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General Nan Yang is known for his dedication.
Some say that dedication derives from his deeply loyal heart—loyal to his friends, worshipers, and godly duties. Loyal to a fault, some might say.
Feng Xin does take his duties seriously—he’s the martial god of the southeast after all!—though his perspective on it is a little less dramatic than the dramatic tales his followers recite of their loyal god.
Still, yes, he’s very dedicated to his followers. He works a lot, and very hard, to serve the people to his upmost ability. Whether it means solving political disputes, helping with recovery efforts, or even (ugh) occasionally giving advice to lovers, he does his best.
However, gods, as Xie Lian might say, are still humans in heart and mind. And humans get tired.
Feng Xin can admit when he’s exhausted. He’s not a workaholic like some other gods—he knows when he needs rest. So yes, he loves being a god; yes, he works hard; and yes, he takes breaks sometimes.
He’s just returning from a long mission. It was outside his territory, so he feels especially drained from having to use so much energy to produce magic. There was a situation with a ghost—it wasn’t quite a wrath, but it was nearly there. It was the resentful spirit of a husband, who was mourning the loss of his wife who died far too young in an accident. The ghost was luring couples up to him and murdering them, intent on harvesting the remaining energy of devastated relationships.
He got away with it for a while, until Xie Lian heard rumors of such a story and wanted to investigate.
They handled it at the tail end of winter. The snow is mostly melted, but it’s cold still, nonetheless. They’re not as sensitive to it as mortals, thankfully, and using their spiritual energy helps a lot, but that doesn’t mean they aren’t affected by it at all.
Mu Qing, being the stubborn ass he is, wouldn’t admit he was cold until his fingers were shaking so much that he could barely hold his saber. Feng Xin called him stupid before handing over his gloves to Mu Qing, who looked like he wanted to refuse. He couldn’t really, since he would have been useless if he couldn’t start getting a grip on his weapon, so he got a begrudging thanks, though it was definitely though gritted teeth.
The mission had been mostly just miserable because of the cold until a few minutes after that point. They had found the ghost’s main lair. Then, they smelt the awful, horrifying stench of rotting corpses. Feng Xin gagged at the smell, and His Highness and Mu Qing definitely tensed with unease at what was sure to come.
Upon feeling them enter his territory, the ghost revealed itself. It jumped from the shadows. Really, it stood no chance against three of the most powerful martial gods. It screamed obscenities and curses as it was defeated. Feng Xin screamed plenty back.
Once the ghost was defeated, they lit up the cave fully. The sight was more horrifying than they anticipated.
The ghost had arranged all of the couples to be paired off with their lover. What remains of the flesh on their faces looks like they were screaming in agony, frozen in time even as they rotted. Each couple was laid out, clutching onto each other as they likely had been during their final moments.
It was horrific, which is saying a lot, since the three of them had been through some awful things before. But Feng Xin imagined the other two were feeling just as sick to his stomach as he was.
They reported what had happened to Ling Wen. Then, because of the gruesome scene and stench, they decided to leave the task of proper burials for the victims to some selected personnel from Ghost City, who were more than happy to help out Xie Lian, even with such a task.
The cold didn’t feel as bad after all that.
They all went home after—Mu Qing and Feng Xin to their palaces, Xie Lian to Qiandeng Temple—and now he just wants to rest.
He doesn’t need to sleep, necessarily. He thinks a few hours of meditation will get him feeling back up to par. When he finally returns to his palace, he wastes no time in dismissing his junior officials and heading to his sleeping chambers. He sits on a mat and settles into a comfortable position for meditation.
He sits.
And sits.
And sits.
…
…
And then flops over onto his side, defeated.
He’s never been one to sit still and do nothing, and meditation is certainly not working for him now. He usually can make himself do it with all the practice he’s had over the centuries of godhood, but something about the case today has his mind wandering. He’s seen awful things before, but this one has left a lingering sense of dread in his stomach.
It’s grim, but he closes his eyes and imagines himself in the positions of the corpses. Except, unlike them, he is alone. In this vision, there’s no one for him to hold onto for comfort in his last moments.
…It’s been a long time since he’s thought about things like this.
He mind wanders. He thoughts finally stray away from the terrible scene, but they stay focused on this idea of Feng Xin, alone.
A new kind of pit in his stomach forms as he lays there, staring at the wall across the room. He’s suddenly desperate to have someone to hold on to. He thinks back to Jian Lan, 800s years ago, and the comfort she brought him. He imagines her lying next to him, now on a nice mat instead of straw in a dingy room. He imagines reaching out to her, like he used to, and pulling her close—
That thought stops for a moment, because Feng Xin suddenly feels uncomfortable even thinking about it. The softness of her features, the cadence of her voice that he tries to remember, it doesn’t bring him comfort anymore. He doesn’t know when that changed.
… Feng Xin is alone.
He scratches the idea of imagining Jian Lan away, and tries to replace it with something else. He doesn’t need to imagine her next to him specifically, he can just imagine any girl.
… That ends incredibly quickly. He feels like vomiting at the idea of pulling any girl close to him.
He sighs and lets himself feel pathetic for a while. He’s been fine for 800 years, and now suddenly he wants someone to hug and to hold? It feels ridiculous.
Eventually he does doze off. In the mixture of barely-there-sleep and semi-consciousness, he remembers dreaming of someone next to him.
They’re in his arms, sleeping. In the dream, he can hear them breathe, and feel their chest move with the slow inhales and exhales of rest.
There’s no face—at least, not one that he can remember—but he knows what he felt in this dream. The planes of muscle beneath his hands, the chest that was pressed to his own, the calloused hand on his arm. There’s no doubt about it.
Feng Xin was dreaming about a man.
Despite the thought being new, it doesn’t really surprise Feng Xin in the end. He has always been uneasy around women (okay, terrified, if he’s being honest), and Jian Lan was the only exception—at least, until recently. And they had been talking as friends for months before they ever did anything romantic. He remembers his heart feeling like it was beating out of his chest when they first held hands.
(He tries thinking about holding hands with her in the present time, but the thought leaves him unsettled. He doesn’t think it’s because she’s a ghost, but he’s not sure why thinking of something that brought him so much happiness before has the opposite effect now.)
