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Mu Qing heaves forward, hacking up a mouthful of dirt and blood as he adjusts his grip on the spirit-binding cord, tightening its hold around the demon Cao Xun's throat.
Cao Xun glares up at him, black-tipped claws digging into the fabric of Mu Qing's robes. He’s stronger than Mu Qing thought he’d be. There was never any doubt that Mu Qing would come out on top, but Cao Xun seems dedicated to being a dunce about it. Mu Qing pours spiritual energy into his grip, digging his heels into the ground and wiping sweat out of his eyes on his shoulder. Cao Xun’s grip slips, his cold gray hand scratching against Mu Qing’s wrist as he falls, faltering.
Goddamn finally. Mu Qing switches the rope to one hand, fishing a spirit-bounding pouch from an inner pocket. From then, it’s merely clockwork.
Once he’s finished, it’s not that Mu Qing no longer has the spiritual energy to return to the heavens, but rather, he lacks the face.
He paces the floor of the temple, gnawing at his nails and tugging at the sleeves of his outer robes. Yes, he’d defeated the Savage-level ghost Cao Xun singlehandedly, and the sight of it struggling against the walls of his spirit-binding pouch is a welcome one, but he can feel the effects of the curse it managed to put on him in the moments that he opened the pouch settling into his meridians and tainting the energy in his core.
In the words of Feng Xin, fucking damnit.
Ah, Qing-er, hi— Xie Lian’s voice rings out from Mu Qing’s personal array, and Mu Qing pinches the bridge of his nose, groaning. San Lang and I are up at Feng Xin’s right now, and he said you might need help? Are you alright?
Mu Qing sighs, pressing a finger to his temple. I’m fine, dianxia. Just wrapping up. Don’t worry.
Aiyah, I’m not worried. I know you’re perfectly capable of taking care of a Savage. Xie Lian’s voice is slightly exasperated and very loving, a combination that Mu Qing is well-acquainted with as his friend continues, Just, come back soon, alright? San Lang hates it up here, but I would quite like to see you before we go.
Fine. Mu Qing cuts the connection before Xie Lian can reply, turning back to the jerking qiankun pouch wrapped with golden rope. “Shut up,” he says to nobody.
He passes the bound Savage to Ling Wen’s office before making his way to Feng Xin’s palace. Feng Xin, of course, just had to build his palace right beside Mu Qing’s in the New Heavenly Court; it’s as though he’s a dumb dog that won’t leave Mu Qing alone no matter how many times he kicks it.
At least dogs are cute.
Mu Qing fiddles with his hair piece, securing his flyaways before sweeping his hands into his outer robes and acknowledging the guards at Feng Xin’s palace.
“General Xuan Zhen,” one of the guards says, a young woman with a scar across her face leaving one eye milky and blind. Mu Qing’s spies speak well of her; she’s honorable, for someone in Feng Xin’s palace. She folds into a short bow, gaze dropping. “Generals Nan Yang and Xian Le are awaiting your presence in the dining hall.”
Mu Qing nods, stepping into the palace, the sound of his heels against the marble floors echoing around the empty entry chamber, torches glowing in the dimming light that peeks through the high windows. He knows Feng Xin’s palace almost as well as he knows his own, loath as he is to admit it. He doesn’t hesitate as he makes his way through simple yet opulent rooms, the sound of Xie Lian’s laughter cutting through the relative silence.
Feng Xin’s back is to him as Mu Qing enters the dining hall; Xie Lian sees him first, brightening up from where he sits draped over Hua Cheng’s lap.
“Qing-er!” Xie Lian cries.
Feng Xin turns, eyebrows raised. His gaze settles into a scowl when he sees Mu Qing, an expression that’s mirrored by Hua Cheng over his shoulder.
Mu Qing rolls his eyes, ignoring the both of them as he crosses the room towards Xie Lian. “Dianxia.”
Xie Lian extracts himself from Hua Cheng’s lap, standing and bounding over to Mu Qing. “You made it.”
