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It’s been six months since he’s seen Feng Xin. They don’t even live that far apart anymore, it’s just about two hours now since Mu Qing moved back home (or as close to home as he could afford, with all the rent hikes and gentrification). They haven’t seen each other, it’s not so far, and they text. And Feng Xin has a job interview nearby tomorrow and asked if he could crash with Mu Qing, and Mu Qing has no reason to say no, so he doesn’t.
But it’s a whole other thing now that Feng Xin is at the door of his apartment, duffle bag in hand and garment bag over his shoulder, wearing a tank top in the late summer heat. A few drops of sweat running slowly down from his hairline. Flyaways from his bun frizzing in the unusually high humidity. Maybe he’s panting a little. Not that Mu Qing is watching the gentle heave of his chest.
Mu Qing stands with one hand holding his door open, the other hand on his cocked hip, managing to look nonchalant despite his racing heart.
He rolls his eyes.
“Are you coming in or what?”
“Fuck you,” Feng Xin huffs. “You’re still standing in the doorway, I can’t get past. And why are there so many fucking stairs to get up here? You don’t have an elevator?”
“Not my fault you’re in shit shape.” Mu Qing steps aside, exaggerating the motion and sweeping an arm like he’s welcoming a nobleman.
Feng Xin growls a little (as he should, he’s in fantastic shape—Mu Qing can barely take his eyes off the well-defined lines of his arm muscles, and he always sees the pictures Feng Xin posts from his runs) but shrugs his garment bag higher on his shoulder and comes in, stopping in the entryway to toe off his shoes.
“Have you had dinner yet?” Mu Qing asks, trying to keep the care out of his voice as Feng Xin drops his things in the hallway and shakes out his wrists. “You know there’s no point in using a garment bag if you’re just going to crumple it on the floor.”
“You—” Feng Xin grits his teeth, but picks up the garment bag anyway. “Where can I hang this, then? And no, I haven’t had dinner, I drove straight here without stopping.”
Mu Qing resists the little catch in his throat at that, the idea of Feng Xin wanting to get here as soon as possible. But that’s not why. Stop it.
“Hall closet. And I have leftovers we can eat. Go wash your hands, I’m sure your car is filthy. Meet me in the kitchen.” Mu Qing doesn’t wait for him to respond, just turns and heads to the kitchen to pull out leftovers. Leftovers he had made intentionally the night before with extra portions, even enough to send some with Feng Xin for lunch the next day if he didn’t piss him off too much before then (an even chance so far).
He’s plating their food when he hears Feng Xin step into the kitchen. He starts to turn and opens his mouth to talk, but suddenly Feng Xin is right there—standing so close behind him, nearly touching his back, craning his head over Mu Qing’s shoulder to see the counter, “That looks great, what is it?”—and Mu Qing jumps with a start. He whips around to face Feng Xin, about to curse him out, but then he really is right there, their eyes even with each other, their chests only inches apart, and whatever Mu Qing was going to say falls unspoken out the slight gape of his mouth.
Feng Xin’s a little stunned too, and his eyes drop to Mu Qing’s mouth for a long moment before coming back up to meet his gaze, and he looks like he’s about to say something—but then he springs back a step, “Whoa whoa, sorry, didn’t mean to startle you, it just…looks good.” And Feng Xin looks away towards the fridge, or the counters, or whatever isn’t Mu Qing’s direction.
“Who’s startled?” Mu Qing bites back, trying to collect himself. “It’s cold noodles. They’re meant to be eaten cold. It’s hot out. Here,” and he shoves Feng Xin’s bowl at his chest, not looking at him.
Feng Xin pauses, but then takes it. “...Thanks.” Feng Xin stands there a little expectantly, a little unsure, and Mu Qing rolls his eyes. He strides out past him, his own bowl and chopsticks in one hand, and with his other hand, he sets a pair of chopsticks on the bowl in Feng Xin’s hands as he passes.
“Come on.” And Feng Xin follows him out to the living room.
~~~
After dinner, they rewatch a couple episodes of an wuxia drama they’ve both always liked—Mu Qing prefers xianxia in general, but Feng Xin is happy with just the martial elements, none of “that cultivation stuff”—and it’s comfy being on the couch together. Mu Qing has his knees tucked up, resting his chin on them, his arms around his shins. Feng Xin sprawls into one corner, his arm on the couch arm propping his head up in quieter moments, but bolting up and pointing at the screen when things heat up (“Did you see that?!” he’ll shout, and Mu Qing will roll his eyes and say something snarky but sink his face behind his knees a little to hide the smile he can’t help when Feng Xin is like this, excited and unrestrained).
It’s nice, it’s really, really nice. And that niceness is why Mu Qing won’t do anything about his racing heart or the smiles he hides, won’t push it when they end up too close—so often they end up too close—and why he doesn’t look over at Feng Xin nearly as much as he wants to while they’re watching. And that’s why he misses the way Feng Xin takes too long to look away after any time Mu Qing says something about the show, why he misses how Feng Xin’s sprawl slowly closes the space between them. But never quite does.
