Work Text:
It’s not as though Feng Xin hadn’t expected it, but when he had allowed himself to think about the possibility of this, of the three of them being separated—well, first of all, he didn’t picture it like this. He’d always expected it to be some giant fight between all three of them, not Mu Qing leaving and Xie Lian just sitting by and letting him. In the disguise of night, when Feng Xin would stare at the stars in the sky and try to fall asleep, he’d play it out in his head. Mu Qing, trying to leave, and Xie Lian yelling at him until Feng Xin negotiated it between the two of them and they both apologized and praised him for keeping them together. Or, maybe, Xie Lian would try to kick the both of them out, and he and Mu Qing would band together and argue their way back into the fold, and the three of them would come out of it stronger, and they would have enough to eat somehow, and it wouldn’t be so cold, and they would be happy.
What he didn’t expect was Mu Qing, cold and collected; Xie Lian, sad and resigned; himself, anger bubbling up inside of him like a pot about to boil. He told Xie Lian that he’d fetch a carriage, and he will, but right now he wants nothing more than to rip a tree from its roots, to destroy a thousand enemy soldiers, to march to the palace and kill Lang Ying with his bare hands.
Ironically, Mu Qing is the perfect sparring partner when Feng Xin gets into one of these moods. Only Mu Qing can meet his anger, their skills so perfectly matched that fighting with him is almost fun.
Feng Xin marches through the woods, not caring that he’s making enough noise to alert any potential enemies to his location. Let them come. Let him prove to dianxia and that traitor that he's enough to pull them through this temporary darkness. He’s strong enough to kill them all, every last one of them.
What was he...? Oh, right, Feng Xin reminds himself, rational thought just barely piercing through his fury. A carriage. He needs to find a carriage. He takes a step forward, and his boot sinking into the ground is the first sign that he’s heading in the wrong direction. Feng Xin stops, looking down. He’s on the shore of a small river, a creek really, his boots submerged in mud.
In the time it takes for him to let out a breath, Feng Xin’s shoulders drop, exhaustion flooding his meridians. His hands shake as he brushes his hair out of his eyes, looking down at his reflection in the water. There’s dark circles beneath his eyes, and his face is narrower than it used to be. He scowls.
A branch snaps. Feng Xin whips around, hands balling into fists. It takes him only a moment to identify the form of another person at the edge of the trees, but longer to realize who exactly,he’s looking at.
“You.”
Mu Qing’s eyes are wide, almost as though he wasn’t expecting to get caught. Feng Xin isn’t sure why he’s so surprised that Mu Qing looks the same; he’s barely been gone a shichen, but somehow he’d expected Mu Qing to be unrecognizable, not the same servant he’s known his whole life.
“Sorry,” Mu Qing blurts, hands balled in his sleeves. “I was just—”
“You,” Feng Xin repeats, and in that single word, his anger boils over. He rushes forward, hands already raised. Mu Qing’s eyes widen, and Feng Xin’s able to get a good shove in before Mu Qing realizes what’s happening.
Mu Qing’s stumbles, letting out a grunt as his back hits a tree. Feng Xin’s first punch lands squarely on Mu Qing’s jaw, and the responding pain in his hand is familiar and refreshing.
His temporary advantage ends as soon as Mu Qing gets his feet back under him, and Feng Xin’s heart begins to pound as Mu Qing hits him in the cheek. The taste of blood stings in the back of Feng Xin’s throat as he retaliates, anger and hurt and things he can’t bring himself to name, fueling him forward.
The fight goes on, and Feng Xin can’t help but note how wild Mu Qing looks. Usually, when they fight, Mu Qing is fierce, determined, every move he makes as cool and calculating as he is in every other aspect of his life.
Now, though, Mu Qing’s gaze hides nothing. His cries are almost feral as he punches, slaps, and scratches at Feng Xin, limbs moving in reckless abandon. Mu Qing’s gaze clears for a moment when Feng Xin tugs at his ponytail, but it clouds again in an instant. Mu Qing’s answering shove is enough to send him stumbling backwards, and a boot to his stomach has Feng Xin hitting the ground. His hands sink into the mud, and in the back of his mind, Feng Xin curses the amount of washing it will take to get his outer robes clean again.
More stressful than laundry is the fact that Mu Qing’s pinning him to the ground, first with his foot, then with his knee, then with his fists. Feng Xin bucks, but Mu Qing doesn’t budge, hands planted against Feng Xin’s chest, mud seeping against his scalp. His nose is bleeding, Feng Xin realizes. When did that happen? He sniffs, wetness running down his throat, pulse pounding in the spot behind his eyes. His vision blurs into streaks of green and brown and blue and black, only the sharp pressure of Mu Qing's hands pressed against his chest keeping him grounded.