“Yes, I—” Mu Qing’s cut off when Xie Lian takes his hand in his, giving it a squeeze. As Xie Lian smiles brightly, the most peculiar thing occurs.
He’s safe; I was worried.
It comes clear as day, almost as though Xie Lian spoke it. "What?"
Xiie Lian echoes his question, pulling away.
“Nothing,” Mu Qing says, but his neck feels as though it’s burning, his cheeks coloring.
Xie Lian steps back, and it happens again as their fingertips brush together when Mu Qing releases him.
He let this gege touch him this time. Thank goodness, he must not be too shaken up, ah?
Mu Qing squints at Xie Lian. “Are you…?”
"Actually," and that’s Hua Cheng. He sidles up to the pair, sliding his arm around Xie Lian’s waist possessively. “We were about to leave.”
Mu Qing rolls his eyes. “Thank you, oh wise one, for speaking for dianxia, something which dianxia is clearly incapable of doing.”
“You’re welcome,” Hua Cheng says snidely.
“Aiyah, both of you.” Xie Lian turns to Mu Qing, pouting. “We, ah, were just about to…”
Mu Qing sighs, face flushing. “It’s fine, dianxia. I’ll… come visit sometime.”
Hua Cheng laughs.
Xie Lian smiles. “Really? Oh, Qing-er, are you sure?”
“Yes, it’s f-fine. You two go home. We’ll catch up later.”
“Thank you, Qing-er.” Xie Lian leans in, pressing a swift kiss to Mu Qing’s cheek.
He’s lying.
Mu Qing jerks away. “What? It’s fine. Just go home.”
“Come now, gege. Let’s go.” Hua Cheng smirks at Mu Qing, their shoulders brushing together as he pulls Xie Lian away.
GegeGegeGegeGegeGege.
Mu Qing flinches. Hua Cheng laughs, voice tinged with cruelty as the two disappear in a swarm of silver butterflies.
“That will never not be fucking creepy,” Feng Xin says from where he’s still sitting on the chaise, a cup of tea in his hands.
Mu Qing turns to him. “Were they really about to leave?”
Feng Xin gives him a look. “What reason would dianxia have to lie to you?”
“Shut up.” Mu Qing pulls his hands into his sleeves, looking away. “I should just—”
“We may as well eat,” Feng Xin interrupts, standing.
“What? Oh. You eat?” Mu Qing’s blush deepens.
Feng Xin scratches the back of his neck. “Sometimes.”
“Dianxia left.” Mu Qing pinches the bridge of his nose, Gege, lying, Gege, rotating on a turnplate in his head. “I should go.”
“Fine. Let me just—” Feng Xin steps forward, reaching out.
Mu Qing jerks his hand back, glaring at him. “What do you think you’re doing?”
“You—” Feng Xin opens his fist, revealing a golden earring. “This fell off your ear when you embraced dianxia.”
“Oh.” Mu Qing tentatively stretches a hand forward, snatching it back as soon as he feels metal hit his palm. Feng Xin raises his eyebrows, but Mu Qing ignores him, turning away and marching out of the palace, his face already far beyond saving.
He doesn’t look back until he’s outside in the Capital again, Feng Xin’s voice ringing in his mind.
Pretty earrings.
Mu Qing is only glad that he’ss never made a habit of touching others. He wants to confront that demon, to figure out the cure for this curse that he can feel weighing down every thought and movement. It’s unlike anything he’s ever experienced before. Typically, he’s able to solve curses within at least a week, especially when the people around him are aware of it. But Ling Wen had been on time for once, sending a scroll to Mu Qing’s palace that the Savage had been put beneath a mountain in Pei Ming’s territory.
Excellent.
Mu Qing finds himself spending too much time in Ling Wen’s archives, studying the effects of unique curses until his eyes smart and his throat is dry.
It’s one of those long nights, lamps spilling soft luminance over the scrolls on the broad tables as pre-dawn light leaks through the floor-to-ceiling windows when Mu Qing is interrupted.