So anyway, men. Feng Xin probably should’ve realized that he could find comfort in a man’s presence, since women didn’t.
But then, he tries thinking about any man who he’s ever thought about in a romantic way, and comes up blank.
Ever since ascending, he’s met many gods who are undoubtedly considered handsome. Yet, Feng Xin can’t recall finding anyone particularly attractive. No one that he wanted to go out of his way to interact with, hold hands with, or anything of the sort.
He switches methods. When he’s tired enough to daydream, he tries to envision laying in that same position as the first dream, but with small changes to the body that he cradles next to him.
It doesn’t really work. The images never shift or change. It’s always the same body, so specific yet so vague because Feng Xin can hardly remember anything about what the man in his dreams looks like.
Perhaps he just saw a random stranger one day, and that nameless figure became entertaining enough to scare off the dreadful loneliness while he sleeps.
… But only while he sleeps.
In the morning, the dreams fade, and Feng Xin still longs. He doesn’t know who he imagines, if such a person even exists, but all he knows is that every time he wakes up alone, he feels a little but colder. A little bit emptier. A lot lonelier.
He doesn’t allow himself too much time to wallow in pity. He’s got work to do, after all.
He throws himself into work just as he always has, answering prayers, slaying ghosts, and attending meetings. Weeks pass, and he starts getting really goddamn tired of waking up and feeling hollow.
It’s out of his nature, but he decided to try something.
The idea of being attracted to men is relatively new, and he’s not terrified of them, so he figures it might be different if he pursues one.
It’s kind of like an experiment, he supposes. He knows he can’t approach anyone in the Heavenly Realm for this, so he tries his luck with mortals.
He flitters around his territory until he hears of a specific tavern known for men searching for… company with each other.
It should be harmless to just try it out, right?
Feng Xin decides to go one evening, disguised as Nan Feng. He walks in the doors, intent on finding someone attractive, and seeing where it leads.
Somehow, that feeling of discomfort when he imagines holding hands with a woman, still settles in him as he sits at the counter. He orders a drink, hoping to lessen the strange nerves he feels as he scouts around.
It’s not a super busy night, but there are plenty of men around. Some are in couples or groups, many are alone like himself, probably also scouting for some sort of match.
He lets his gaze flash over each man who’s not in a pair.
He’s alright. He’s okay. Fuck no. He looks fine. He’s probably attractive.
No one is really capturing his attention.
Frustrated, Feng Xin drinks several gulps of his drink and slams it down with enough force to get the attention of other patrons. It shouldn’t be this hard, right? People do this all the time—hell, he knows of some gods who do this every other night, looking for something far more than just a pleasant conversation with someone nice. He doesn’t understand why just sitting here is causing an unpleasant chill to crawl up his skin.
Something moves to his side, and Feng Xin looks.
There’s a man there. He looks… conventionally attractive, he supposes. Strong jaw line, lots of muscles, tall, kind eyes and a gentle smile. Physically, he’s probably the type of guy all men and women should be into.
“Hey, there. Man, what did that drink do to you?”
Feng Xin supposes his frustration is a little too obvious if this stranger can pick up on it. He clicks his tongue, and responds, “Nothing. Just a bit pissed off tonight.”
The guy tries to meet his eyes, as he hums. “Hmm, I see. Can I buy you another drink? One that might help you feel a little less pissed?”
The man says it kindly, but for whatever reason, it sets Feng Xin on edge. This conversation feels like it’s supposed to go somewhere, and Feng Xin doesn’t even know where that is, but he wants to run away from it. He hates that feeling. He’s not weak, he doesn’t run from problems, it’s what he’s fucking doing in this building in the first place, right? Actually dealing with his emotional shit? But now that he’s here, and there’s someone who wants to share good company, something Feng Xin thought he wanted, he just wants to get away.
“I’m fine. Probably done for the night.”
The other guy doesn’t get scared of the tone. Instead, he tries to redirect, still sounding incredibly kind. “You seem like you might need to loosen up a bit. Want to dance?”
The man stretches out his hand towards Feng Xin to guide him towards where other patrons are dancing.
At the sight of the hand, Feng Xin flinches back. It feels wrong and he doesn’t know why.
He doesn’t spare the man another glance. He leaves the tavern swiftly, with that panicked feeling disturbing any chance to have a calm night.
He doesn’t go back to the tavern to try that again.
In early July, he makes a point to go visit His Highness. He brings Xie Lian a sword as an early birthday gift, knowing that he does not what to actually visit him on his birthday. (He did, once, and now unfortunately knows entirely too much about what Xie Lian and his husband do behind closed doors.)
Crimson Rain is there, as he often is, like a parasite that’s latched onto His Highness for all eternity.
Xie Lian is admiring the sword Feng Xin brought, remarking on its beauty, when said parasite decides that he wasn’t getting enough attention, so he leans over into Xie Lian’s space. He rests his head on the god’s shoulder, and lets his hand settle on his waist.
The most powerful ghost king in all realms actually pouts, and whines, “Gege, this sword is alright, but it has nothing on E-Ming, right?”
“Of course, San Lang, you know E-Ming is my favorite.” Xie Lian is quick to soothe, planting a kiss onto Hua Cheng’s eyepatch. The recipient of the kiss seems to glow under the attention, too pleased at himself for earning His Highness’ attention again.
Usually, Feng Xin would gag at the obscene fondness those two shower each other with. Though this time, seeing the two interact makes that crushing loneliness hit him harder than it ever has before.
It slams into him hard enough to distract him from the conversation they were having before.
“Feng Xin? Are you okay? You’ve been staring at the table for several minutes now.”
“Huh? Oh, yes, Your Highness. I’m fine.”
Apparently, he’s not even a good enough actor to make that sound smooth. No wonder Xie Lian figured out he was Nan Feng so quickly. Xie Lian notices of course, and sends Crimson Rain out on some errand so that they’re alone. Hua Cheng pouts again, but is placated by a kiss and then goes on his way.
Once they’re alone, Xie Lian begins, “You know you can talk to me about anything, right?”
Of course, he knows. Xie Lian is one of the most important people in the world to him, his oldest and closest friend. But still, “Uhh, it’s not really something that, well—it’s personal, and I’m confused about it myself.”
