Archive of Our Own ^beta

Mu Qing’s name stares at him from the bright screen. Below lies a short profile with the bare necessity of information — age, location, a single sentence about what he’s looking for (not just a fuck). In a normal dating app, this would be enough to prowl the depths of desperate souls within the phone.

And yet, one more box lies empty. What do you hate?

A lot, says one part of Mu Qing’s mind while the other echoes, nothing important.

Both are a defense mechanism of sorts. Together, they applaud him voicing his dislike at any given moment — Mu Qing hates the color orange, the feeling of wet hair, stepping outside when it’s so cold the leaves frost over, people who glare at him for his stupid overpriced coffees with too much sugar and too much caffeine because he deserves a little bit of happiness sometimes —

All that hate builds a cocoon around the weakness beneath the surface. Mu Qing’s fingers twitch, as if being left behind emblazoned in the white field would make a stranger to swipe up on him.

“San Lang, do you think should I say something? He’s been staring at his phone for a long time.” Xie Lian’s whisper is less of a whisper and more of a quiet shout, hoarse to reach his boyfriend across the living room of the pair’s apartment.

The two moved in together a year ago, not three months after first getting together. Mu Qing and Feng Xin had both voiced their disapproval, not forgetting Hua Cheng’s borderline-stalking all throughout college, but Xie Lian wouldn’t hear it. To this day he insists that Hua Cheng memorizing his schedule and scaring off potential suitors was romantic — you two will understand one day.

“Whatever Gege thinks is best,” Hua Cheng says. His voice is deceptively soft, contrasting the threatening grin pointed in Mu Qing’s direction.

What Mu Qing will never admit is that, after all this time, he’s grown to be fond of Hua Cheng. He still wishes he’d go back to whatever dark, wet swamp he crawled out of, but his fierce disapproval of the world is familiar.

“Of course,” Xie Lian says. “San Lang, do you think maybe —”

“I can hear you both.” Mu Qing finally looks up. Any longer and the two will devolve into heartfelt sentiments that never fail to make him sick.

“Oh. Well, why didn’t you say so?” Xie Lian sits cross legged on the threadbare armchair he’s owned since college, when he dragged it in from the street. Feng Xin had chewed him out, talking about bedbugs and dubious acts resulting in unfortunate stains, but the armchair remained long enough to clash horribly with the sleek, modern furniture of his current apartment.

“He’s distracted, Gege.” Hua Cheng tilts his head, leaning against the kitchen doorway. His eyepatch, paired with his closet of red and black, gives him the air of being both ridiculously try-hard and deceptively dangerous. “What I’m really wondering, see, is why he’d agree to a dating app when he’s clearly —”

“Xie Lian,” Mu Qing says. “Muzzle your dog.”

“Mu Qing.” A familiar crease appears between Xie Lian’s eyebrows. “That isn’t very nice.”

“Neither is he.”

Hua Cheng throws back his head and laughs. It’s not a kind sound, but at the very least it prevents Xie Lian from saying more. His eyes flicker between the two of them, picking at a piece of lint from his oversized sweater. The crease between his eyebrows remains.

“Mu Qing,” Xie Lian says again. “You know, if you really were uncomfortable with the idea, I wouldn’t pressure you into anything.”

You’re not. The words don’t breach Mu Qing’s lips, although he tries.

“More than anything,” Xie Lian continues,” I really, really want you to be happy. You deserve that.” A pause. “You know you deserve that, right?”

Mu Qing avoids looking at Xie Lian, knowing the helpless smile he’ll find there. A familiar rigidity crawls through his skin. He clears his throat, poising his thumbs over the phone keyboard.

“I want this,” Mu Qing says. That, at least, is true in the barest sense — he wants the sort of relationship dating provides. The who, of course, is the object of his discomfort. Has been for years, really.

And so, Mu Qing thinks about what he hates. The color orange, the feeling of wet hair, stepping outside when it’s so cold the leaves frost over, people who glare at him for his stupid overpriced coffees with too much sugar and too much caffeine because he deserves a little bit of happiness sometimes —

“Curious that you’ve never tried the more traditional dating route,” Hua Cheng says.

— Xie Lian a little bit for proposing this, even though Mu Qing loves him loves him loves him as his best friend, the reminder that Mu Qing doesn’t even like himself very much —

“You know,” Hua Cheng continues, “Where you poke around a little bit, maybe ask a friend.”

— Hua Cheng for coming into their lives, ruining Xie Lian’s innocence, making Mu Qing think about the goddamn tension in his veins whenever he considers why he hasn’t dated since high school —

Mu Qing’s fingers type of their own accord. At the bottom of his list, past oranges, wet hair, judgmental assholes, is a single name: Feng Xin.

“Done,” Mu Qing says, finalizing his profile. “Finished. Don’t ask me about this again.”

Mu Qing puts away his phone, uncrossing his legs. He still can’t quite face Xie Lian, so he settles his gaze on the painting across the room. A white figure, holy, sits among haphazard streaks of dark colors reaching as if to grab him.

It has a vaguely threatening aura. Not surprising, considering it’s Hua Cheng’s art. It’s good — also not surprising, given Hua Cheng’s oddly admirable work ethic and successful career — and of Xie Lian, which is the least surprising thing of all. The black-clothed demon takes every chance he gets to proclaim his love.

As much as Mu Qing has detested Hua Cheng from the moment he crawled out of the dirt, obsession in hand, there’s something in it he envies. Not the obsession, but the comfort of being the someone nestled into a heart so deeply it can’t be undone.

Mu Qing isn’t stupid enough to think he’ll ever have that.

“This will work out” Xie Lian says. “You’re a wonderful person, Mu Qing. There’s a lot to admire about you.”

“I get it.” Mu Qing rolls his eyes. “I said not to talk about it again.”