This in itself is not unusual, as Ling Wen’s attendants start their work early; but the heavy footsteps echoing on the floors are all-too familiar.
Mu Qing turns before Feng Xin can stay anything, shooting him a glare. “What?”
Feng Xin’s eyes widen. “You look like shit.”
Mu Qing rolls his eyes, turning back to his scrolls. “Shut up.”
“What are you working on?”
Mu Qing startles, leaning forward to gather the scrolls against his chest before Feng Xin can see. “None of your business. Back off.”
“O-kay,” Feng Xin says slowly, approaching Mu Qing’s side. “Wanna get something to eat? Or, like, take a goddamn nap?”
Mu Qing glares at him. “Why do you keep asking me to eat? Are you trying to poison me?”
“Shut up.” Feng Xin flushes. “Look, Mu Qing. You look awful. At least take a break.” He reaches forward, but Mu Qing jerks back before Feng Xin can wrap a hand around his wrist.
Mu Qing shakes his sleeves over his wrists. “Why do you care? This isn’t any of your business.”
Feng Xin sighs, watching as Mu Qing begins to roll up the scrolls he’d been perusing. “Fine. If you don’t want to rest, do you wanna spar?”
Mu Qing pauses. He can feel Feng Xin’s gaze against the back of his neck. They’ve known each other for too long; Feng Xin won’t back down.
He pinches the bridge of his nose. “Alright.”
Mu Qing follows Feng Xin onto the training grounds in the center of his palace, eyeing him wearily. Feng Xin cracks his neck, hair swishing like a pendulum that Mu Qing can’t help but stare at.
Maybe Feng Xin’s right. Maybe he really does need to rest. Mu Qing rubs his eyes, forcing himself to look away.
They spar often enough that Mu Qing is long past the point of losing face over the fact that Feng Xin keeps practice sabers specifically for him in the same cabinet that he keeps his practice arrows—Mu Qing has the same thing in his own training grounds. He likes to pretend not to notice the smirks his own attendants give when they’re fetching arrows after a match.
After tucking his sleeves into his vambraces, Mu Qing selects a sword he doesn’t usually use—it’s wooden, but with a sharp tip and a solid blunt end perfect for whacking Feng Xin with. Feng Xin chooses his usual bow, swinging a quiver of dull-tipped arrows over each shoulder. Mu Qing swings the sword through the air, muscles aching with relief at being stretched for the first time in too many shichen to count. He cracks his neck and his knuckles, turning to face Feng Xin once the sun is to his back. Let Feng Xin squint into the brightening dawn light, if he wants to spar so badly.
Feng Xin raises a hand to his eyes, squinting in Mu Qing’s direction. “Ready?”
“I suppose,” Mu Qing says drily. “Begin.”
Feng Xin wastes no time nocking an arrow in his bow, letting it fly in Mu Qing’s direction with the kind of precision only a god could manage with the distraction of the sun in his eyes. Mu Qing side-steps, holding up his saber to deflect the arrow with its blade, his body falling into the rhythmical routine of combat against Feng Xin. It’s almost like a dance, the way they move together, then apart, Feng Xin shooting arrow after arrow and Mu Qing shafting them aside with the kind of skill that makes them both look at ease.
The sun has risen by the time Mu Qing feels a cool drop of sweat sliding down his forehead, the sting of salt hitting one eye as he whips his saber to the side. Mu Qing curses, shaking his head and wincing when one of Feng Xin’s arrows finds its mark, hitting him in the side with enough force to make Mu Qing stumble. Mu Qing looks up, glaring at Feng Xin, whose smug grin makes him want to charge at him in an attempt to slash his throat.
And so he does. Mu Qing rushes at him, satisfied at the sight of Feng Xin taking a single step backwards in surprise. He gets a single swing in, his saber glancing off Feng Xin’s shoulder as another arrow whizzes past his face.