Xie Lian smiles gently, “Perhaps talking about it with help sort it out?”
Feng Xin is a stubborn man, but Xie Lian is even more stubborn. He sighs, knowing that His Highness probably won’t leave this alone now.
“It’s just… lately, I’ve been feeling like… I’m missing something.”
Xie Lian stays silent, patiently waiting for him to continue, even as he struggles with the words.
“I’m lonely, I think. And it feels shitty. Anyway, I think… I’m jealous.”
At this, the other god raises his eyebrow, “Of me and San Lang?”
“It’s fucking pathetic, I know.”
“No! It’s not, Feng Xin. It’s absolutely not,” he waits to continue until Feng Xin looks at him again, “What is it that you’re jealous of?”
Feng Xin racks his brain, trying to think about what is making that pit worsen this time, “The… closeness, probably. I want that. But, I don’t know…” He’s not really sure how to end that thought.
Xie Lian tries to help him out, “Okay. You’re General Nan Yang, the martial god of the southeast! You could probably have just about anybody you want. Has anyone caught your attention?”
Feng Xin grits his teeth at that. This conversation sucks. He hates having to explain himself, especially when something feels wrong with him, and he’s unsure why. “I don’t want just anyone! I… I tried just, looking for someone, one night, but—argh! This is too fucking weird, Your Highness!” It’s so frustrating! He can feel himself going red with anger, his energy getting frazzled, so he forces himself to take several deep breaths.
Xie Lian seems pretty unfazed by all these confessions, just adamant about wanting to help. He lets Feng Xin take a few moments to center himself.
“You know… I never wanted to be with anyone, until I met San Lang,” he says it with a fond smile, looking at the door that Crimson Rain left through, “The thought of kissing, let alone anything beyond that, was downright terrifying. But with him, even though it took me a while to reciprocate, I never felt uncomfortable. Frazzled, yes, and unsure at times, but never that horrible feeling I had imagined it would be like with anyone else.”
He’s not sure why Xie Lian is saying all this. Now calmed down, he just responds with honesty. “I’m glad you found happiness, Your Highness, even if it is with that bastard.”
The prince laughs lightheartedly, “I’m going to ignore that last comment and just say thank you,” he stands, and gestures for Feng Xin to stand as well. He does, of course, still loyal as ever. “That’s not why I said all of that, though. I meant, maybe you’re like me? Maybe there’s one person for you, where you’ll find exactly what you need, and that’s why strangers won’t bring satisfaction. These things can be different for everyone. Oh, listen to me, rambling like an old man.”
He pauses for a moment, pulling Feng Xin into a hug. It’s been a long, long time since he’s been held like this. He doesn’t waste a second in returning the gesture. It feels nice.
“There’s nothing wrong with you, Feng Xin. You’re not pathetic, at all. Take your time to figure out what you want.”
It doesn’t get rid of that deep feeling of loneliness, but it does soothe a lot of the unease. He feels more calm, more stable, than he has in months.
“Thank you, Your Highness. I’m very grateful for you.” He squeezes the other god again.
A knock on the door causes them to break apart. Xie Lian gives him another reassuring smile and a pat on the shoulder before going to open the door.
“Oh! Mu Qing, hello, come on in.”
Mu Qing comes in carrying a basket of cherries. He sees Feng Xin, but addresses Xie Lian first. “Hey. I brought you some cherries. They’re for your birthday.”
His Highness looks delighted as he takes the basket, complimenting the cherries and how perfect they look.
They’re from Mu Qing’s trees at his palace, the ones he tends to, personally, in honor of his mother’s favorite fruit. It’s obvious, because Mu Qing is terrible at hiding his pride, and he absolutely fails to hide the small smile at Xie Lian’s praises. Feng Xin used to hate that cocky smile, but now he knows it’s genuine, and it’s impossible to hate.
“You learned your lesson about coming on his actual birthday?” Feng Xin remarks in a haunted drawl, since he came in early July for the same reason.
Mu Qing shudders, “Thanks for that—I had almost purged the image of Crimson’s Rain ass from my brain until you reminded me.”
“Ahahahaha, please say no more! I’ll be more careful about locking the door from now on!” Xie Lian’s entire face is bright red, and he busies himself (and excuses himself from more humiliation) by going to wash the cherries.
“And we’ll be more careful about knocking.” Mu Qing comments dryly, making Feng Xin snort a quick laugh.
Mu Qing looks at him, then. He reaches into his sleeves for a moment, before pulling out something familiar. “Since you’re here, I’m returning these. I can’t believe you never asked for them back, dumbass.”
With the insult, Mu Qing hands over the gloves that Feng Xin had lent him on that mission with the couple-murdering ghost months ago. Feng Xin didn’t even notice they were missing.
He remembers the shaking of Mu Qing’s hands at the time. He doesn’t really need the gloves, he’s got hundreds of them, but Mu Qing’s more sensitive to the cold. And sure, Mu Qing probably has gloves of his own, but these kept him warm when he really needed it.
Feng Xin almost refuses to take them back, when he really looks at the gloves more closely.
Because of his skill set in archery, he has a lot of gloves. Among those gloves, there’s seldom a pair that don’t have any wear and tear from the power of his bow. Almost all of them have a small hole on the knuckle of his thumb, where the force of the arrow hits sometimes as he lets go.
There’s no hole in this pair anymore.
In fact, it’s stitching looks near perfect. Feng Xin didn’t have any gloves that pristine, which means someone must have stitched them up.
Mu Qing stitched them up—there’s no one else with the skills to do it so seamlessly.
Something incredibly warm rushes through Feng Xin’s whole body at the realization.
He wants to comment something, but then he sees Mu Qing looking around, avoiding eye contact with him. He’s biting his lip, too, a tell-tale of nerves. Feng Xin thinks that if he brings attention to the mending, it will result in a fight, or Mu Qing running away.
He hasn’t wanted that to happen in a long while, and he doesn’t want their relatively new friendship to take any hits.
The air feels fragile, for some reason.
Instead of saying anything, he thumbs at the mended part, enough so that Mu Qing knows that he noticed. When the other god’s eyes settle on the movement, he pockets the gloves, and then gives Mu Qing a light punch on the shoulder. As a show of gratitude, of course.