“You said not to ask about it, actually.” Hua Cheng raises a single, perfectly manicured eyebrow. His expression is just innocent enough to not only get on Mu Qing’s nerves, but smash them to tiny pieces.

Mu Qing grits his teeth. “Same fucking thing.”

“Hush!” Xie Lian stands, small hands clenched to fists by either side. “San Lang, stop teasing him. Mu Qing, we really do want only what’s best for you.” His voice is even, eyes calm and reassuring. Mu Qing feels himself loosen. “If you’d rather we not talk about it, that’s fine.”

Mu Qing nods. It’s the closest to thank you he’ll get with a stone in his throat.

—

Dating, as it turns out, was probably better before apps were invented.

Mu Qing doesn’t often surprise himself. He’s been steady on since he was young: this is how he acts, these are the thoughts he refuses to think, here are the expectations he’s built for everyone else to compare him to. The last time he really, truly learned something new about himself was when he moved in with Feng Xin and didn’t murder him within the first day.

And yet, shockingly enough, Mu Qing doesn’t toss the app aside like he thought — it’s almost addicting to scroll through the faces of men he’s never met, snorting at their basic hates before swiping up anyway. It’s not like he could really, truly have an interesting conversation with someone about hating spinach, but it’s something to do while waiting for the bus.

And waiting at the bar. And sitting on Xie Lian’s couch, ignoring Hua Cheng’s obnoxious presence. And at home, leaning over the kitchen counter, dried mango hanging from his mouth while he studies a thirst trap, located directly above a profile declaring that this man hate gyms that aren’t open twenty-four hours.

Mu Qing can tell.

“What the fuck’s so interesting about your phone?” Feng Xin’s lovely, brash words break Mu Qing’s bubble. Immediately he turns off his phone, sets it on the counter, and takes a bite out of the mango.

Mu Qing turns, leaning against the counter. He crosses his arms, fighting to swallow. Feng Xin is just staring at him, like Mu Qing has been caught red-handed watching porn or — talking to a secret lover or — looking at fucking thirst traps on his phone.

“The least you could do is let me eat in peace,” Mu Qing says finally. He stuffs the rest of the dried mango in his mouth. He hates to eat messily, but his face is burning like all hell and he needs some sort of distraction.

“You’re doing that right now.” Feng Xin takes a step further into the kitchen. “I’m not the police. You don’t have to act so goddamn suspicious if you’re doing nothing wrong.”

It’s the weekend, which means, despite the clock saying 11am, Feng Xin just woke up. He’s wearing what he slept in, which amounts to a single pair of flannel pants and nothing else. Mu Qing had many sleepless nights over this before he learned how to compartmentalize it.

He tends to forget that skill at the worst time. Like right now, fresh from staring at a stranger’s thirst trap like some kind of degenerate. Who even fucking needs that when they live with someone whose self care routine consists of working out, working out, working out, and 2-in-1 shampoo?

“Then don’t fucking question me like I’ve been doing something wrong,” Mu Qing manages. He pauses. Ninety-nine percent of the time he has a lie perfectly poised on his tongue. The habit fails him now. “It was — uh, a cat video.”

Feng Xin, for his part, is stupid enough to take Mu Qing at face value. He claps his hands together. “There you go, Mu Qing. You did the bare minimum of normal, human communication.”

“Fuck off,” Mu Qing snaps.

Because he’s half asleep, Feng Xin does. Mu Qing tries to feel relieved, instead of that same burning, gnawing ache when he’s left alone in their apartment.

Eventually, Mu Qing swipes up on thirst trap guy.

After doing so, he promptly forgets about it.

The other thing Mu Qing quickly learns, however, is that dating apps are not simply eye candy — after swiping comes the mortifying ordeal of being known. Otherwise called, actually matching with people.

The first time it happens, Mu Qing’s hands start to sweat. Broadly speaking, he doesn’t talk to new people. When he does, he usually makes what’s considered a ‘bad impression.’ It’s unlikely it will be different over text.

When Mu Qing opens the message, however, it’s nothing other than a grainy photo of a stranger’s cock.

Mu Qing blocks him. After sending a picture to Hua Cheng and thoroughly roasting the stranger’s unkempt pubes. Mu Qing censors it, of course, because there’s no way Hua Cheng would ever willingly look at a cock that didn’t belong to his very loved, very beautiful boyfriend —

Mu Qing pushes the idea of Xie Lian’s genitals from his mind immediately.

It’s easier to respond to matches when Mu Qing doesn’t think of them as real people. For example, if Mu Qing told Feng Xin that he’d smash his face in, Feng Xin would beat him to it. But if Mu Qing tells the same to a stranger who thought it was appropriate to open with a vivid description of how he’d like to pull Mu Qing’s hair, there’s absolutely nothing the stranger can do.

Worst of all are the messages that ask who’s Feng Xin?

Mu Qing doesn’t respond to them past a block. He briefly considers removing Feng Xin from his list of hates, but if he’s going to waste his time on this app, he might as well be truthful. Besides. At this rate, he’ll end up blocking every eligible single man within a twenty mile radius.

Might be fun.

—

Mu Qing is forcefully reminded of thirst trap guy when, several weeks later, he gets a notification of their match, followed by a message.

Immediately he prepares himself for one of two messages: an embarrassingly shitty come on, or something so dry it sucks all the moisture out of the air. If Mu Qing has to deal with one more hey, how are you? he’s going to die of dehydration.

Mu Qing glances around the living room. He’s perched on the end of the couch, one knee drawn up to his chest — what Feng Xin calls feline posture. It’s three in the afternoon on a Wednesday; Feng Xin is still at work, but after the incident in the kitchen, Mu Qing can’t discount the possibility that he’ll come home early for nothing more Mu Qing’s embarrassment.