Feng Xin’s moment of distraction is enough, though, and Mu Qing kicks him in the stomach, sending Feng Xin sprawling. One quiver of arrows spills across the dirt, the other gets pinned behind Feng Xin’s back when he hits the ground.
"Yield," Mu Qing says, out of breath as he plants a boot on Feng Xin's chest.
Feng Xin glares up at him. "No thanks."
Mu Qing starts to roll his eyes, but he freezes when Feng Xin grabs his ankle beneath his robes, yanking him forward.
Normally, Mu Qing would be able to resist such an obvious and unsportsmanlike move. Normally; however, Feng Xin's voice doesn't ring clear as day through his mind, the curse coming back in full force.
The sun makes his hair look so fucking shiny from this angle. I can't believe I let him kick my ass.
Mu Qing stumbles when Feng Xin pulls his ankle, and he hits the ground hard, tasting iron at the back of his throat as he bites his tongue. The pain hardly even registers, though, Feng Xin's words revolving at the back of his thoughts in a dizzying concoction of disbelief and bemusement.
Feng Xin crouches above him, knees on either side of his chest. Mu Qing spreads his arms in an attempt to keep them from touching, rolling his eyes when Feng Xin procures a dagger from within his sleeve and holds it against his throat. "Yield."
"You're so dramatic," Mu Qing says.
Feng Xin snorts, hand shifting. "Says you." The blade of the dagger isn't close enough to be an actual threat, but Mu Qing can feel the heat from Feng Xin's hand against the underside of his chin. He breathes heavily, and the back of Feng Xin's wrist bumps against his jaw, thoughts hitting his mind like a bullet.
How damn easy it would be to lean down and kiss him. Does he like my dagger? Does he know it's new?
"Wh—" Mu Qing tries to throw Feng Xin off of him, only succeeding in knocking Feng Xin’s hand against his face more firmly.
His skin is so warm with exertion—what if I cupped his jaw in my hand? I’m a damn mess. This shit sucks. Being in love sucks.
Mu Qing stiffens, eyes widening. “What the hell is wrong with y—” He bucks up, kicking his legs out and throwing Feng Xin to the side. "Get— off—"
He's so strong.
Mu Qing draws back as if burned, rolling away. The smell of dust makes him cough as he pushes himself to his feet. "I hate you," he spits out before his thoughts can catch up, aggressively batting dirt off his robes, saber left in the dust where he dropped it. “Why did you even ask me here today? What’s your problem?”
Feng Xin stands, the remaining quiver of arrows falling off his shoulder and nestling in the crook of his elbow. He scowls, shoving the quiver back up his arm and putting his hands on his hips. “Don’t be a goddamn dick because you lost, asshole.”
“I’m not— You’re not—” Mu Qing breathes heavily.
“Fuck, Mu Qing. You’ve been so neurotic lately, I just thought I’d try and h—”
"Shut up." Mu Qing feels his face heating, and he can only hope that it doesn't show. The sun is fully up now, and Feng Xin falls uncharacteristically silent from across the courtyard, the soft morning light illuminating his face in beams of red and orange. "I don't need help, especially from you."
Feng Xin reels back as if hit, mouth dropping open. "You—"
Mu Qing steps forward as though a string is connected between the two of them, his mind racing faster than his mouth can keep up. "No," he says, shaking his head. "Shut up, Feng Xin." Feng Xin stands his ground, fists clenched at his sides. "Why are you so—" Why are his thoughts like that? Is the curse not what Mu Qing thinks? Why would it lie about Feng Xin's feelings? Perhaps it's designed to ruin the relationships in Mu Qing's life, however fragile they already are. Maybe—
"Mu Qing?"
Mu Qing snaps out of it, sneering at Feng Xin. "What do you want?"
"Are you—" Feng Xin scratches the back of his neck, wincing. "Mu Qing, are you… okay?"
Mu Qing's face burns with deep-broiled shame. He steps closer, his hand reaching out before he can stop himself. "Be quiet."