Mu Qing doesn’t hesitate to shove him back. They go back and forth like that, adding more force each time, until Xie Lian notices and threatens to make them practice idioms.
They settle down to chat while munching on the gifted cherries. Hua Cheng returns not long after they start, and immediately settles into Xie Lian’s side, not sparing the others an attention at all. He makes sure to wrap his arm around the Prince, too, to keep him close.
From just next to him, he feels Mu Qing lean over just close enough to whisper, “Fucking leech.”
Feng Xin has to force down a laugh at the comment. It’s accurate.
He looks at Xie Lian and Hua Cheng, close again, but that devastating pit of jealousy and longing from earlier doesn’t form again.
He doesn’t know why it’s disappeared for now, but he doesn’t let himself dwell on it too much. He just lets himself enjoy the rest of the afternoon while he can.
It’s not too long after that when Feng Xin takes a mission undercover in his territory.
It feels familiar to him—after all, he spent most of his eight centuries of godhood in the mortal realm. He’s hoping that taking this case distracts him from the loneliness that he’s still trying to figure out.
It’s a little bit of detective work, but nothing too intense thankfully. According to the prayers, some ghost has apparently been striking the fields of farmers at night, destroying patches of crops. He thinks it’ll be best to handle it before the spirit grows too much and potentially cause more harm.
During the day, he stays at an inn near the village center. It’s a relatively high-traffic area, with shops lining the streets and customers at every corner.
He sees an old man struggling to unpack everything at his shop one morning—he’s got crates full of vegetables to move around—and Feng Xin, disguised once again as Nan Feng, decides to help him out.
“Thank you, young man. My grandson should be here soon to help, but I will appreciate the help until then.”
Feng Xin starts moving the crates according to the man’s directions, and it’s not even fifteen minutes before a young man shows up, apologies flying, “I’m so sorry, grandfather! I accidently slept in! How can I—oh, hello!”
He introduces himself to Feng Xin, and the god takes a quick look at his appearance. The man has long, dark hair, and must be in his late teens or early twenties—just about the same age as Nan Feng appears to be. He seems energetic, but very kind. He starts helping them out immediately after he arrived.
They take a break to eat at mid-morning, and Feng Xin and the young man go together. They eat food, and at one point the man tells a joke that makes Feng Xin burst into laughter. He’s good company, Feng Xin thinks.
He asks about the case, too. He finds out that the attacks aren’t very consistent, only occurring about once every three days. And the hits don’t seem to have a pattern, either. He’ll have to stake out different farms until he gets lucky and finds the ghost.
He continues helping out the old man and his grandson. He’s got the time during the day, might as well help out hard-working followers.
It’s about three weeks into the case when he’s wandering around alone, looking at things at the shops. He’s not as picky as Mu Qing when it comes to looking at arts and crafty, things. He likes when things look a little imperfect or when there’s variety, so he’s entertained by looking at the different products at the stalls.
He’s walking by a selection of jewelry when something catches his eye. Once he sees it, he can’t look away.
It’s a beautiful brooch. Gold, and carved so intricately along the edges. He’s never, ever seen one quite like it, because it’s shaped like cherries. The leaves have detailed veining and the way the gold is shaped looks incredibly similar to the leaves he remembers on those prosperous cherry trees at His Highness’ palace, and the golden shine reflects beautifully on the roundness protruding on the top layer, where the cherries are shaped.
He looks at the brooch and thinks, I have to get this for Mu Qing.
He thinks it might look nice pinned to his robes, or maybe on display in his palace. Or maybe he can find a place for it somewhere near the trees he planted in his mother’s memory. He can’t imagine this brooch could be made for anyone else, it’s too perfect.
He doesn’t even have the chance to ask about pricing before the woman running the shop notices his attention on that one, and comments, “It’s a beautiful piece, right? My mother made it years ago.”
Feng Xin agrees, “It’s very beautiful.” He is definitely going to purchase it, so he starts to reach for some coins.
The woman smiles, “Are you perhaps looking to buy for a lover?”
Feng Xin chokes at that, absolutely shocked at the insulation. “HUH? What—What?!” He can feel his face burning, out of… anger? Probably. Or, something else he doesn’t know how to name? Because he hadn’t been thinking of a lover, he’d been thinking of Mu Qing.
“It’s written all over your face! I’ve seen you walking around with that boy from the vegetable stand! Is it for him? That’s so sweet!”
Oh. She was talking about the young man he’d befriended. That’s all. That helps him settle down again.
He had never considered the man in a romantic way. He was a good friend over the past weeks, but Feng Xin never had any intention of taking it further.
Though… maybe he should. Xie Lian did mention that connection being important—maybe starting as friends is what he needs to build something romantic.
He smiles awkwardly at the woman, not really answering her question, but still purchases the brooch, thanks her, and tucks it away in his robes.
When he makes it back to the old man’s stand, the grandson is there. When he sees Feng Xin, he smiles wide. “Any good finds?”
Feng Xin looks at him. He’s attractive enough, he thinks, kind, and funny, too. The thought of holding hands with him… he doesn’t desire it, but he doesn’t think it disgusts him either. That must mean something.
He thinks about it all day, and he knows it makes his interactions with the other seem a little strange and stilted. He’s just trying to process it all, and maybe convince himself to try to do something about it.
When the man invites him to get dessert after the sun sets, he agrees.
They’re sharing a sweet bread, leaning up against the outside of the inn where Feng Xin has been staying. The man appears nervous, and swallows before saying, “Hey… If I’m out of line by saying this, please let me know. But I was wondering,” he faces Feng Xin, “Can I kiss you?”
Feng Xin has never been asked that question in his life. He’s asked it, a few times, with Jian Lan. He thinks he was probably just as nervous to say those words to her as this man is with him, right now.
He… doesn’t know how to feel about it. But he thinks, maybe this is it. Maybe, it’ll feel right. Maybe kissing this new friend of his will bring him the peace from this void that’s been plaguing him for months.
Feng Xin nods, and the man’s eyes gleam with excitement.
