
“Garden.” Xie Lian hummed after a moment, keeping pace. “Your palace is beautiful, by the way. I can only imagine what your garden would look like.”
The general’s steps faltered for a moment. “...I haven’t shown you around yet. I should-could do that? After the spar?”
“I would like that,” Xie Lian beamed, eyes closing with his smile.
He nodded, gesturing to the doors leading to his rooms. “Through here.”
It was hard not to squirm, to not give that cursory glance to make sure his things were all neat and in order even though he knew he had never, not once, left anything out of its place. He couldn’t let Xie Lian see how much Mu Qing cared about his opinion! So he kept his head forward and ignored the curious gaze Xie Lian swept from one wall to the other, knowing nothing was going unnoticed in the former prince’s observation.
And then they were in the garden. Mu Qing’s sanctuary. He really should have thought this through-- the anxious feeling of being exposed now thrumming through him, as frigid and unsettling as winter winds on naked skin. Briskly, he led Xie Lian past the small, trickling waterfall that poured gently into a koi pond, past the cherry trees and benches, past the swings and the bird feeders. For a silly moment he wondered if Xie Lian could tell, just by looking, how many nights Mu Qing had laid on the tufted grass and prayed the stars above him would lead Xie Lian somewhere safe, would lead his prince back to heaven. Wondered if, in the soft, whispering breeze, if Xie Lian could hear the songs Mu Qing had long stopped singing to others, playing it privately instead to an audience that wasn’t there in hopes it’d bring the prince comfort when no one was there to give him any.
To this day, he couldn’t reason his attachment to his prince, regardless of how his feelings roiled and lashed inside of him like a snake trodden by a heavy foot. He couldn’t explain it. And like everything else he couldn’t explain, he ignored it and kept doing what felt right, even if, in Xie Lian’s absence, something rarely would.
A quiet breath of relief left him when they finally reached the far corner of the courtyard, where the grass was sparse, having been torn and scruffed by the many times Mu Qing had come out to practice. Large, weeping trees along the outer edges, forming something of a semicircle against the high gates marking the end of the Xuan Zhen Palace yard, gave the area an impression of seclusion, with their low-hanging branches and thick, shadowing foliage blocking it from the rest of the lively garden around them.
“How shall we declare a winner?” Xie Lian mused, walking to the center of the grounds. He drew his sword, holding it in a slack grip. “Should there be a prize?”
Mu Qing snorted, shaking his head and unsheathing his saber. “Prize? Is that how His Highness motivates himself these days?”
He was taunting, purposeful in his use of Xie Lian’s title and arrogant in a way he seldom let himself be. He might not win, he knew that-- he had been there for Xie Lian’s fight with Bai Wuxiang and knew how much more quickly he himself had been taken down-- but he wanted the challenge. Craved it, suddenly, the way a parched tongue craved the chill touch of water. Mu Qing had told Xie Lian that they were not so different in their levels of skill-- now was the chance to prove it.
Xie Lian laughed, low and amused. “I’ve grown fond of them.”
“In that case, what would you offer me?” Mu Qing drawled, taking his place directly across from Xie Lian, just far enough where, if he reached out with zhan madao, the tip of the blade would just barely press into the soft flesh of Xie Lian’s throat.
“Oh?” Xie Lian looked surprised, delighted even. “Are you so sure of your victory, Mu Qing?”
“It doesn’t hurt to be confident,” he replied airily.
“Well, as you know, I am still rather poor,” the former prince began, raising his sword level to Mu Qing’s. “But I am sure we can meet an agreement. A service exchange, perhaps.”
“Service?” They’d begun circling each other, taking careful steps as they watched every twitch the other made.
“Mn. A painting?”
Hesitant, testing swings and sweeps of their blades passed between them, growing more confident as they parried and blocked each other, neither getting even close to being struck.
“I don’t know how to paint,” Mu Qing raised a brow. He had never learned as a youth and, having hardly thought the skill necessary as a god, didn’t bother ever learning.