He rests two fingers against the side of Feng Xin's neck. Feng Xin's intake of breath is drowned out by the flood of secondhand confusion that blurs his vision.
Have I made fun of his 'f-f-friend' line too much? It was dumb as shit but I didn't want to actually hurt his feelings— He's such a sensitive little asshole.
"Mu Qing…?" Feng Xin asks, voice strangely soft
Mu Qing shushes him, not removing his hand.
Who knew fighting could be such an aphrodisiac? Hell, even when he's pissed at me I still want to kiss him, I want to pull him close and slide my hands under his—
Mu Qing can feel himself flushing red as he stares at Feng Xin, at the way his eyebrows are drawn into a slanted line, his nostrils flaring, lips slightly parted. He's staring right back at Mu Qing, gaze unwavering. Mu Qing feels pinned to the spot beneath that gaze and those thoughts.
He hasn't looked at me this long in goddamn centuries. Is he pissed? Is he going to replace his touch with a blade? Is he going to kiss me, or kill me? Shit.
Mu Qing curls his fingers against Feng Xin's throat. He contemplates wrapping his hand around it, although not very seriously. It's a fleeting thought, one that makes his blush deepen. He pulls away.
"You good?" Feng Xin asks.
Mu Qing rolls his eyes. "Obviously. Are you done trying to 'help?'"
"I don't appreciate your shitty tone." Feng Xin jabs Mu Qing in the chest with one finger.
Asshole.
"Too bad."
"Mu Qing—"
Mu Qing walks away before Feng Xin can finish.
Ling Wen doesn't say anything when Mu Qing stalks into her palace again, but she does raise an eyebrow from behind the scroll she's working on, flyaway hairs seeming to mock him as he slams the door to her library behind him.
There. With peace and quiet, Mu Qing can push the fight with Feng Xin to the back of his mind, build walls around the words ringing through his mind, swallow down the words and accusations that he wanted to spit out as the sun rose behind him.
It's not until the moon rises that evening that Mu Qing realizes he's only made his way through half a scroll, rereading the same characters for an hour on end as the attendants flit from table to table to light the lamps and candles surrounding him.
Xie Lian is a startling vision in white when he appears like an apparition at the edge of the lamplight, and Mu Qing resists the urge to jump when he looks up from his scroll to see his friend watching him.
“Xie Lian— What—” Mu Qing’s grip on his quill tightens, and he curses as ink blots on the parchment he's been copying characters on.
"Hi," Xie Lian says, and gives Mu Qing what he believes may be the fiercest look Xie Lian is capable of; he is nearly as frightening as a mouse squeaking when you won't let go of the cheese. "Mu Qing, you, ah, look less than perfect."
"Thank you." Mu Qing rolls his eyes.
"Feng Xin said, too, that you were acting rather strangely this morning, and, ah, that I should come check on you—"
"So you two idiots still speak about me on the quiet?"
"Look, ah," Xie Lian glances down at the scrolls littering the desk. "If there's anything you need to talk about— I mean, this one told San Lang that I’d be here awhile, and so—”
“There’s nothing.”
Xie Lian studies him. “Qing-er.”
“...”
“Aren’t we friends?”
Mu Qing looks down. "I sup-p-pose."
"Friends, um. Friends talk to each other, I believe? So this one would love to, ah, talk."
Right. Talking. The thought of it makes Mu Qing's throat clench up, but that can't be the curse. No, this happens most times that Mu Qing tries to talk to Xie Lian. He swallows down the lump, holding his quill so tightly that it will surely leave lines in the crease of his hand. His gaze drills a hole into the table, and the table offers no answers. "It's a c-curse."
"Mn." Xie Lian doesn't seem surprised.
"I d-don't— it's not—" Mu Qing stops, pinching the bridge of his nose. "It's not like any curse I've seen. It doesn't seem to attack my physical senses, or my spiritual powers." He purses his lips. "I can't figure out what's wrong with me, or how to solve it."
"Oh." Xie Lian raises his eyebrows. "Well, ah, we can figure it out, yes? Both of us have been through worse than a simple curse."