He moves slowly, reaching for Feng Xin’s cheek with one hand. It makes contact, and something starts to feel wrong. The man gets closer, closer, and leans in, and Feng Xin feels the other’s breath fan across his face, and suddenly the dread he began feeling erupts into full on panic.
Feng Xin’s body has always been faster than his brain. He doesn’t even realize he’s shoved the man away until he hears the THUD of the other’s back hitting the wall.
“Ow!” The boy clutches his head where it hit.
This is not how it was supposed to go.
He scrambles to apologize, “I- I’m so fucking sorry, I—"
He really thought it would be okay. He thought he wanted it. It really felt like he should.
The young man doesn’t look angry, but he’s certainly upset. He rubs what will likely form a bump (Feng Xin, in the panic, failed to restrain his strength), and quietly says, “You could’ve just said no.”
Feng Xin knows that. He knows. He just—He just wants—
He wants to love someone so badly. And here it was right in front of him, yet he pushed it away.
He apologizes again, at a loss of what to say. They part ways shortly after.
Feng Xin solves the case of the ghost that night, jumping to different farms at even the slightest hint of a disturbance. When he finds it, the ghost is defeated in a matter of minutes.
Once it’s done, he tries his best to forget that night ever happened.
He knows he’s in a weird kind of mood, but honestly, Feng Xin can’t find the will to force himself out of it. Regardless, he’s not going to let his godly duties suffer because of it, even the ones of the social aspect.
He attends the Mid-Autumn Festival as per usual. It’s different now, since Jun Wu has fallen, but it’s still an annual event that all the gods participate in. His blessing lantern count is third place this year, an incredible achievement indeed. It feels kind of hollow, but Feng Xin smiles and drinks just a little bit, to take part in the celebration.
He starts feeling his spirits lift, until his eyes land on Pei Ming—playboy, Pei Ming, who has some random Civil God from Middle heaven practically hanging off his arm. Pei Ming whispers god knows what in her ear and then pulls her closer, to where she’s cuddled in his lap. Feng Xin feels something settle in his gut—it’s not quite jealousy, he doesn’t think, because it doesn’t feel the same as watching Xie Lian and Crimson Rain. He doesn’t want what Pei Ming has, a girl that he’ll have fun with and then cast away soon in the future. But he doesn’t understand how Pei Ming just gets to have that closeness with someone who’s practically a stranger—someone he doesn’t really care about-- and how everyone around them doesn’t even notice the closeness that those two have, ignoring it without a care in the world, as if the intimacy of touch is a casual thing. The thought of trying to be that close with a stranger makes Feng Xin’s stomach churn uncomfortably. No. That kind of closeness isn’t casual, not to him. It’d need to be someone who understands him, who knows every part of him, who sees his personality, and hears his words, and someone who Feng Xin understands, sees, and hears in turn.
If Feng Xin had that, he would treasure it. He would treasure them, the person who found him worth to hold onto like that, a person who he felt truly comfortable with, with every part of his heart. He’d be a good person, he’d cherish them, and he would do everything in his power to make sure they’re safe, comfortable, and loved. Why doesn’t he have that? It seems grossly unfair. He wants to love so badly.
Feng Xin must have been lost in thought for too long, because the forceful kick to his chair comes as a complete surprise. He almost spills the drink he had in his hand!
Furious, he turns and yells, “What the fuck?!”
The culprit only smirks with typical smugness, “My my General Nan Yang, why so gloomy?”
Of course it’s Mu Qing. No one else would dare do something so petty and childish to him. He sets down the drink before it suffers any more threats of spilling. “You’re an asshole.”
My Qing huffs a little laugh, but he doesn’t dispute the comment like he would’ve years ago. Instead, he takes the seat closest to Feng Xin. His posture holds all of his arrogance, while still remaining sophisticated and graceful. It’s almost admirable. “You do know the announcements are over, right? Why are you still sitting around? Everyone else is partying while you’re sitting on your sorry ass.”
He’s not lying. Now that Feng Xin isn’t hyper focused on the couple across the table, he notices that everyone else is behind him in the most chaotic dance floor he’s ever witnessed.
Gods don’t typically involve themselves with things so frivolous, at least not publicly, but Hua Cheng is spinning Xie Lian around gracefully at the center of the madness, so Feng Xin can only assume they started it. They’re dancing to a song that’s fairly slow, and lots of people participating have partnered off. No one is dancing quite the same way, but that’s to be expected when different territories are developed around different traditional dances. Some are definitely drunk, their movements wild and lacking any sort of control. Banyue and Pei Xiu (guests of honor, invited by Xie Lian, which no other god had the balls to dispute since he is the strongest god at the moment) are sweetly holding each other on one end, swaying slowly with the music. Meanwhile Quan Yizhen is causing absolute mayhem, swinging around a likely motion-sick Yin Yu with all his might as he spins around nonsensically.
It gets a small laugh out of Feng Xin, but he doesn’t get up and join them. He takes another sip of his drink and replies, “Not really into dancing.”
Apparently, that’s not the response Mu Qing wanted, because after a pause he says, judgement lacing his tone, “What’s wrong with you?” And then he falls back on mocking him, “Ah, I get it. You’re just a terrible dancer.”
Feng Xin feels his eyebrow twitch. He won’t fall for this very obvious trap. “I didn’t say that.”
“But you implied it! Oh, poor Nan Yang, incredible martial might but brought down by something so simple as dancing. It’s a shame. Perhaps his third leg gets in the way?” It’s so obviously a taunt, and one Mu Qing seems incredibly proud of himself for coming up with. Feng Xin can see right through it and should ignore it.
… But, of course, Mu Qing always has a special way of getting under his skin. It only takes a few seconds for him to snap, “Shut up! I can dance, you asshole!”
And that smirk comes right back as Mu Qing stands, and extends his hand. “Prove it, then.”
Feng Xin only pauses for a second, looking at the hand in front of him and wondering if he’ll flinch back this time, but then he catches the challenging (excited, gleaming) look in Mu Qing’s eyes and stops thinking, letting the competitiveness overshadow any of that.
(He doesn’t, he realizes later. Not even for a second, does this hand in his make him want to run away.)