The last episode they watch ends on a cliffhanger, but they’ve seen this show a couple times, they know what comes next. Mu Qing stretches like a cat and gets up.
“Well, I’m going to bed.”
Feng Xin, sitting up a little on the couch, asks, “Where am I sleeping?”
“Right there, idiot. The only bed here is mine.” And when he hears what he’s just said, Mu Qing blushes and looks away.
“Right…” Feng Xin coughs. “Right. Well.”
Flustered, Mu Qing says, “There’s blankets in there.” He points to one of those IKEA baskets with the lids that make them kind of like side tables. “And I get the bathroom first. I’ll get you a pillow.” He huffs off to his room, but then just stands there, staring for a long moment at his bed. Maybe—no. He snatches his spare pillow off the bed and all but charges back to the couch, stuffing the pillow into Feng Xin’s arms. “Here. Goodnight. If you need me, don’t.”
Mu Qing is already striding away when Feng Xin calls after him, “You know that’s my ringtone for you?”
“What?” Mu Qing freezes on the spot, turns to face him again.
Feng Xin is wearing a shit-eating grin. “That’s my ringtone for you. Like when you call. ‘If You Need Me, Don’t’, it’s a song now.” Maybe something wistful passes briefly through Feng Xin’s eyes, but then he’s laughing at his own joke. Mu Qing can’t tell if he’s serious or not. “Here, I’ll send it to you.”
“Don’t bother,” Mu Qing says, already walking away again, and locks himself in the bathroom, his back against the door and his hand over his eyes as he collects himself.
By the time he’s back in his room with the door closed, he’s gotten a text. From Feng Xin. He opens it, and it’s the fucking song. Whatever. He presses play on the YouTube link and sets it on his nightstand as he goes to his closet to braid his hair and get dressed for bed. He doesn’t hear anything for a moment, but then the song blasts on. Shit! He’d been blasting music on his phone trying to psych himself up earlier when he was waiting for Feng Xin to arrive, and he must’ve left the volume too high.
Mu Qing scrambles across the room to turn the volume down, and when he does, he can hear Feng Xin chuckling at him from the other room. Goddammit. God. dammit. What. ever.
~~~
Mu Qing is tucked into bed, wishing he were gently nodding off. Instead, he’s staring at the ceiling in the dark, thinking about how Feng Xin is falling asleep on his couch right now, twenty feet away. In his house. Not next to him. Way too close, way too far.
But it’s fine, it’s fine. Maybe the way too close and the way too far balance each other out, and this balance is what keeps Feng Xin in his life and easy like they are with each other. It took a while to get here and Mu Qing is sure this is the most he can hope for, so this will have to do. Or something.
It’s definitely not eating him up inside when there comes a knock on his bedroom door. He jolts at the sudden sound, doesn’t answer. Waits a minute, listening.
But there’s another knock.
“No.” Mu Qing calls back.
The door opens enough for Feng Xin to stick his head in. “So you are awake!”
“Only because someone’s pounding at my door,” Mu Qing lies.
Feng Xin laughs. “When did you become such a light sleeper?”
Mu Qing ignores him. “What do you want?”
Feng Xin opens the door enough to step in. He lets the hall light in with him though, and Mu Qing reflexively raises his arms to cover his eyes, hissing his displeasure at the sudden brightness. Feng Xin reaches back to flick off the lightswitch and Mu Qing relaxes cautiously.
“Your couch is too small.”
“Fuck you, my couch is perfect. I made sure it was long enough to sleep on before I got it and we’re the same height, stop complaining.”
“You know I’ve always been broader than you, my shoulders don’t fit.”
“Your broad shoulders are not my problem,” Mu Qing replies. They are, though, he thinks about them all the time.
“Whatever.” Feng Xin steps farther into the room and gently closes the door behind him. “Scoot over, I’m coming in.”
“Wh-what?!” Mu Qing sputters. But Feng Xin is already next to the bed, and it’s high enough that he mostly just has to tip his hips down onto it, and Mu Qing feels the bed dip and hears his spare pillow thwump back into its proper place. Mu Qing starts back to his side of the bed as Feng Xin lifts the covers and makes himself comfortable, settling in.
Feng Xin is facing him, lying there on his side in the bed. Mu Qing is facing Feng Xin. There’s a cool breeze and city lights coming in from the open window.
Mu Qing is hyperaware of every place the breeze blows on his skin, of the way the sheets pull on him when Feng Xin shifts, of the way Feng Xin has completely stopped shifting and is staring at him in the dim light. Mu Qing tries to keep his breathing normal. What does normal breathing sound like again? Surely it’s not this fast or shallow. He hears Feng Xin swallow.
“I didn’t think I’d need blankets tonight. It was so hot earlier, and you’re on such a high floor,” Feng Xin says into the space between them.
