Work Text:
Mu Qing is a happy drunk and Feng Xin is not sure if that’s surprising.
He stares at Mu Qing as he laughs merrily, throwing his head back with his long fingers wrapped loosely around a half-empty jar of rice wine.
It’s a shocking sight to say the least, even more so when Mu Qing attempts to finish the jar. Most of the liquid escapes from his lips and slides down his jaw, wetting the collar of his robes.
“I think I want—want another one of this,” Mu Qing mumbles, a playful smile tugs at the corners of his lips, and the jar slips away from his fingers, shattering when it hits the ground.
“You’ve had enough.” Feng Xin replies.
“I know my limits better than you do, idiot.”
There are three empty wine jars on the table aside from the broken one, and judging by the fact that Mu Qing’s speech has gotten more and more slurred as time goes on, he either decided to ignore those limits or doesn’t really know them.
Everything started with an unusual petition.
“Hey! Give me some of that.” Mu Qing said right when Feng Xin was serving himself a cup of wine.
Feng Xin paused and looked up at his companion. They were sitting together inside their reluctantly shared tent at the foot of Taicang Mountain.
Feng Xin had placed a few jars of wine on the table, intending to spend the evening drinking his frustrations away. He never expected that Mu Qing would like to have some of it, not when alcohol consumption goes against the lifestyle that he has been following for almost a millennia.
“This is alcohol.” Feng Xin replied at last.
“I know.”
“Your cultivation—”
“I know.” Mu Qing repeated, firmly.
Feng Xin pursed his lips. The world had shifted off its axis and nothing will ever be the same—Jun Wu had been defeated, the Heavenly Capital had been destroyed, Crimson Rain was gone, and Xie Lian was left heartbroken.
If Mu Qing really wanted to get drunk and break the vows he has abided by his whole life, Feng Xin was not going to fight him to stop him.
“Do whatever you want,” Feng Xin passed the jar to him.
Mu Qing inspected it. Took a peek at the inside and sniffed the wine before placing his lips on the rim, finally taking a sip.
He promptly spluttered and Feng Xin lost it, trying and failing to mask his laughter by coughing.
“Stop laughing.” Mu Qing made a face, wiping at his mouth with his sleeve. “It wasn’t funny, jerk.”
“It was!”
Mu Qing shoved Feng Xin for that.
“I didn’t expect it to taste so strongly,” Mu Qing muttered. “This is awful.”
Despite his words, he retrieved another porcelain cup and filled it to the brim.
One sip became two, then three, and four. It didn’t take long for the cup to be tossed aside and for Mu Qing to take the jar and drink wine straight from it, emptying quickly.
Now all the jars but one are empty and Mu Qing is drunk. His pale cheeks have turned red, his usual grace is long gone, and Feng Xin has never seen him laughing so much before.
“There’s no more wine, you already drank it all,” Feng Xin says, tightening his hold on the last jar, unwilling to let Mu Qing take it too.
For a moment, Mu Qing does not look happy about that before his face breaks into a smile and he starts giggling again.
Feng Xin never expected to see Mu Qing so… cheerful. He would never giggle while sober, but in a way, it makes sense that he is being playful now that there are no inhibitions holding him back.
Still, it is weird and completely out of character for him.
“What’s so funny?”
“I think you forgot that you still have a jar.” Mu Qing leans closer to him to take it.
“This one is not for you.”
Mu Qing pouts as Feng Xin shields the jar with his body to keep it out of his reach.
“Give it to me!” Mu Qing orders.
“No, you’re not allowed to drink more tonight!” Feng Xin gulps down the jar contents in one go as Mu Qing stares, then slams the jar down. “What are you going to do about this?”
“Is that how you start a fight?” Mu Qing knocks down the bottles and springs to his feet.
He doubles forward immediately, placing his hands on his knees.
“Oh wow, everything’s spinning.” His breathing is shallow and he looks like he might collapse at any moment.
“What else did you expect, you insufferable idiot?” Feng Xin mutters, reaching to hold Mu Qing’s arm before he falls.