"It's not…" Mu Qing's face flushes, and he feels the ghost of tears pricking against the corner of his eyes, which is much too embarrassing. "You are too optimistic, Xie Lian."
Strangely, though, the knot in Mu Qing's chest loosens, just a bit.
"May this one ask what, um, how the curse affects you?"
“You—” Mu Qing pauses. Perhaps it's a fair question; maybe Xie Lian really does want to help. Instead of responding, he stretches a tentative hand forward and presses his fingertips against the back of Xie Lian's hand.
I'm so worried. He looks so gaunt.
"I don't look that bad."
Xie Lian's brow creases. "En?" Why won't he just tell me?
"You— I'm trying to—" Mu Qing withdraws his hand. "This god can hear what you're thinking, Xie Lian."
"Oh," Xie Lian says. "And what am I thinking of now?"
"Crimson Rain Sought Flower."
"And now?"
"Crimson Rain Sought Flower."
"And now?"
A beat.
"Still Crimson Rain."
Xie Lian leans forward, brushing his hair from his face. "What an odd curse."
"It is."
"We could ask San Lang—"
"Anybody but San Lang."
"Ah… Sorry." Xie Lian looks away.
Strangely enough, that makes something in Mu Qing's heart tighten. He bites his lip, glancing up. Xie Lian is… helping. They are… friends .
Mu Qing wants to slam his head against the wall until it bleeds.
"It's— You— Ugh." Mu Qing hits his forehead with the palm of his hand. "This god is aware that Crimson Rain is… important to you. I am s-s-sorry for— I just don't want to involve— This god thanks you for the offer. You are kind to offer y-your San Lang as assistance. Th-th-th-thank you."
"Oh." Xie Lian blinks. "That is, ah. Quite kind of you to say."
"Yes. Thank you. Yes." Mu Qing clears his throat and rolls out his shoulders, allowing himself a moment of non-decorum. "Allow this god to—" He reaches out, touching the back of Xie Lian's hand again. It's easier, this way. "I— You're—"
Xie Lian smiles at him, eyes twinkling. I love... you, Mu Qing.
"Stop that," Mu Qing blurts, cheeks coloring. "Y-y-you're very important to this god, that's all. I'm h-happy we're f-f-friends."
We've… been friends... for years. The thought is barely there, like a stretch of fabric whipping around a corner of the Palace of Xianle as Xie Lian ran about, a carefree child who didn't understand much about anything.
He understands now, though.
And perhaps he understands the curse, too, because as Mu Qing stumbles through the most uncomfortable monologue of his hundreds of years of life, Xie Lian's thoughts get quieter and quieter, a whisper as opposed to a shout.
"I l-l-l-l-l-l— Fuck. I love you, t-too." Mu Qing lets out a massive sigh of relief.
"Are you, ah, alright?"
"Think of something," Mu Qing snaps. "Something that's not Crimson Rain."
Blissful silence.
Mu Qing smiles despite himself.
"This one was thinking of steam buns," Xie Lian supplies.
"Come here." Mu Qing waves over one of Ling Wen's attendants. Her thoughts are quieter, but when Mu Qing says, "This god suggests that this servant changes her hair," the thoughts cease all together.
“Xie Lian, I—” Mu Qing turns to his friend. “Th-th-thank you.”
Mu Qing spends the next half a moon spouting confessions; some are easy, most are difficult. He nearly vomits when he has to admit to Hua Cheng that perhaps his intense devotion to Xie Lian is perhaps not as soul-crushingly creepy as he has implied it to be; he flushes a bright red when he tells Pei Ming that he, too, is a true friend. Every truth spoken quiets his mind just a bit more, like a rotating wheel losing spokes.
For another half moon, he avoids Feng Xin. It’s not as easy as he thought it would be, but every time Mu Qing feels himself faltering, he remembers the intense emotion that floods from Feng Xin at every touch, and wonders how he ever missed it before. He can see it in Feng Xin’s eyes now when he looks at him. He can feel it in Feng Xin’s shouts when he tries to run away.