There’s no sign of him. Just the faded scent of too-strong body wash, which Mu Qing absolutely does not sniff for.

Mu Qing opens the message. Isn’t saying you hate judgmental people a little bit judgmental in itself?

For a moment, he blinks. Lets it settle. Then he types out, what the fuck is that supposed to mean?

The response, no more than a minute later: idk man. my other opener would have been asking how long it takes to blowdry your hair

because you hate it being wet

Mu Qing almost wishes Feng Xin were here to see this bullshit. He’s torn between being affronted and immensely grateful that at the very least, this is a change from the usual drudgery. Thirst trap guy isn’t even being rude, really. He read Mu Qing’s profile past his pictures. He started a conversation. He didn’t mention Feng Xin.

He has a really, really great six pack.

Mu Qing’s phone buzzes again. not to be weird, but your hair is gorgeous

It’s definitely weird.

Mu Qing can’t help but smile. One of his worst traits — aside from the self deprecation, generally unlikeable personality, and refusal to accept that anyone actually likes his presence — is the sheer vanity he has over his hair. He hasn’t spent years growing it out for people to not call it pretty.

That, above all, is what Mu Qing blames when he finds himself on a date two days later.

The restaurant is nice. Much nicer than Mu Qing can afford on his minimum wage salary — fairy lights swarm the outside, a soft glow against the darkened sky. Soft, ambient music spills from the inside. From these two details Mu Qing can tell it’s some newer place, relying on young couples with cash to burn.

Very likely, this will be the best food Mu Qing eats for the next year.

He forces himself to take a deep breath. Resists the urge to run a hand through his hair, french braided down his back because apparently he’s the sort of person who puts effort into these things. He looks good — he knows he does — but that doesn’t stop the rapid thoughts.

Most prominently among them is the fear that somehow, Mu Qing will fuck this up.

It’s been years since Mu Qing hasn’t fucked something up. The notion shouldn’t be a comfort, but it is. If this goes wrong, it’s to be expected. It’s out of his control. It’s enough for him to enter the restaurant and give the hostess his date’s name.

She points him to a table in the back, where a well-dressed young man is shooting him an unnervingly sleazy smile.

All of Mu Qing’s anxiety disappears, replaced with a simple, frustrated oh fucking hell. Briefly, he considers leaving. But when it comes down to it, Mu Qing isn’t that bad of a person, so he approaches regardless.

“Pei Ming?” Mu Qing wants to be sure.

“Mu Qing,” he replies smoothly. “Has anyone told you you’re even more lovely in person?”

Mu Qing sits down, hands clenched into fists beneath the table. Pei Ming studies him, the smile never leaving his face. It’s not even that his eyes drop anywhere improper, but more that the gaze exudes the kind of oily excellence that leaves Mu Qing feeling uncomfortable.

“I hope you don’t mind that I ordered for you,” Pei Ming says, and thus commences the worst evening Mu Qing can remember in recent memory.

It only descends from there. Pei Ming’s conversation consists primarily of his gym routine, his tech job, and his many wealthy friends — at some point Mu Qing begins to tune it out, instead focusing on his food. It’s not bad. Definitely not worth the price, but at least Pei Ming will be paying.

Mu Qing has endured worse, he keeps telling himself. The mantra works until halfway through the meal, when Pei Ming shamelessly hits on the waitress in front of him.

“We’re on a fucking date,” Mu Qing says the moment she’s out of sight.

“Ah, I’m sorry.” Pei Ming doesn’t sound like it. “Can you blame me? You’ve been spacing out all evening, I wasn’t sure you were interested.”

Mu Qing doesn’t answer, rolling his eyes instead. Pei Ming is right, but that doesn’t mean his behavior is acceptable — if Pei Ming isn’t going to treat him with the barest shred of respect, Mu Qing has no obligation to do so back.

Pei Ming sighs. “Well, then. If this isn’t what you expected, we could always skip straight to my place. Or yours, if you’d prefer.”

“I’m not having sex with you,” Mu Qing snaps.

Pei Ming barks out a laugh. “That’s not the first time I’ve heard that.” He stands, and for a moment Mu Qing thinks he’s ready to leave — but he only heads to the back of the restaurant, where the restrooms are located.

Mu Qing freezes for a single moment before jumping at his chance to get out of whatever this is. He pulls out his phone. With a flick of his fingers, he presses Xie Lian’s contact and waits for him to pick up.

One ring. Two rings. Mu Qing’s heart drops when the third ring sounds.

“Mu Qing?” Xie Lian’s voice floats across the speaker. Mu Qing lets out a sigh of relief. “Is something wrong?”

“Get me the fuck out of here,” Mu Qing says in a low voice. “Call me back. Say there’s an emergency. Pretend to be my boyfriend. Or my dad. I don’t fucking care, just —”

“Where are you?”

Mu Qing closes his eyes, pressing his palm against his forehead. Of course, he’d never actually mentioned to Xie Lian where he would be tonight. Not even to Feng Xin, who had given him an inscrutable look after seeing his french braid.

“On a date,” Mu Qing chokes out. “With a guy.”

There’s a pause. Mu Qing glances towards the back of the restaurant.

“That’s great!” Xie Lian says brightly. “I mean, not great? Mu Qing, are you really taking this seriously?”

“Xie Lian —”

“I worry you’re looking for reasons it won’t work out. San Lang said you block most of your matches.” Mu Qing grits his teeth. Of course Hua Cheng would say that. “I understand as much as the next person that sometimes, one really can’t get along with another, but can you really judge based on untrimmed pubes?”

“Dianxia,” Mu Qing says, the old college nickname slipping out in his horror, “Don’t look at my unsolicited dick pics.”

“It’s fine.” Mu Qing can see Xie Lian physically waving away the issue. “San Lang showed it to me. There was an eggplant emoji over it and everything.”