Mu Qing is dumbstruck that that’s what he’s going to talk about right now. “The apartment gets a good crossbreeze,” Mu Qing rasps out. “And it’s been cool at night lately. It’s almost fall, anyway.”
Mu Qing hears more than sees Feng Xin nod against his pillow, the brush of his hair shushing on the cotton. Feng Xin’s hair is down to sleep, and Mu Qing can just make out where it falls across his bed.
“Ah, that explains it,” Feng Xin says in a low voice. Then, into the space between them: “I’m still a little cold, though.”
Nonsense, Feng Xin is a human radiator. “Then go get another blanket from the living room.”
“Mm, don’t want to,” Feng Xin almost purrs. And edges closer to Mu Qing. It’s not far, but certainly enough for him to notice. Oh. Oh. Oh no no no. No?
This can’t be happening. But if it is? And if it’s not, surely it wouldn’t hurt to play along? Just this once?
“M-Maybe…I’m a little cold too.” And Mu Qing inches closer. He hears a sharp intake of breath from not far away.
Feng Xin moves again, and how they’re close again, close as they were in the kitchen earlier. Feng Xin brings one hand up to Mu Qing’s arm, runs his hand down it until he comes to rest on his waist. Mu Qing swears he stops breathing.
“You know,” Feng Xin says, speaking in that low voice that’s driving Mu Qing nuts. “Penguins huddle together for warmth.”
“I’m not a penguin, Feng Xin.” But he still nudges even closer, bringing his own hand to Feng Xin’s upper arm and gently gripping the muscle there.
“No. No, you’re not.” Feng Xin says softly, angling his head down a little, and they’re so close now that Mu Qing just has to lean in to rest their foreheads against each other.
They stay there, breathing into the space between them, quiet now, but a fierce quiet, a charge and an electric hum in the air. Mu Qing can feel Feng Xin’s breaths, a little ragged now, washing over his lips, brushing down his neck. He shivers.
“Qing-er…” Feng Xin breathes.
“Don’t push it…A-Xin,” Mu Qing replies, and then, tentatively, crossing a thousand miles and two inches at the same time, their faces tilt up, just slightly, and then their lips touch together, and it’s soft, so soft, Feng Xin’s lips are soft on his and his hand is soft where it caresses Mu Qing’s waist and all down his side, and the breathy sounds Mu Qing makes are soft. And it’s firm, Mu Qing’s hand when he grips tighter onto Feng Xin’s arm, and the muscle there firm when Feng Xin puts his arm around Mu Qing’s back to pull him flush against his body.
And suddenly it’s all firm, how they hold each other and how their hands move against muscle and their mouths opening against each other and the first brushes of tongue and Mu Qing has never felt so simultaneously steady and light-headed in his life. He has to pull back to catch his breath.
“Feng Xin,” he says seriously between panted breaths.
“Mu Qing,” he replies in kind.
“Do you mean it?”
Feng Xin looks confused. “Do I mean what?”
Mu Qing leans in again and kisses him for all he’s worth, then pulls back, breathless. “That.”
Feng Xin is breathing heavy. “Oh. That.” He comes to. “Qing-er…you really didn’t know?”
“Know what?”
Feng Xin pulls back a second like he’s trying to get a better look at him, but Mu Qing pulls him back tight, and Feng Xin starts placing gentle (but firm, insistent) kisses across his cheeks and forehead.
“I.” Kiss. “Have wanted.” Kiss. “To do this.” Kiss. “For years.” And the last kiss lands on Mu Qing’s mouth, open in surprise. But when he feels Feng Xin’s tongue searching for his, he meets him there, sighing against him, nodding small urgent nods as he kisses him back.
Feng Xin breaks the kiss with a soft carefree laugh. “So does that answer your question?”
Mu Qing looks at him, thinking. Then: “Only one.”
Feng Xin, confused again, asks, “What’s the other one?”
Mu Qing flips them down so Feng Xin is beneath him, staring up at him with wide eyes, and Mu Qing lets Feng Xin take his full weight (across that broad chest). Then starts kissing across his face in a mirror of Feng Xin from moments ago. “I.” Kiss. “Would like.” Kiss. “To do this.” Kiss. “For years.” And the last kiss does meet Feng Xin’s mouth, but Mu Qing pulls up to see Feng Xin’s reaction. He’s never taken a risk this big, and maybe he’s asking too much, but he has to know this isn’t a one-time thing.
“Dumbass, that’s not a question.” And Feng Xin grips a hand on the back of Mu Qing’s neck and pulls him down to say against his lips, “And yes.” And kisses him so hard Mu Qing can feel it echo back through the day, through those moments on the couch and in the kitchen and in the doorway. And Feng Xin’s skin is hot under his hands, but his hair is cool and soft where Mu Qing grabs a fistful of it, and as he presses him down into his bed, Mu Qing thinks, Maybe I’ll pack him that lunch tomorrow after all.