Work Text:
Mu Qing can only remember snatches of the last two days. He remembers Monday better, when the body aches started. And that evening, when he started sneezing, and Feng Xin snickered and called him cute, and when Mu Qing stood up to punch him, how the room had turned sideways and the next thing he knew, Feng Xin was tucking the covers around him in bed.
He remembers yesterday through a haze of fever delirium. Feng Xin’s voice on the phone, probably with the campus health office, saying, “Got it. Mhm. Got it,” and promising the nurse he’d take care of him (Mu Qing had made sure to keep his eyes closed and fake sleep, he was not having any conversation that started with Feng Xin wanting to take care of him). The two movies they watched in the evening to keep Mu Qing distracted—the 1998 animated Mulan (had all the soldiers gotten hotter since he started reading Chinese historical fantasy novels? Something about the armor made him feel some kind of way now) and some movie with a maze and puppets that he knows he likes, but by then he couldn’t really tell what was happening through the fever haze.
He remembers Feng Xin skipping class (“I can get notes later. You’re sick. Stop being a dumbass. Here, drink this.”) and reading out loud to him from the Western fantasy series he’s been rereading (“How the fuck do you even say this? ‘Yggdrasil’? How do you read books like this?”).
He remembers waking up out of shallow naps to see his bedside table always full and messy: a glass of water, open pill bottles, the rest of the toast he couldn’t make it through earlier, the thermometer (washed immediately after each use, at his shouted insistence), a roll of toilet paper in lieu of tissues, and a grocery bag hanging off the knob of the top drawer to receive them. None of these things he’d put there.
And now it’s day three. The fever’s still there, but at least he’s lucid now.
“Come on, time to take your temperature,” came Feng Xin’s voice as he walked into the room.
“I can do that myself, you know.”
“Yeah well you couldn’t yesterday, so don’t act all high and mighty about it. Plus you’re going to make me wash that fucking thing right away anyway, so I might as well just do it.” And Feng Xin was leaning down to reach for the thermometer, but Mu Qing beat him to it, snatching it off the table before Feng Xin could get there. Feng Xin huffed, and Mu Qing couldn’t read if it was more annoyed or more amused.
Mu Qing jabbed the thermometer in his mouth, careful not to actually stab that soft weird under-tongue, and waited a moment before saying, “Wassit shay?”
“Hold on, it’s still climbing.” Mu Qing rolled his eyes and Feng Xin rolled his back in a mocking gesture. The thermometer beeped. This time, Feng Xin got to it first, and pulled the thermometer out of Mu Qing’s mouth before he could stop him. “101.7, that’s down from earlier. Still not great though. I’ll be back,” and turned to leave.
Mu Qing stared at the ceiling. He should be used to this by now, Feng Xin taking care of him. He’d been doing it since high school, anytime Mu Qing got sick or managed to injure himself. It didn’t happen often, but every time it did, Feng Xin was there with a first-aid kit and a (presumably concerned) scowl.
It’s really the only time anyone else takes care of him. Has been for years. Maybe that’s why he never gets used to it. It’s only consistent with itself, not the rest of his life, where he’s doing everything he can to stay afloat on his own and try to get ahead for once.
One time in high school, Mu Qing had to miss a week of school when he got strep, and Feng Xin came over every night. Halfway through the week, he’d said, “You know, you’re even more of a pain in the ass when you’re sick. But I think it’s the only time you get to complain. So it’s fine. You can’t piss me off more than you already do.”
Sick in his bed in the present, Mu Qing rolled onto his side and pretended not to stare at the doorway. Just looking through it at the art print they had up on the far wall, definitely not the empty space he was waiting to fill with the sight of strong legs in grey sweatpants.
HIs (distinctly not) prayers were answered soon, Feng Xin coming back with the clean thermometer and one of the metal prep bowls from the kitchen.
“I don’t think the fever makes me hot enough to cook on,” Mu Qing said flatly.
Feng Xin laughed, hard and warm and bright. Mu Qing had learned that the less hard he tried for quips and jokes, the funnier Feng XIn found them. He hadn’t found anything yet that Feng Xin wouldn’t either laugh or get mad at.
“Scoot over,” Feng Xin said, sitting on the edge of Mu Qing’s bed and setting the bowl in his lap. “Not that far, idiot. Come back,” and Mu Qing did, a lucid pile of blankets wiggling back as close to Feng Xin as he felt like he could without bristling.
Feng Xin put his hand in the bowl and took out a clean rag. It looked damp, and when it touched Mu Qing’s forehead, it was cool. He swatted Feng Xin’s hand away. “What are you doing?”
“Trying to bring your fever down a little more. Plus it feels good. I know it does for me anyway. So stop fighting me and let me take care of you.” Feng Xin held his hand up expectantly and waited for Mu Qing to stop blocking his own face, then went back to dabbing the damp cloth across his forehead.