“No, no,” Xie Lian swung out quickly, forcing his way into Mu Qing’s space and meeting him blow for blow until their blades crossed at just barely above the hilts. He grinned, their faces only inches away from each other. “I’ll make you a painting. You’ll have to offer something else.”
Mu Qing leapt away, moving to add more distance between them. It was at range where he fought best and Xie Lian knew that. He’d have to keep the distance between them to gain the upper hand. He swiped at Xie Lian’s feet, his saber skimming the surface of white cloth and cutting a fine line into the fabric. “Do you have something in mind, Your Highness?”
“Nothing too demanding,” Xie Lian returned with a sharp strike that brushed along Mu Qing’s side. “A song.”
“Sung or played?” With the flat side of his saber, Mu Qing aimed his own blow to the outside of Xie Lian’s thigh, following it with a spin and a swipe careening high from the opposite side angling down to Xie Lian’s neck, which was predictably blocked. A distraction long enough to allow Mu Qing to deliver a swift kick to Xie Lian’s chest.
Xie Lian stumbled back slightly but the smile on his face grew wider. “Both,” he said, and then he rushed forward, sword movements quick and relentless.
They pulled back in tandem and rejoined in tandem, blades clashing over and over. Ducking, dancing, nearing and parting. Sweat was starting to trickle from his temple and hair, dripping down his neck and into his robes. Across from him, Xie Lian grew more flushed, his own brow damp with sweat. Dipping, rolling-- Xie Lian was always a breadth away from within his grasp. He too, had kept his distance well enough; the only time Xie Lian had nearly gained the upper hand was when the long tresses of Mu Qing’s hair became tangled in the chain and ring hanging around Xie Lian’s neck, the black strands curling around the ring and tying it even more tightly to the chain, like a taut bow atop a present or the strings of a robe meant to keep the fabric secure.
But Xie Lian, rather than take advantage of the situation, only stared down towards his chest, an expression on his face that Mu Qing couldn’t yet read.
(It was odd to realize then how much they’d changed in the years they spent apart. After all, so many years ago, there was not a person alive who knew Xie Lian as well as Mu Qing did. Even if he doubted the honesty in much of what was said, there was not a preference, an expression, or peeve of Xie Lian’s that Mu Qing did not know.)
Embarrassed and worried about crossing some taboo, Mu Qing swiped his sword at the end of his hair, slicing through it so that the tied strands became unknotted and fell away from Xie Lian’s necklace, leaving Mu Qing with slightly uneven hair that he’d have to fix. The fight needed to end. As equal as they were in this moment, Mu Qing never liked a fight that carried on too long and that was one faux pass too many. He struck out, taking advantage of Xie Lian’s stillness, and slipped the tip of his blade between the hilt of Xie Lian’s sword and where he gripped it in his palm, twisting and forcing the sword out of Xie Lian’s hand.
Just as he was about to press zhan madao against Xie Lian’s throat, a clear demand for surrender, the prince moved, a blur that Mu Qing could barely process, unprepared as he was to be lunged at and tackled. Zhan madao fell from his hand, thrown with the force of his body hitting the ground and now far from Mu Qing’s reach.
Mu Qing gave a breathless gasp, caught beneath Xie Lian’s body and bracketed by the prince’s arms. They stared at each other, stuck where they were and panting for air.
It wasn’t the first time he’d been pinned beneath Xie Lian.
(“Taizi Dianxia,” Mu Qing murmured softly. “It’s time to wake up. Your lessons will be starting soon.”
Inwardly, he sighed, aggrieved by the daily dance of trying to wrangle the crown prince from his bed so Xie Lian would go and actually perform his responsibilities. At first, throwing open the doors that led outside and letting the sunlight in was enough, but now all Xie Lian did was turn on his side and pull the blankets over his head.