“Fine, I’ll show you,” He grits out, frustrated at the jab at his skills and now-corrected-title. He drags Mu Qing over to where everyone else is dancing and notices that the music has picked up its tempo. Perfect. “Just try to keep up,” He taunts, and he throws them into a traditional Xian Le dance, typical for festivals and celebrations.
Xian Le was known for its extravagance, and it showed in everything. In art, in architecture, in food, and in dance. He guides one of Mu Qing’s hands up high in the air and brings their others far out to the side. He looks at Mu Qing and sees his eyes light up in recognition of the pose, and they get right into it.
They spin while mimic each other’s poses like a mirror, each pass seeming to have more and more energy. Their hands raise and fall; their legs kick, spin, raise, and chase. They don’t have much contact with each other, except for the clasp of their hands and the electrifying glances of their eyes, yet each time their eyes catch seemingly adds more energy to the dance.
Feng Xin focuses on those eyes, heart pounding at the challenge in them, the energy, and succumbs to the absolute thrill he feels. The feelings of longing, impatience, jealousy, and fear all fade away into a distant background.
He doesn’t even notice that Xie Lian has seen them performing the old street dance. His Highness was so excited to see a piece of his old kingdom, that he wasted no time in mimicking the same dance with an amused Hua Cheng. The energy of the four former citizens of Xian Le draws the attention of more and more gods, to the point that those who aren’t absolutely captivated by the wide, dramatic movements are trying to join in on the fun. The music now follows their pace, which works perfectly as the movements build and build and build.
People are cheering, clapping, laughing, and jeering, but Feng Xin can’t hear any of it. His eyes are locked in on the god in front of him. It’s all just look at me, look at me, look at me, as they go faster and faster—spinning relentlessly and moving their arms upwards with as much force as they can, it’s so much, and it’s so fun, and it goes and goes until--!
The music reaches its final note, and gasping for breath, he and Mu Qing conclude the dance in the same position they started.
There’s clapping coming from all around, and Feng Xin still can’t look away from Mu Qing. He sees how the forces of the movements disheveled his hair, loosening it from its prim and proper tie. His face is flushed red as cherries, there’s sweat lingering on his temple, and his lips are quirked up in a genuine smile.
He’s absolutely beautiful.
One second, the two are staring at each other breathlessly, the next, Mu Qing starts laughing, and he sounds so delighted even as he belittles Feng Xin’s skills again. “Not bad, I guess. Maybe you do know how to dance a little.”
Feng Xin is still huffing and gasping for breath, but he feels so light as he says, “I told you so!”
The music slows down again, sparing the gods from another intense dance so quickly. The crowd that had gathered disperses, and many gods decide to take a break from the dance floor after such an intense dance.
Mu Qing lets his hand (still clasped in Feng Xin’s) fall slowly as the energy from the completed dance fades.
Suddenly, Feng Xin is struck with an idea.
“Can I teach you something?” He blurts out, without considering what he was actually saying, but desperately not wanting Mu Qing to drop his hand and let this end.
Mu Qing raises and eyebrow in question.
“It’s… it’s another dance…”
Mu Qing rolls his eyes, and Feng Xin feels his heart drop for a second as he starts what is surely a rejection, “Look, even if I wasn’t allowed to participate in the same noble dances as you and His Royal Highness,” Mu Qing says it with full sarcasm, but for once Feng Xin doesn’t interrupt to correct his tone, “that doesn’t mean I wasn’t watching. I know all the dances you do, you rich bastard.”
But that’s not what Feng Xin meant.
He remembers his parents, in love, dancing together with a closeness that he hasn’t seen in other traditional dances. Feng Xin liked to believe they created it themselves. It’s a fuzzy memory, now, and he was only a child when he witnessed it. But he used to dream of having that with someone one day, that same closeness those two showed with every movement of that dance.
He hasn’t thought about that in a long time. The last time he even wanted to dance with someone like this, was… well, the last time he was in love. With Jian Lan.
“I didn’t mean it that way,” Feng Xin lets his voice soften, and doesn’t acknowledge the surprise Mu Qing shows at such a quiet tone coming from him, “It’s not a dance from Xian Le. I don’t even know what to call it. I’ll show you.”
Despite the skepticism in Mu Qing’s gaze, he doesn’t resist when Feng Xin clasps his hands again. This time, he guides one out to the side with their elbows bent, and the other he brings to rest over his shoulder. After placing Mu Qing’s arms, he lets his own rest around Mu Qing’s back, landing with light pressure on his hip.
“Just follow my lead,” Feng Xin says, not knowing why he’s almost softened his voice to a whisper.
Mu Qing raises an eyebrow in question again, but for once, doesn’t snark back and does as told.
Feng Xin really didn’t know why he offered, or what he wanted out of this, but as soon as he guides them in a gentle sway, it’s like all the puzzle pieces he’s been missing fall into place.
For the first time in a long while, Feng Xin inhales and actually feels like he took a full breath—his lungs feel full, even as his heartbeat races. Each time he breathes in, he can smell Mu Qing’s hair, and a sense of nostalgia washes over him in the same way relief does—it smells the same as it did 800 years ago. The heat of Mu Qing pressed along his own body feels so right; as they sway and Mu Qing’s fingers dance across the nape of his neck, as he breathes little breaths that fan across his ears, goosebumps raise all over Feng Xin’s body. He wants to feel that more.
Isn’t this the same closeness that Feng Xin was horrified at watching Pei Ming enact earlier? Something that made him want to vomit, the thought of seeing that at all was horrifying.
And yet, he feels comfortable. He doesn’t tense at the eyes watching them. He lets out a breath he didn’t even know he’d been holding, and leans into Mu Qing a little bit more.
He can’t help but wonder why. Why now? Why here? Why does all of this suddenly feel so right?
The answer comes just a few moments later, when he pulls back far enough to really look at the man in front of him.
“There’s your stupid smile.” My Qing comments, sounding proud of himself, but also at ease.
“Was it really that obvious that I was moping?”
“Hmm, maybe not to others.”
Oh? “How’d you know, then?”
“…You didn’t gloat after you beat me in blessing lanterns.”
Feng Xin takes a little offense to that, “I don’t gloat!”