Mu Qing slaps his palm against his head a second time.

“What I mean to say is, why don’t you — San Lang —” There’s the distinct rumble of Hua Cheng’s voice in the background. All at once, Xie Lian is distracted and Mu Qing marks his palm against his head for a grand total of three times.

“He wants to sleep with me,” Mu Qing says louder than intended. “I don’t want to sleep with him.”

A ruffling sound comes across the speaker. When Xie Lian comes back, it’s with nothing more than an, “Oh.”

Mu Qing keeps his eye trained on the back of the restaurant. Slowly, he accepts that in order to get out of sleeping with Pei Ming, he will have to make a scene. God fucking damnit.

“San Lang says you should call Feng Xin,” Xie Lian says finally. “We have to go. We’re going to be late to San Lang’s exhibit. You should come, next time.”

“Wait,” Mu Qing says, panic sparking. “Feng Xin can’t help me with this, please just —”

“Make sure to tell me how it goes!” Xie Lian’s bright voice is the last thing Mu Qing hears before the click of the call ending.

At that moment, in the depths of his misery, Mu Qing spots Pei Ming making his way back to the table. There’s no time to think. There’s no time to call. Mu Qing schools his expression into blankness and clicks into Feng Xin’s contact, fingers tapping with urgency.

Mu Qing: need to get out of a date. make up an emergency.

Pei Ming sits down. He doesn’t exactly look pleased, but he keeps eating his food like nothing has happened. Mu Qing hides his phone underneath the table, doing his best not to look.

Feng Xin: what the fuck do u mean ur on a date. where r u

Mu Qing: I said I’m on a date

Feng Xin: no shit dumbass

Mu Qing glances up at Pei Ming. His gaze is somewhere past Mu Qing, probably trying to get a look at the waitress he hit on — she, at least, might actually give him the time of day. And a good fuck.

Feng Xin: where r u asshole

“I say you give me at least a chance,” Pei Ming says.

Mu Qing stares at him. Underneath the table, he immediately types out the name of the restaurant and a hurried don’t fuck it up. just get me out of this.

Feng Xin: dw just wait for me

Pei Ming keeps talking, digging himself into a deeper hole. Mu Qing is finally able to breathe a sigh of relief, clenching his phone tight, waiting for Feng Xin to call. He can’t remember the last time he felt this on edge — maybe when Xie Lian broke the news that he was moving out, leaving Feng Xin and Mu Qing to cope on their own.

The call doesn’t come.

Pei Ming finishes eating. Mu Qing pokes at his dish, appetite ruined the moment Pei Ming insinuated the prospect of going home with him. His stomach sinks with each passing minute. Of course Feng Xin would let him down like this. The good for nothing can’t even be relied on when Mu Qing is in an emergency —

“I’ll get the check,” Pei Ming says, standing. He heads towards front of the restaurant.

Mu Qing rests his head in his hands. Anger churns in his stomach, covering up the abject sensation of being forgotten. Again. The situation will be dealt with, as it always is, but maybe Mu Qing wanted help for once.

He should have known better.

“Mu Qing, you asshole.”

Mu Qing’s heart flies to his throat. He looks up to see Feng Xin, red-faced as if he’d rushed here. For a moment, all he feels is blinding relief. It’s quickly followed by a familiar rage.

“What the fuck,” Mu Qing says curtly. “I meant for you to fucking call.”

“Yeah, well you didn’t fucking say that.” Feng Xin runs a hand through his hair, spilling out from a bun at the back of his head. “I rushed all the way over here and this is the thanks I get?”

“Oh my god,” Mu Qing says. “You were supposed to come up with an emergency.”

“I did,” Feng Xin snaps. “I’m going to be your fucking — what the hell?”

Pei Ming, of course, chooses that exact moment to come over. Feng Xin stares at him, eyes wide. Pei Ming breaks into a smile and gives Feng Xin one of those stupid one-armed bro hugs, which Feng Xin clumsily returns, shock written all over.

“Feng Xin, my buddy,” Pei Ming says brightly. “What the hell are you doing here?”

“I’m —” Feng Xin shifts his gaze to Mu Qing now, gaping. “Fuck. I’m Mu Qing’s boyfriend.”

Mu Qing fixes him with the iciest glare he can muster, while his brain short circuits and he forgets how to breath. Because honestly, what the fuck. What the fuck.

Pei Ming laughs, completely unbothered by the notion that he took a taken man on a date. “Holy shit. It’s a small world, huh?”

“Feng Xin,” Mu Qing manages.

Feng Xin just raises a hand. It’s shaking slightly. “Shut up. We’ll talk later.” The fury in his voice is something Mu Qing knows all too well, something that can’t be made up. Somehow, Mu Qing has inadvertently pissed him off and he doesn’t even know why.

For god’s sake, Feng Xin just told Pei Ming that they’re dating.

“It’s certainly a sticky situation,” Pei Ming says. “It’s always the pretty ones with the worst manners, isn’t it? I mean, if I’d known you had someone like him at home, I might have weaseled my way into meeting him earlier.”

Feng Xin’s face briefly goes through an undercurrent of stormy emotions. Within seconds, the color vanishes and he says with a restrained voice, “We’re monogamous.” He glances at Mu Qing. “Fucking supposed to be, anyway.”

“Ah. Ah, I see.” Pei Ming grins. He does a stupid little wave of his hand. “Well, if you ever change your mind, I am completely, one hundred percent available. And not into one partner at a time.”

Mu Qing is going to melt into the floor, so much disgust is vibrating through his body. This whole night has been one hit after the other, and now he’s standing with his back to the ring trying to hold onto the fist pummeling his stomach. Pei Ming wants to sleep with him. Feng Xin is his boyfriend. Pei Ming and Feng Xin know each other. Pei Ming wants to sleep with both of them.