“Taizi Dianxia,” he said a little louder, hesitantly reaching out to shake Xie Lian’s shoulder. It was getting late and Mu Qing could not risk being punished for not getting Xie Lian ready in time. “Taizi Dianxia, please--”
Just as his hand brushed the sleeve of Xie Lian’s sleeping robes, Xie Lian’s hand shot out, snatching Mu Qing’s in his own. In seconds, before Mu Qing could fully process what was happening, he’d found himself flipped over his prince’s body and pressed into the mattress. The breath left him just as suddenly.
Fear, unadulterated and untamed, ran rampant through him. Was this it? Would his prince-- now? Mu Qing couldn’t breathe. His fingers curled inwards, body starting to tremble imperceptibly. He couldn’t breathe.
Xie Lian grinned, blissfully unaware. “I got ready while you went to get breakfast.” He paused. “Well, somewhat. I need help with my hair and clothes still.”
“Oh?” Mu Qing relaxed a bit. Just a little. Xie Lian didn’t seem to have any intentions, not now, but he couldn’t be too sure. Conversation however, meant he could distract the prince. Could get away. “Why did Dianxia…?”
The grin beaming at him turned a bit sheepish and Xie Lian shrugged as much as he could while still holding down Mu Qing’s wrists. “You brought the water for my bath early today; I didn’t want it to get cold,” he huffed, letting his arms relax until his body was pressed to Mu Qing’s. “Which means I get more time to rest!”
Mu Qing blushed fiercely, voice squeaking. They were practically cuddling! “Dianxia, this isn’t appropriate! You-- you have your lessons!”
“I don’t want to!” Xie Lian whined, tucking his face against Mu Qing’s neck.
“Dianxia, please! This really isn’t-- you’ll be late,” he protested, almost desperate. There was a line of heat along nearly every part of his body, building and amplifying with the warmth of embarrassment coursing through him. This...affection or closeness or whatever it may be, he wasn’t used to it, couldn’t tell if he even liked it or not...)
It wasn’t like that this time, no conflict between desperately wanting the affection he’d been denied while working in the palace and the discomfort in receiving it. Xie Lian was pressed against him, one hand moving to gently coax Mu Qing’s head up slightly, until he could tuck his hand between the ground and Mu Qing’s skull. Fingers carded through Mu Qing’s hair soothingly for a few moments until Xie Lian stopped, cradling Mu Qing’s head instead.
“You didn’t get hurt, did you?” he murmured, eyes nearly overbearing in its warm gaze.
Mu Qing made a vague sound of negation.
“Nowhere?” Xie Lian asked, now moving his other hand to burrow beneath Mu Qing’s back and trail along his spine as if looking for bruises.
“Nowhere,” Mu Qing whispered, pliant and unwilling to not be. “Y-you?”
Xie Lian shook his head, smiling at Mu Qing fondly. “Not at all.”
They were so close to each other, faces only inches from each other. The warmth between them kept building, heady, and this time Mu Qing wasn’t scared. Nervous. Anxious, even. But not scared. Just waiting for something, though he couldn't tell what that something was.
“I thought we agreed on weapons,” he muttered thoughtlessly, mind still reeling. “I’d say that was cheating.”
“And I would argue one’s body is their greatest weapon,” Xie Lian quipped back. “Therefore I win.”
Mu Qing frowned. “That is unfair, Xie Lian.”
The once-prince clicked his tongue. “Is it? Shall we have a rematch then?”
“Yes, if you are that adamant to refuse having lost,” Mu Qing rolled his eyes, though his heart wasn’t so into it.
“I am.” But neither of them moved.
“Is this okay?” Xie Lian asked after a moment, haloed and hazy in the soft glow of the setting sun. Peaceful, at least in this moment, when his mind was far from the man he was waiting for.
Mu Qing couldn’t believe Xie Lian could be this way, feel this way, with him. Mu Qing’s touch hardly was a comfort to anyone, soft with children but no one else.
But, then again, Xie Lian wasn’t ever just anyone else.
“I-is this okay for you?” Mu Qing stammered out. He thinks it’s okay. It feels okay.
Mu Qing hadn’t been so close to anyone, not unless it was in the exchange of fists and kicks and insults, not since his mother had passed. He'd always wanted more. More affection. More of this closeness.