Mu Qing hums before responding, his tone remains calm, “Maybe not out loud, I know you’re not one to brag—for how big of an ego you have, you’re also stubbornly humble-- but your mouth twitches always when you’re cocky or winning, like you’re fighting a smile. Every year you beat me, you twitch like you’re just so proud of yourself. You didn’t this year. You think I wouldn’t notice?”
And just like that, Feng Xin knows.
He wants someone who knows him, someone who hears and understands him. And isn’t that Mu Qing? Mu Qing, who’s seen him at his absolutely worst, but then reaches out just because Feng Xin didn’t smile.
Someone who has learned friendship, and worked so hard to grow, and uses that to support the people in his life. Feng Xin has also seen Mu Qing at his worst, and yet, his presence always steadies Feng Xin in a way he didn’t know possible.
Maybe they hated each other once, but they also hated themselves, and there was comfort in releasing that through harsh words, insults, fists, and swords. For the past 800 years, they’ve held onto so much resentment, but now, even after all of that, Feng Xin can’t imagine not having Mu Qing around.
This closeness that he’s been longing for—this loneliness that he’s been feeling—it has nothing to do with jealousy or simply wanting touch.
He wants Mu Qing.
Feng Xin’s mind races at the revelation. He thinks and thinks and thinks, realizing that he’s been noticing Mu Qing all this time, and Mu Qing has noticed him back. He doesn’t exactly know what this all means, but knows for a fact that he doesn’t let go. He can’t manage to speak any words, but he suddenly thinks back to his dreams that started all this. He thinks of the body in them, the smooth planes of muscle, the thinness of the fingers, the delicate but strong form, and suddenly there is a face. Everything matches the form in front of him—the fingers in his dream are exact copies of the ones he’s holding right now—and the man in his dreams is undoubtedly Mu Qing, and always has been.
Feng Xin feels a little bit like he’s been set on fire with the way his face, stomach, and heart feel like they’re burning. He doesn’t know what to do now. He’s not even sure when this all began, when he starting thinking of Mu Qing like this, but all he knows now it that he can’t stop thinking about it now.
He… He certainly can’t tell him, right? What words could even express this? He’ll humiliate himself, and probably Mu Qing by extension. He can’t process any of this; he needs to think, meditate, shoot something, or—or something that isn’t panicking in front of the man he’s been unknowingly longing for! He should let go. He should let go. He should let go!
But he doesn’t. Before he can even decide what to do, Mu Qing drops his hand.
Feng Xin can only stare as that beautiful hand comes closer to his face. It gracefully sweeps some of his bangs that had fallen loose from the dancing behind his ear.
“There,” Mu Qing says softly, “your hair looks atrocious. Tie it better, next time.” And then he quirks a small smile.
In the middle of a swallow, Feng Xin chokes on his own spit.
And he means he literally chokes on it—something in his throat closed up or malfunctioned at the sight of the other’s smile—and now he’s coughing. He has to step away so that he doesn’t cough directly into Mu Qing’s face.
He recovers just a few seconds later, and sees Mu Qing looking at him weird. He looks at the crease between his brows, and realized that this is Mu Qing’s concerned face. His heart stutters when he realizes that he knows Mu Qing well enough to understand even the slightest shift in his eyebrows. It also stutters, because it’s rare that he finds himself on the receiving end of such an expression.
“Are you sick or something?”
Feng Xin shakes his head, but he’s staring at that same spot of Mu Qing’s face, which must make the other uneasy and disbelieving.
“You idiot, why’d you let me pull you into dancing if you’re feeling shitty? Come on, let’s find some water or something.”
Mu Qing turns and starts walking away. There’s no more contact between them, and yet Feng Xin feels pulled to follow him, anyway. He almost reaches for the other’s hand because he longs to hold onto this; he’s afraid of Mu Qing walking away for good.
He doesn’t grab the other’s hand. He follows him, gets some water, and somehow makes it through the rest of the night.
The gold brooch.
Feng Xin never gave it to Mu Qing.
In an effort to forget what had happened with the man from the village, he also pushed all thoughts of the brooch from his mind. Thinking back to the blush on Mu Qing’s cheeks after dancing, that beautiful flush to them, reminded him of the cherries, and then of the brooch that he bought specifically for the other god.
“Are you perhaps buying for a lover?” The lady selling it had asked, and it’s embarrassing how right she was, even when Feng Xin didn’t know it.
Because that’s what it is: love. Feng Xin, for once, is sure about his feelings.
He drives himself crazy going back and forth, thinking about confessing. He thinks of how devastating it would be, if he was rejected. But he also knows he won’t be able to continue acting normally around Mu Qing until he’s either rejected (most likely) or his feelings are reciprocated (highly unlikely).
Ultimately, he decides that no matter what, he wants Mu Qing to have the brooch. He thinks he’ll love it.
He finds the brooch still tucked away in the sleeves of the robes he wore as Nan Feng. Before he can talk himself out of it, he makes his way to General Xuan Zhen’s Palace.
He’s never been so fucking terrified in his life.
Well, that’s not true. Seeing Mu Qing hanging on for dear life over the lava at Mount Tonglu is up there, too.
Let it be known though, that no matter how terrified he is, General Nan Yang is not a coward. He doesn’t let him convince himself to back out.
He walks through Mu Qing’s palace, and none of the deputy generals appear concerned. They let him through and direct them to Mu Qing’s study.
With a heavy heart, deep breaths, and a gold brooch that feels like it’s burning his hand through the cloth wrapped around it, he opens the doors.
Mu Qing was writing something, but at the sound of the doors opening, he pauses and looks up. Feng Xin can’t help but notice how regal he had been sitting, even when he was alone. He takes a few seconds to just look at him, and that calm feeling that he feels around Mu Qing comes back, despite his nerves at the situation.
“Why are you here? I’m busy.”
Feng Xin doesn’t know what to say, really. He doesn’t want to say too little, or too much. He’s also notoriously terrible with words.
He’s hoping the brooch is enough.
“I brought you something.” Instead of walking of to Mu Qing and getting close, he tosses the cloth-wrapped brooch to the other god. He stays near the door, just in case he needs a quick escape from humiliation or Mu Qing’s temper.
Mu Qing catches it with his beautiful hands effortlessly. He holds it for a second, then raises his eyebrow in suspicion. “You’re acting weird. What is this?”