“Thanks,” Feng Xin chokes out.

“You’re very, very welcome,” Pei Ming says. He takes a step back as if to leave. “I must say, I knew you two were acquainted, but he really did give the impression that he hated you.”

Mu Qing can feel the tension, like a bow drawn tight.

Feng Xin raises a single eyebrow. “Did he?”

“He did explicitly say so on the dating app,” Pei Ming says, the fucker. “Alas, I have somewhere else to be. Or someone else to see, if you catch my drift.” He flashes one last smile and saunters off, like the slimiest ball of grease to ever stain the earth.

For a moment, there’s the sound of nothing other than the ambient music and the chatter of customers. Feng Xin stares at where Pei Ming stood, while Mu Qing looks at Feng Xin, then at the table, then the wall, then at his own fucking shoes like the piece of shit he is.

“Let’s go home, boyfriend,” Feng Xin says finally.

Mu Qing glances at him, frown sunk deep into his face. “I’m not walking.”

“Did I say you fucking had to?” Feng Xin snaps. “I have my car.”

Together, they leave the restaurant. The night outside is humid, a weight that sticks to Mu Qing. He doesn’t look at Feng Xin, only follows his shadow on the sidewalk. A sense of shame sticks to the underside of his skin. He can’t tell if it’s because Feng Xin had to bail him out, or because Mu Qing is desperate enough to get himself into such a situation in the first place.

Feng Xin’s car is parked two blocks away. Mu Qing distantly remembers his red face, and wonders if he’d run there. The thought stutters his heart momentarily.

After Mu Qing sits in the passenger’s seat and buckles himself up, Feng Xin starts the car. It’s dark inside. The engine is a low humming, growing as he puts on speed. Within seconds, the silence is too much.

“Of course you’d know a fucker like Pei Ming,” Mu Qing says.

“Why were you on a date with a fucker like Pei Ming?” Feng Xin bites back. Mu Qing turns his head towards the window, biting his lip like he’s nursing his wounds. A moment later, Feng Xin says, “He’s a gym buddy.”

“Mm.” If Mu Qing could string together two thoughts, he might have considered that possibility. He doesn’t know every single one of Feng Xin’s friends. “You have stellar company, I see.”

“Fuck off. Don’t act so goddamn high and mighty. You fucking dressed up for him.”

Mu Qing’s hands twitch, like they want to tear out his braid and replace it with the familiar, modest ponytail he’s used to. His skin feels wrong, too big for the muscle and bones underneath. His eyes are nothing but sockets, darkened and burdened with a prickling at the back.

“I hate you.” There’s no weight to it. Because of course he doesn’t really hate Feng Xin, he’s just so fucking tired of it all.

Mu Qing thinks back to the look Feng Xin gave him before he left. He hadn’t known what to make of it, but there’d been this nagging at the back of his head, this burst of pleasure at the idea that maybe Feng Xin thought he looked good. Mu Qing would rather dress up for him than an asshole like Pei Ming.

“I know.” Feng Xin sounds as tired as Mu Qing feels. “You’re telling everyone you meet, apparently.”

“I’m not.”

Feng Xin doesn’t respond. Mu Qing’s fingers twitch where they rest on the door. He imagines opening it at a stop sign, stepping out of both the car and the conversation.

“It’s the fucking app,” Mu Qing says. “That’s what it does. Tells people what you hate.” He searches for a defense, but all he finds is, “You get on my fucking nerves.”

Feng Xin snorts. They don’t speak for the rest of the drive.

—

The aftermath of the date is both excessive and excruciating.

Feng Xin doesn’t speak to him for two days. Mu Qing isn’t sure why. He’d ask, but even without knowing his stomach is twisted into knots. The two fight often — way more than is healthy, probably — but this isn’t fighting.

It’s just silence. Mu Qing avoids being around Feng Xin. When they do end up in the kitchen at the same time, Feng Xin grabbing a protein bar while Mu Qing makes himself lunch, the air between them is pure ice. Mu Qing is aware of every inch of space between them.

By the time Feng Xin leaves, front door slamming shut behind him, Mu Qing’s hands shake.

When they first moved in together, there was a period where they got into fistfights at least once a week after a reprieve of physical fights for over two years. The shift happened somewhere between the time Xie Lian declared his intention to move out and Feng Xin and Mu Qing managed to find their own smaller, more affordable apartment for themselves.

The shift happened in part due to Mu Qing’s hesitance to move in with Feng Xin, and in part due to Feng Xin’s apparent anger at his hesitance.

All Mu Qing knows is that sometime after he let loose you aren’t obligated to move in with me, every typical conflict between them was blown out of proportion. A snide comment would lead to a fist in the stomach. Never hard enough to hurt past the hours after the fight, but frequent enough to be a punctuation in a conversation Mu Qing still doesn’t understand.

And that was tame — Mu Qing has a scar behind his ear from when Feng Xin pushed him into a metal cabinet freshman year of college. He’d bruised two ribs and gotten stitches for the gash stretching two inches along his jaw.

The point being, there are ebbs and flows to their relationship. They stopped fighting after college. They started again when Xie Lian moved out. They stopped a few months after that, the biting fists turning to biting words and then biting glances. It’s almost civil.

It’s almost enough for Mu Qing to convince himself that Feng Xin likes having him around, that their six year long friendship is more than convenience.

When Feng Xin finally starts talking to Mu Qing again, he acts like nothing happened.

Mu Qing accepts it.

It’s fine.

“Mu Qing, are you okay?”

It’s not fine.

Mu Qing blinks. Xie Lian sits beside him, elbow settled on the back of the couch. He tilts his head, doe eyes clear with worry.

“San Lang asked you a question,” Xie Lian says.