He wants more now too.
“It is.” Xie Lian wrapped his arm around Mu Qing tighter, until they were in something like a hug. “I’m glad you’re not hurt, Mu Qing,” he said, lips nearly pressed against Mu Qing’s ear.
Oh.
He saw it now.
This was why it was so easy for people to fall in love with Xie Lian. Mu Qing wrapped his arms around his friend. Was this what it meant to be in love, to feel in love? This warmth and comfort, this--this lack of fear?
He thought about it, the soft scent of chrysanthemums in Xie Lian’s hair almost lulling, and pressed his face a little closer.
Clearing his throat, he tried to ignore the warmth in his chest. I’m glad you’re not hurt.
For once, there was something that Mu Qing couldn’t remember. Has there ever been a time when someone said that to him? He didn’t want to think about it. Not now. “Spars and tea. We’ll need to find more things to do together that aren’t work.”
Or things that wouldn’t leave Mu Qing feeling compromised and flushed for some reason or another. Drawing so much heat and blood to his face so frequently could not possibly be good for him.
Xie Lian laughed softly, the gentle gusts of air making Mu Qing shiver. “Perhaps I’ll show you all the places I’ve traveled. There were many that I think you’d like.”
“Really?”
“Mmhmm, I made a list of the places I remembered, an actual handwritten one, in case I forgot again.”
He said it so simply. As if Mu Qing couldn’t remember the day Xie Lian reascended and didn’t recognize him as if it had happened just moments ago. As if it were normal to be so thoughtful—
“Oh,” Mu Qing choked out, breathless. His eyes were watering and he squeezed them shut.
“There were places where the night sky lit up with greens and purples, pinks and bright lights, like brush strokes on canvas. With piles of snow and crystalline ice everywhere. Places with lakes filled with lotus flowers and terraced rice fields. Mountains that float atop of oceans-- I’m speaking too much,” he laughed sheepishly. “It’ll be better to show you, I’m not doing it enough justice.”
Mu Qing bit at his lip. He would not cry. He would not. “W-wouldn’t your Crimson Rain want to do that with you?”
Xie Lian stilled, for just a moment, before nodding. “I think so. He would like it very much. The things I share with either of you are not exclusive to just one of you though.”
Above them, two birds had flown together, meeting in an elegant dance. Another with a rich rosy plumage was off to the side, watching. As if waiting to join. Mu Qing should reciprocate in some way, something meaningful.
“I-if you wish. A-and I could show you how to cook? If you like? I remember some of your mother’s recipes...”
Xie Lian’s breath hitched. “You--? I...I thought...you weren’t able to eat it? That one time she cooked and I tried to get you to taste it-- you’d gotten sick, remember?”
His voice wavered, arms tightening subconsciously around Mu Qing.
“I wasn’t,” he admitted, trying not to wince at the memories of pungent foods that left a bitter taste on the tongue by smell alone. He hadn’t realized Xie Lian noticed that, adamant as Mu Qing had been to choke it down as discreetly as possible. “But we could probably recreate them so they are more edible? Wait, fuck, that’s insensitive, I mean--”
He cringed. Feng Xin’s poor manners were rubbing off on him. And Mu Qing still couldn’t bite his tongue apparently, even over a topic so close to their hearts-- he could smack himself. He should. Or get Feng Xin to do it. Mu Qing would deserve it.
“I— Mu Qing.” Xie Lian gripped him tighter and something wet, drop by drop, spilled onto Mu Qing’s neck. “I know what you mean and I...I would like that. Very much.”
Mu Qing let himself fall silent. Let his brain fall silent. Xie Lian hadn’t gotten upset. He understood.
That fear Mu Qing was so used to clinging to him, more familiar to him than his skin, was sludging off. Stripping off his anxiety with it and leaving behind warmth and comfort.
Maybe it wasn’t love. Maybe it was just what true friendship was. But it was more than Mu Qing was used to and that felt...enough.