It’s almost a relief when Feng Xin corners him in his palace. Mu Qing hears him before he sees him, and has a fleeting question of how he got past both his attendants and the spiritual arrays Mu Qing has placed for protection before Feng Xin appears, face pink with rage and exertion, his fists clenched at his side and his hair falling out of its bun.
“Hey! Fucker!” Feng Xin strides across the room, coming to a stop in front of the desk where Mu Qing continues to dutifully answer prayers. He skitters to a halt as though half expecting Mu Qing to scream back, putting his hands on his hips. “What the hell’s got your robes in a twist for the past fucking month?”
Mu Qing makes a point to finish rolling the scroll of the prayer he’s working on before looking up, gaze fixed on the middle distance somewhere behind Feng Xin’s left ear. “What do you want, Feng Xin?”
Feng Xin sputters. “You— You’ve been avoiding me. It’s weird.”
Mu Qing rolls his eyes, fighting to keep face. “I haven’t been avoiding you, Feng Xin. I’ve been… busy. Some of us actually try to keep on top of our paperwork, you know—”
It’s absolutely not the truth, but maybe Mu Qing isn’t ready to face the truth. Maybe he needs another moon, or another, or perhaps another 800 years before he can look at Feng Xin and say what’s in his heart.
"You've made a goddamn point to talk to every god, every Buddha, every official, hell, every little idiot that crosses through the Heavenly Capital—” This is true; if rumors fly that he’s losing believers and is trying to ensure that he won’t be forgotten, it’s nothing to the relief that Mu Qing’s mind is his own again. Rumors will pass, and so will this curse. “—and yet you run in the other direction every time I see you.”
“Shouldn’t you be used to that?”
“Not from you.”
Feng Xin’s jaw is set; his eyes burn like molten gold. Mu Qing simply can’t stand it.
“Feng Xin, I—”
“What, Mu Qing? What the hell could you possibly want?”
This curse to end , Mu Qing thinks. For things to go back to the way they were. You.
“I want— Just listen—” Mu Qing swallows. Feng Xin’s leaning across the desk now, hands pressed against the edge. It would be so easy to reach across. It would be so easy to know what Feng Xin’s thinking.
Mu Qing keeps his hands at his sides, looking up at him. “Feng Xin, when you— when I t-t-touch you, it— I can hear what you’re th-th-thinking, and I h-h-hate it.”
“You can…” Feng Xin trails off.
“Shut up. I’m trying to s-save face. I hate h-hearing your thoughts, but I don’t hate y-y-y-you.” Mu Qing squeezes his eyes closed. It’s easier to say it when he doesn’t have to see him. “You think so highly of me it’s embarrassing. But I must admit that I think highly of you, too. If you were to k-kiss me, I do n-n-n-n-n-n—” he bites his tongue. “I do not think I would be opposed to the idea.”
“What? “ Feng Xin’s eyes widen. “What the fuck?”
“I mean, if you don’t w-w-want to, that’s fine. It’s fine.” Mu Qing pushes his chair back, looking anywhere but Feng Xin.
“Wait—” Feng Xin lurches forward. “Yes. Kissing. Hell. Damn. Fuck. Kissing. Mu Qing, I do want to kiss you. Mu Qing, yes.”
Oh.
“Oh.” Mu Qing looks up. “You should do that, then.”
“Okay,” Feng Xin hesitates, biting his lip in hesitation. “Okay.”
Mu Qing stands up. “Okay.”
Feng Xin leans forward, and Mu Qing leans in, and then they’re kissing; Feng Xin’s lips are chapped and dry, but it’s perfect. It’s perfect in the way Feng Xin’s hand comes up to cup his jaw, and in the way that Mu Qing breathes out a soft sigh, and in the way that there’s no more secrets between them, none.
Mu Qing’s brain is blissfully quiet, and that’s the most perfect thing at all.