“I insulted him, Gege.” Hua Cheng is in the process of hanging up his newest Xie Lian-related art installment — a series of small canvases covered with pale whites, the contrasting red and pink creating silhouettes out of inverse shadows. “I said ‘are you ever going to stop with the self pity?’”

“Fuck you,” Mu Qing says reflexively.

The canvases themselves lean against the couch. Hua Cheng holds a hammer, pressing nails into the wall. The sound of hammering blends into the background. Normally, Mu Qing would worry about Hua Cheng with a weapon. Right now, he can’t scrounge enough of a fuck to give.

“Don’t ignore Gege,” Hua Cheng says.

Mu Qing bites back his frustration. He has no choice but to look at Xie Lian, studying him with that same goddamn crease between his eyebrows. He’s not sure when it started — before Xie Lian urged him to try dating, but after he and Feng Xin moved in together.

“I’m sorry your date didn’t go well,” Xie Lian says. “I’m glad you got home okay.”

Whether or not Mu Qing truly got home okay is debatable. He thinks again of Feng Xin, who’s back to posting notes on the fridge that say things like don’t forget to remind me to buy milk, you asshole.

“Whatever,” Mu Qing says. “It’s not for me.”

Xie Lian sighs. Suddenly he looks guilty. Really guilty — it’s in the way his eyes shift to the side, color lighting up his cheeks. He doesn’t even reach out to touch Mu Qing’s arm, his default whenever he’s being insufferable again.

“Xie Lian,” Mu Qing says. There’s a hint of a warning in his voice. He’s not sure he wants to know.

“I’m sorry.” Xie Lian smiles helplessly. “Truly, I am. I asked San Lang if it was a bad idea, but he said it was a good one —”

“I also said it would be funny,” Hua Cheng adds.

“— I even went out of my way to find an app I thought you would like. You love fighting with people.” Xie Lian shrugs, not quite meeting Mu Qing’s gaze. “You like fighting with Feng Xin, at least, so I thought if you found a way to do that with someone else you might —”

“You fucking did what?” Mu Qing directs this to Hua Cheng. His hands clench into fists. The suspicion of what this is really about — who it’s really about — begins to sink in. The rage sinks with it.

“San Lang had nothing to do with it,” Xie Lian hurriedly says. “He was just —”

“I told you that in confidence!” Mu Qing raises his voice, as close as he’ll get to a shout.

Hua Cheng turns around. All three nails are set into the wall, but the hammer is still in his hands. His expression is perfectly poised, indifference set into the edges of his smile. “You told me when you were drunk.”

“So what?” Mu Qing’s heartbeat thuds in his veins. He feels vaguely sick. “I could have been dead. You don’t have the right to turn around and tell anyone about it, even your perfect fucking boyfriend. You’re lucky he keeps around the worst people.”

“Mu Qing!” Xie Lian grabs his wrist. “Calm down.”

Hua Cheng stares at Mu Qing. His smile turns cold, knuckles white around the hammer. Mu Qing’s breaths are heavy in his ears. He’s aware of the flush of his skin, contrasted by the chill of Xie Lian’s hand.

“I tell Gege everything,” Hua Cheng says, and Mu Qing jerks forward.

Xie Lian pulls him back forcefully. It’s easy to forget that, past his small stature and thin frame, Xie Lian is as strong as Feng Xin.

“Mu. Qing,” Xie Lian says. “Sit your ass down. San Lang didn’t do it to upset you.”

Mu Qing can’t look away. He can’t feel his head, lost somewhere past the dizzying anger. It mimics shame, the way it sits in the pit of his stomach and festers. The way Xie Lian holds him, the way Hua Cheng meets his eyes completely departed from emotion, makes him into an animal in a cage.

“Look at me.” Xie Lian grabs Mu Qing’s face and forcefully turns it to meet his eyes. “You have nothing to be ashamed of. I’m sorry I pushed you. I thought it would help you move past him, and if not, nudge you to tell him how you feel.” Despite the strength of his grip, the touch is soft. “You both deserve that.”

Mu Qing blinks back the burning in his eyes. “I’m fine,” he says, as he always does. “It’s not an issue.”

The lie beats against his chest, threatening to burst out. It’s an issue it’s an issue it’s an issue but he’ll fucking die before he tells Xie Lian, cradling his face and looking so goddamn sad, and he’ll fucking die before he tells Feng Xin and extinguishes the last hope in his chest that maybe, just maybe, he can keep imagining his feelings will be reciprocated.

It’s been an issue longer than a month, when Mu Qing got drunk after Xie Lian’s party and told Hua Cheng how much he hates Feng Xin. Hates his face, hates his hair, hates his laugh when someone tells a stupid joke, hates how much he cares about those he’s loyal to.

Mu Qing hates how he’s been in love since their first semester of college six years ago. He hates that when he was in the emergency room with that gash snaking behind his ear, he was pleased.

At the very least, Feng Xin cares enough to hurt him.

Mu Qing doesn’t know how long he sits like that, Xie Lian’s hands soft against his skin. Hua Cheng leaves after hanging the canvases. Mu Qing closes his eyes, focusing on his breaths. In, out. In, out. In with the pain like an avalanche, out so he won’t explode from it.

Xie Lian squeezes his hand. “I didn’t mean to hurt you in any way.”

Mu Qing opens his eyes. He’s marginally calmer, the anger dissipated into a dull ache. “You couldn’t if you tried.” It’s another lie, but one he wishes was true.

Xie Lian smiles. He takes back his hands; Mu Qing immediately misses the warmth. “Do you want some hot chocolate? Or food, maybe?”

“I think it’s time for me to go,” Mu Qing says. It’s as much a response to Xie Lian’s food as it is the reality. All he wants is to go home, lay in bed, and watch reruns of his favorite show. If he’s lucky, Feng Xin won’t bother him.