Feng Xin’s heart feels like it’s going to beat out of his chest. He manages to grunt, “Just open it.”
Mu Qing starts unraveling the wrapping, using delicate, strong fingers to catch the fabric and roll it up as he goes. Feng Xin is really gone for him, if such a small thing catches his attention so strongly.
After several seconds that feel like a lifetime, Mu Qing sees it.
He’s too far away to see the brooch himself, but Feng Xin notices right away when Mu Qing lays his eyes on it. He watches the other’s breath stutter for a moment on an inhale, and sees beautiful dark eyes widen.
He stands there, tense and awkward, waiting for some sort of reaction beyond that. When it comes, it startles Feng Xin—A harsh, wild laugh seems to rip its way out of Mu Qing’s throat as he looks to Feng Xin again with a frantic look.
“This feels like something you’d give a lover, haha!”
Feng Xin feels himself freeze. He doesn’t say anything. An awful feeling creeps into his stomach and heart at the mocking tone.
Mu Qing had clearly been expecting Feng Xin to bite back, because after not hearing one, he calls, “Feng Xin?”
Feng Xin looks up and meets his eyes.
And as much as Mu Qing sucks at expressing his own emotions, Feng Xin knows he can read his face loud and clear.
“Oh.”
That doesn’t do anything to settle his anxiety. That “oh” doesn’t reveal whether Mu Qing is disgusted, offended, or just fine, or happy. Feng Xin has never been good at waiting, or being silent, so he scrambles some words together to break the quiet of the room.
“Um. Yeah. Sorry.”
Silence falls again. Feng Xin doesn’t think this conversation is going to go well, and he thinks it might save them both some face if he leaves. He just barely turns to the door, when he hears Mu Qing’s voice again.
“Why are you apologizing?”
He sighs, loud and heavy and defeated. “I didn’t want to overstep,” he offers as an explanation.
“Overstep? You dumbass! I’ve been trying to tell you I like you for months!”
…
…
…
Wait, what?!
…What did Mu Qing just say?
… He… likes Feng Xin?
“What?! When did you do anything like that?!” Feng Xin asks, feeling a strange mix of elatedness and shock. It’s a bizarre sensation. He feels like he would’ve noticed something like a confession.
Mu Qing storms over to him shouting, “You think I patch up gloves for just anybody? Or that I dance with just anybody? Or just ‘let’ someone teach me something?! You’re so stupid!”
…He thinks about the other’s words for a moment. And yeah, okay, maybe he is stupid. Because Mu Qing has always been a man of actions, and if Feng Xin hadn’t wallowed so much in that pit of despair, maybe he could’ve seen the acts of kindness for what they really were. Pieces of confessions, tell-tale signs of more-than-platonic feelings from Mu Qing.
A laugh strangles its way out of Feng Xin’s through, loud, brash, rough, and overwhelmed.
Mu Qing stares at him like he’s crazy.
“I can’t fucking believe it. I must be dreaming again.” Feng Xin tries to reason with himself because in all of the ways he imagined this going, this was not something he ever considered.
Mu Qing seems hesitant, but he reaches for Feng Xin’s hand. His fingertips caress his own (and god, Feng Xin never wants him to let go—he wants this warmth forever), before Mu Qing guides his palm upright and open, and pushes something into it.
It’s the brooch.
“Put it on me.” Mu Qing demands, and there’s no hesitation in his voice. Feng Xin knows now, that this is both Mu Qing telling him that he likes it, since he wants to wear it, and that once it’s on, this will all be real.
With a shaky exhale, Feng Xin does.
He pokes the needle through Mu Qing’s robes and miraculously doesn’t accidentally stab himself with it as he clasps it closed. He does it all as gently as he can, trying to cherish this moment and understand it all at once, but he still feels a little bit clumsy.
He presses it down once to straighten it, and then takes in the view fully.
Mu Qing’s cheeks are red as cherries, and the brooch, as expected, fits him perfectly.
Feng Xin still feels a little like this is too good to be true, but he decided to test his luck. If he has the chance at this happiness, he isn’t going to let it go.
Slowly enough to let Mu Qing step away if he wanted, Feng Xin reaches for a hug.
Mu Qing doesn’t resist.
They end up in almost a perfect copy of when they danced slowly together a few nights before. Everything feels so bright, so light, and Feng Xin can’t imagine ever letting go.
“I love you.” It feels so right to finally say it.
“I… I love you, too.”
And after hearing those words, Feng Xin doesn’t think he’ll feel the ache of loneliness ever again.
They hold each other for a while, just getting used to the feeling of wholeness that surrounds then now that they have each other’s weight in their arms.
The hand that rests on Feng Xin’s shoulders tenses for a moment, digging into it with just a slight pressure. And then Mu Qing speaks softly, like he’s fearful of the words he’s speaking.
“I should tell you… Being with me…” he starts, and Feng Xin feels the tremble that courses through the god in his arms, “there’s… certain… things I never want to do. It’s not just my cultivation. I don’t have… those kinds of desires.”
Feng Xin feels an odd mix of emotions at that. Mostly sadness that Mu Qing think that this would be some sort of hinderance for him. But also comfort, knowing that his struggle with self-discovery is something he has in common with his beloved person.
All he can do is be honest. So, he says exactly what he thinks.
“All I want is you. I don’t need anything else to be happy—just you, exactly as you are. When I’m not around you, I ache, and then the second you’re near me, I feel more comfortable than I ever have been. This is perfect. You’re perfect.”
Mu Qing’s responding laugh is breathless, “When did you get so good with words?” He presses his face closer into Feng Xin’s neck.
“I have no fucking idea,” he responds, squeezing Mu Qing a little bit tighter, and he laughs softly too.
As they hold each other, Feng Xin thinks that he’s never, ever, felt so comfortable with silence as he is right now.
But the words that break that silence somehow makes him even happier.
“Feng Xin, can I kiss you?” Mu Qing asks, pulling back to see his face.
Before, from anyone else, Feng Xin never knew how to respond to such a question.
Now, with the utmost confidence, Feng Xin answers, “Yes.”
They bring their lips together, and it really is perfect.