“I don’t know.”
Mu Qing stumbles, clearly struggling to stay on his feet despite the help.
Feng Xin sighs and stands up to wrap an arm around Mu Qing’s torso. Mu Qing whines, but fists the front of Feng Xin’s robes and rests his face against his shoulder, waiting for the world to slow down.
“This is not fun anymore,” Mu Qing mumbles.
“It’s not been a fun night for me either!”
“At least you’re not drunk.”
“You’re the one to blame for that too,” Feng Xin tells him.
Mu Qing lifts his head, and his face is suddenly way too close to Feng Xin’s own—he can smell the alcoholic tang in Mu Qing’s breath and feel the warmth of his skin. There is also the way Mu Qing stares at him, with wide black eyes and an open, vulnerable expression.
Fuck.
“I think it’s time for you to sleep,” Feng Xin decides and half-carries, half-drags Mu Qing away from the table.
“No, I’m a god—powerful enough to sustain myself without sleeping.” Mu Qing babbles. “I have over six—no, wait! Over seven thousand temples!”
“You can’t even stay on your feet right now.”
Mu Qing struggles in Feng Xin’s arms at first, but slumps against him an instant later, which is for the best. Feng Xin doesn’t want to think too much about what could happen if Mu Qing keeps moving and getting dizzy.
“Why did you drink so much?” Feng Xin grunts, lowering Mu Qing face down onto his cot. “Why now?”
Mu Qing hums, getting comfortable. He closes his eyes and for a moment, Feng Xin thinks Mu Qing has fallen asleep, so he reaches to brush Mu Qing’s bangs away from his face.
“I almost died, we almost died,” Mu Qing whispers, clearly not asleep yet. Feng Xin freezes with his hand hovering over Mu Qing’s temple. “Why do you care anyway? You don’t even like me.”
Mu Qing’s eyes shift to his wrist as he pushes Feng Xin away. The skin is still red and tender where the cursed shackle used to be. Feng Xin has seen him covering the mark obsessively, but now his sleeves have slid down his arms, leaving it in plain sight.
“That’s not—It’s not like that.”
“Oh, well, do you like me then?”
“Why are you so talkative when you’re drunk off your ass?” Feng Xin asks, rubbing the bridge of his nose.
Mu Qing only shrugs, tracing random figures on the sheets with his forefinger.
“Fine, I don’t dislike you.” Feng Xin admits. Quite the opposite, actually.
“I don’t dislike you either, sometimes you’re shitty, but I don’t want you dead.” Mu Qing chuckles.
His chuckles quickly turn into full-blown laughter. Feng Xin is not sure of the reason why, but if he has learned something over the evening, it is that he can’t read drunk Mu Qing at all.
“What is so fun now?”
“Your face.” Mu Qing answers, unexpectedly moving to lie on his side and poke Feng Xin’s brow. “You’re always frowning.”
Feng Xin slaps his hand away, but Mu Qing tries to poke Feng Xin again, and again, and again. They make a game out of it until Mu Qing has gotten enough and takes Feng Xin’s right hand to pull him closer with more force than needed.
Feng Xin tumbles down and barely manages to avoid headbutting Mu Qing.
For the second time in the evening, Feng Xin finds himself way too close to Mu Qing. Their noses are almost touching, and Feng Xin feels, rather than sees, the way Mu Qing’s chest rises and falls, steady and fast, matching his breathing.
Mu Qing presses his thumb against the area in between Feng Xin’s eyebrows, looking pleased with himself afterward.
“I told you, it’s time for you to sleep,” Feng Xin whispers, leaning back until there is a safe distance between them.
Mu Qing is still holding his hand.
“Sleep with me then,” Mu Qing blurts out. His face turns into the color of ripe cherries, so he probably didn’t intend to say it like that. “I mean, if I’m going to sleep, you better go to sleep too… on the other side of the tent… in your cot.”
“Sure, but you fall asleep first.”
“Stay with me until I do?”
Feng Xin squeezes his hand. “Yes, idiot. I will.”