First, though, Mu Qing has an app to delete.

Xie Lian heads towards the kitchen anyway. He has a one-track mind; as soon as he mentioned hot chocolate, he probably started craving it himself. Mu Qing waits until he retreats to take out his phone, tapping into the app to disable his profile.

The app, of course, opens up onto a randomized person. Normally, this is something Mu Qing ignores. But the profile in question starts his heart hammering in his chest, hard-won composure crumbling.

Feng Xin. There isn’t even a picture, or a bio, or anything other than the single hate on his list: Mu Qing.

Mu Qing’s eyes blur. He blinks it away. Anger thrums at the sheer audacity of Feng Xin, to do this knowing Mu Qing would find it. It’s as if he’s figured out how to throw a punch while not touching him at all.

“San Lang, do you want hot chocolate?” Xie Lian calls from the kitchen.

Mu Qing takes a steadying breath. He taps into settings and disables his profile. Then he deletes the app. After that, there’s nothing to do other than leave Xie Lian’s apartment and go to his own.

—

It’s a Saturday afternoon. Mu Qing finds Feng Xin where he most often is on the weekends, sometimes nursing a hangover, other times simply relaxing for the sake of relaxing. In the past, Mu Qing has rationed this sight of him — wrung out, stretched along the couch. There’s an almost deliberate messiness to his clothes and hair, like he simply doesn’t care enough to bother when only Mu Qing will see him.

Normally, Mu Qing would join him. He’d criticize Feng Xin’s taste in TV but sit beside him anyway, all too aware of where their calves would press against each other. They’d bicker, but it would be friendly.

Now, Mu Qing’s anger is blinding. He slams the door behind him, brandishing his phone like a weapon. He’s not sure what he looks like, but he can imagine the redness of his face, sharp eyebrows slanted downwards in a furious glare. He hates how anger looks on him, but he can’t help it.

Feng Xin sits up at the sight of him. There’s a concern in his eyes, but it quickly retreats in favor of an anger stretching to meet Mu Qing.

“Why does this say you hate me?” Mu Qing stands in the center of the room. The app isn’t on his phone anymore, but he shoves the darkened screen towards Feng Xin regardless. “You don’t even use dating apps!”

Feng Xin doesn’t miss a beat. “What, when you did the same fucking thing?” He stands, making for the hallway. “Fucking hypocrite.”

It isn’t like Feng Xin to run from a confrontation. Mu Qing’s heart drops, nausea settling in his stomach. The idea of losing his grip on Feng Xin enough that they can’t even fucking fight is a sentiment he can’t deal with.

Mu Qing steps towards him. “It was a joke, Feng Xin, for the love of —”

“Yeah, but it’s not, is it?” Feng Xin stops suddenly, turning to face Mu Qing. He’s close enough that Mu Qing can hear his breath, caught low in his chest like if he lets it out a yell will come with it.

“I don’t know what you mean.” Mu Qing avoids Feng Xin’s eyes, holding his phone in a vice grip.

“Half the time you won’t even look at me straight.” Feng Xin tilts his head to captures Mu Qing’s gaze. “For god fucking sake, everything out of your mouth is either an attack on me or an attack on yourself — if you don’t hate me, there’s some real twisted logic to whatever goes on in your head.”

The absence of sound is dizzying. Mu Qing struggles to take a breath. He doesn’t even care about the goddamn app anymore — if this is Feng Xin’s way of telling him he isn’t worth the effort, the world very well might end right here.

There’s a multitude of things Mu Qing could say to fix this. Instead, what comes out of his mouth is, “Obviously your bright idea is to shout from the rooftops that you hate me right back.”

“I don’t hate you.”

Mu Qing’s skin crawls. His mind refuses to comprehend the sentiment, because it’s wrong in all the ways he never lets himself think about.

“We aren’t friends,” Mu Qing chokes out.

Feng Xin looks at him. There’s a distinct lack of the anger Mu Qing associates with their fights — the all-consuming kind, spitfire in his mouth before he hits Mu Qing in the jaw.

“I don’t hate you,” he says. “Maybe I shouldn’t have — I don’t fucking know. You frustrate the fuck out of me.”

“We aren’t friends,” Mu Qing says again. It’s the only thing echoing in his head, a mess of walls going up faster than his heart can beat. His face is feverish, a hotness impairing his ability to think past that one line. “You aren’t my friend, you can’t say you don’t hate me just because it’s convenient —”

“Mu Qing.” Feng Xin’s voice is suddenly worried. Mu Qing can barely even see him. “What’s wrong?”

“Shut up,” Mu Qing snaps. “Go ahead and move out, I don’t fucking — don’t touch me.” Mu Qing recoils from the slight slide of skin against his wrist. His shoulders collapse inwards, Feng Xin the specter clouding his senses. “I can’t do this.”

“Say what you mean for once in your fucking life. What’s wrong?”

“Nothing!” The force behinds Mu Qing’s words shift the tension in his chest. It rises upwards, choking his throat until he can’t breath. Like gasping for air underwater, he says, “I can’t fucking stand you. I hate you. You make me f - f - feel like I’m dying, you fucking asshole.”

“What the fuck,” Feng Xin says.

“Move out.”

“What the fuck,” Feng Xin says again. “If you hate me that fucking much, then sure, I’ll get the hell out of here.”

“Fine.” Mu Qing’s voice breaks. He presses a hand against his eyes, urging the burning to leave him alone. “F - finally.” He goes quiet. The weight of it presses into him, the hollow, gaping sensation in his chest as gnawing as an empty apartment.

Mu Qing isn’t stupid. He knows that everyone leaves the moment he wants them to stay. First it was his mother. He thought the second would be Xie Lian, caught up in his fairytale villain boyfriend, but of course it’s Feng Xin. They were never even friends, really, just people who existed around each other.