Fuck Feng Xin. It was nice. The cool felt good on his fever, and he’d been too sick to shower the past couple days, so this felt a little like getting cleaner. And the gentle pressure of Feng Xin’s fingers through the cloth as he pressed it to Mu Qing’s skin—well, that wasn’t bad either. Mu Qing closed his eyes and relaxed into it.
Feng Xin started dabbing the sides of Mu Qing’s face, gently brushing over his ears (it made him shiver, either the cool or the light touch), then moving to press the cloth against the sides of Mu Qing’s neck, behind his ears, and the exposed parts of his collar bones where he carried a fevered flush. As Feng Xin did all that, though, Mu Qing could hear something very faintly. It sounded like a tune, and words, and it sounded like Feng Xin’s voice. He opened his eyes.
“What the fuck are you doing?”
“I thought we just went over this.”
“No, I mean the other thing.”
“Uh… you mean singing?”
“Yeah. You have a shit voice.”
“No I don’t?”
“Whatever.” Mu Qing turned his head away. Then, “...keep singing.” Mu Qing could feel himself blush through his fever. When Feng Xin picked the song back up, Mu Qing could hear the smile in his voice. Damn it.
He sang another song after that, his voice low and sweet as he pressed the cool cloth to Mu Qing’s skin where it was hot and exposed. He only stopped when the cloth got warm. Mu Qing could feel him shift like he was about to get up, and threw out a hand to grab his wrist. Feng Xin paused where he was.
“You know you don’t have to take care of me,” Mu Qing said, looking straight at Feng Xin. Surely he had other things to do, this was the second day he’d spent just on Mu Qing.
“Of course I’m going to take care of you,” Feng Xin replied, the answer clearly uncomplicated to him as he returned Mu Qing’s gaze.
“That’s not an ‘of course’,” Mu Qing said. He should know.
“Yes it is. Of course you take care of the person you like.”
Mu Qing’s mouth fell open and his hand loosened where it was still gripping Feng Xin’s wrist. What the—
“What the fuck, you can’t just say that to someone out of nowhere.”
“Qing-er, I know you’re new to this, but I’m pretty sure it’s normal to tell the person you’re dating that you like them.”
“We’re not dating.”
“Yes we are.”
Mu Qing was getting increasingly flustered. What was even happening here? Had his fever actually gotten worse? Worse enough to bring on delusions? Hallucinations? “W-Where did you get that idea?”
“You fix my clothes when I rip or stain them (...and then put them back in my drawers without telling me). I get you lunch when you don’t have time to make it, and bring it to you wherever you are. You’re always staring at me when you think I’m not looking. I don’t dance with anyone else at parties you’re at because I don’t want to dance with anyone else if I could be dancing with you.” Feng Xin shrugged. “Plus you asked me out yesterday and I said yes.”
Mu Qing bolted up in bed, and didn’t even have time to feel the head rush before Feng Xin was pushing him down, strong hands on his shoulders laying him back down and pinning him to the bed. He felt every place their bodies touched, and how his skin heated under it. It was way too clear to be a fever dream, this was actually happening. Mu Qing just looked at Feng Xin in panic and confusion.
Feng Xin did not look as phased as he should. “You don’t remember? It was during Labyrinth. When Sarah went home, you said ‘If I was David Bowie and I kidnapped you, I’d be sad if you left,’ and I said ‘You don’t have to kidnap me, I’m right here,’ and you said, ‘It’s not the same,’ so I asked ‘Why not?’ and you said ‘Because I want to go out with you,’ so I said ‘So ask me out’ and you did.”
Mu Qing put his hands on his face and moaned. “If I could kill the me from yesterday, I would do it.”
Feng Xin smirked. “I hope not. Then I’d never get to kiss you.”
Mu Qing dropped his hands to the side and stared at Feng Xin. “I am absolutely not kissing you.”
If Feng Xin were any less masculine, it would look like he was pouting right now. “Why not? I heard you tell Xie Lian that kissing was something you thought you were into, with someone you like.”
“No, I’m not getting you sick.”
Feng Xin raised an eyebrow and went back to the smirk. “Don’t you want to take care of your A-Xin if he gets sick?”
“NO, I definitely do NOT.”
Feng Xin chuckled and moved like he was going to get up again. With no warning or preamble, Mu Qing grabbed his collar and pulled him down for a quick kiss, just a peck on the lips. Then he pushed him back up and let go, crossing his arms over his blankets and turning away on his side.
“Don’t say anything. You’ve been breathing my air already anyway. Go take some vitamin C.”
Feng Xin was grinning like an idiot as he got up to go find the vitamins and make something for his sick boyfriend to eat.
Mu Qing was lying on the bed, hugging his knees up to his chest, enjoying the warm way his smile spread across his face. It wasn’t the same kind of warm as his fever, or even as his blush, and it wasn’t like the cool washcloth earlier—but this kind of warm felt good, as good as that touch, as good as all the ways he’d heard Feng Xin’s voice these past couple days. Promising to care for him, struggling through his niche books, singing softly to him, teasing him, and saying his own words back to him. It felt like being held. And it felt good.