"You're crying," says Mu Qing, shifting his weight on top of Feng Xin. "It's like you don't even care about saving face. As though starting fights with random civilians isn't enough."
Feng Xin swallows wetly, blinking rapidly until Mu Qing comes into focus above him. "Get off of me," he says, but it sounds weak even to him.
Mu Qing rolls his eyes. "Not until you stop trying to kill me."
"Why?" asks Feng Xin. "Mu Qing, fucking why?"
Mu Qing starts, then stops. His grip on Feng Xin loosens a bit, and Feng Xin gains enough mobility to wipe his face with his sleeve.
"Your mother," Feng Xin says. "How do you even fucking know if she's alive?"
The sting of the slap isn't entirely unexpected, but Feng Xin flinches anyway. "Don't," Mu Qing warns. "Just because no one in this realm cares about you—"
"Dianxia cares."
"If Taizi Dianxia cared one bit as much for you as you do for him, he'd let you go himself," says Mu Qing, voice tinged with bitterness. Feng Xin can feel the mud starting to seep through his robes and he shivers.
"You're going, you piece of shit," Feng Xin says. "You're going." His voice cracks again. "And where will I go?"
Mu Qing won't look at him. Instead, his face turns to the side, his jaw set, his eyes filled with sadness, much like they were when he first said he was leaving.
"Where will I go?" Feng Xin repeats. "Where will I fucking go? Tell me, Mu Qing. When the shitty benevolent gods have forsaken me, what the hell am I supposed to do?"
Mu Qing closes his eyes, fingers curling against Feng Xin's chest. Feng Xin doesn't even mind his weight pressing him down. He's already filthy. Already worthless. Already couldn't keep his friends together. Let Mu Qing lower him into the ground, let him bury him here by the river, where it's quiet, where it's safe, where he's saying goodbye.
"I… don't know," Mu Qing says. When he opens his eyes again, he's looking at Feng Xin. Feng Xin stares back, hoping that he gives off an air of defiance and not the pitifulness he feels inside.
"Yeah, well. Fat load of fucking shit that is, then."
"I'm sorry," whispers Mu Qing so quietly that Feng Xin wonders if he imagined it. "I don't know, Feng Xin."
Mu Qing leans down, pressing their lips together. Feng Xin's breath catches in his throat, his eyes widening. Fuck. Mu Qing is kissing him. Mu Qing just kicked his ass, and now he's kissing him. And he's not doing a very good job of it, either. Of course, Feng Xin can't think of any moment when Mu Qing would've had an opportunity to practice, but the way his lips are so tightly sealed together as they press against his bottom lip would be almost endearing if it wasn't following a fight.
Feng Xin's lips part, and then it's not Mu Qing kissing him, it's him kissing Mu Qing. Mu Qing seems just as shocked as Feng Xin was that he's not being shoved away, and Feng Xin is able to coax his mouth to flutter open, kissing away any insults Mu Qing might have stored away.
Mu Qing tips forward, and then it's not one of them kissing the other, it's both of them—both of them moving in quiet tandem, their shared anger somehow both crescendoing and melting away with every shared breath, with every nip at the corner of Feng Xin's mouth, with every touch of Mu Qing's tongue against his.
Feng Xin isn't sure how long they stay like this, laying at the edge of the river, but when Mu Qing finally pulls away, his lips are swollen and his cheeks are red, his pupils blown in what looks like a combination of frustration, lust, and something else that Feng Xin can't quite place.
"Mu Qing—"
"You look more terrible than usual," Mu Qing interrupts. "You'd best wash up before Taizi Dianxia finds out what his loyal lapdog did."
Feng Xin tries not to startle at the venom in his voice, but before he can reply, the weight on his chest is lifted off of him as Mu Qing pulls himself to his feet.
"Do what you want, but don't expect to find me," says Mu Qing as he adjusts his robes. Feng Xin can only look up at him and study the blush splashed across his cheeks, barely flinching when Mu Qing turns on his heel and a bit of cold mud splatters on his face.
Feng Xin waits, half of him not wanting to accept that Mu Qing has vanished, the other half still hoping that Mu Qing will return, hoist him to his feet, and walk with him back to town.
But Mu Qing doesn't return. The cicadas chirp, the river flows, and Feng Xin lets the blood and tears dry on his face before forcing himself to get up.
Where will he go, Feng Xin asks himself as he washes his face and hands in the water. But he already knows the answer.
He will go back to town, his face already so thin that his mudstained robes don't matter. He will find a carriage. He will return to Xie Lian, and he will never tell him what just happened.
If Feng Xin is sure of anything; however, it's this:
This is not the last he will ever see of Mu Qing.