Feng Xin’s footsteps sound back towards the hallway. Mu Qing doesn’t move. He tries to even his breaths, keep the wetness from escaping his eyes. It’s a failing battle.

The sound of Feng Xin packing his things is horrifically clear. There’s the zipper of his bag, the clang of drawers. The logical part of Mu Qing’s brain supposes he’ll sleep on Xie Lian’s couch tonight. The emotional part wants to chain him to their couch, ask him to stay, ask him why he wants to leave so bad.

By the time Feng Xin comes back, a duffel bag slung around his shoulder, Mu Qing has regained enough control to stop covering his eyes. He can’t hide the redness, but it doesn’t matter — Feng Xin barely looks at him.

“Have fun,” Mu Qing says. He wants to feel Feng Xin’s eyes on him. “You got what you wanted.”

At that, Feng Xin lets the duffel fall to the floor. He turns to face Mu Qing, wielding a stony expression. His hand flexes at his side, like he’s refraining from turning them into fists.

“This is what you want,” Feng Xin says. “This is what you said. I’m not packing my fucking bags for the hell of it.”

Mu Qing huffs. There’s the urge to roll his eyes, because of course that’s bullshit, but it’s shadowed by the sheer discomfort of this being harder than it has any right to be. If Feng Xin was less cruel, he’d leave without pressing a thousand tiny pins into Mu Qing’s skin.

“Stop playing the fucking victim.” Feng Xin steps forward, close enough for Mu Qing to touch him. “Stop making assumptions about every little thing you hear. If you want me to go, I’ll go, but don’t think it’s because I want to.”

“Fine.” Mu Qing moves backwards. “You’re right. I’ll move out.”

“You’re fucking kidding me.” Feng Xin grabs Mu Qing’s wrist. “You’re not going anywhere.”

A tiny sliver of hysterical amusement pierces through Mu Qing. If he’s not moving out, and Feng Xin isn’t moving out, what the fuck are they supposed to do? Draw a fucking line through the apartment?

“Listen to me a minute.” Feng Xin’s grip tightens. Mu Qing stares at where their skin connects. “You said I make you feel like you’re dying. What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

Mu Qing blinks. “I don’t —”

“Why did you try that stupid fucking app in the first place?” Feng Xin is uncharacteristically serious. “I’ve known you since college. You haven’t shown the slightest interest in going out with anyone.” He hesitates. “I thought you were, I don’t know, fucking aromantic or something.”

“This has nothing to do with moving out,” Mu Qing states dumbly.

Feng Xin stares at him. Mu Qing feels frozen underneath his eyes, leg caught in a trap he didn’t see coming.

“I said I’ll go if you want me to go,” Feng Xin says, “And I will. But I’ve fucking been in love with you since college ended.” There’s the familiar hint in anger in the last words he says, which Mu Qing takes with a sick relief, that at the very least Feng Xin still —

The meaning sinks in.

Mu Qing stops breathing. It’s a punch to the face, leaving him stumbling and dizzy while standing still as stone. First he’s filled with relief, a burst of happiness that robs him of thought, until it’s followed with the reality that this is Feng Xin. He’s kind, loyal to a fault, but Mu Qing has never trusted him with his heart.

The relief gives way to sheer, unbridled rage.

“Fuck you,” Mu Qing spits, pulling his hand away. “You don’t know when to stop, do you? I’m not a fucking plaything.”

Hurt flashes in Feng Xin’s eyes, followed by an anger that reflects Mu Qing’s own. He scoffs. There should be an insult after it, some continuation of their fight, but Feng Xin doesn’t open his mouth again. Like he’s giving up.

Mu Qing is left feeling that he’s missed something important. But Feng Xin can’t be in love with him, because he’s been in his life for six years and never treated him differently. They fought in college, they fought when Xie Lian moved out, they only stopped after graduation and after Mu Qing stopped insinuating Feng Xin didn’t want him around —

Oh.

Mu Qing pulls a ragged breath. “You don’t actually love me?”

Feng Xin barks out a laugh. “Unlike you, I’m not a liar.”

Mu Qing barely processes the insult. He’s thinking too hard, a tingling feeling starting in his hands and spreading up through his chest.

“Don’t move out,” Mu Qing says. “I don’t — fuck.” He rubs a hand over his face. A laugh forces its way up his throat, short and bitter. “Xie Lian made me join the app.”

“Dianxia?” Puzzlement creases Feng Xin’s eyes.

“He thought it would help me g - get over you.” Mu Qing looks past Feng Xin. He can’t bear to see his expression.

There’s a pause. Mu Qing feels his entire world spinning on an axis, poised and ready to turn one way or the other.

“Fucking Dianxia,” Feng Xin says before pulling Mu Qing to his chest.

Mu Qing blinks. His head rests on Feng Xin’s shoulder, arms hanging uselessly by his side. He’s dimly aware of Feng Xin’s scent around him, 2-in-1 shampoo and fragrant body wash clouding his nose. The moment it catches up to him, he crashes his arms around Feng Xin like he’s trying to win in a fight.

“Thank fuck,” Feng Xin murmurs into his hair. “I didn’t know how to tell Pei Ming we weren’t dating. He keeps going on about your hair.”

Mu Qing breathes in deeply. He can hear Feng Xin’s heart, a one-two, one-two reverberating against his chest.

“My hair is fucking gorgeous,” Mu Qing says.

—

“I’m so happy it worked,” Xie Lian says two weeks later, when Mu Qing and Feng Xin break the news to him. “San Lang will be so relieved. He kept asking when Mu Qing would, ah, work up the courage.”

“Actually,” Hua Cheng says, “I asked when he would get his head out of his ass.”