Work Text:
It’s a little special, this dinner, even though it seems so much like their normal company dinners, the kind their team has every last Friday of the month.
The new year is approaching, so they’re all a little chattier, more relaxed and more excitable, anticipating their few precious days off, when the company will close and everyone will have some time to spend with their loved ones.
Somewhat of a demographic oddity, their team comprises Pei Ming, their team lead, a man in his late thirties, ‘flirty and thriving’, according to himself. Then, Feng Xin, the deputy lead, early thirties, not at all flirty but nevertheless, robust. And then there are four aunties in their fifties: two single, two married, all with different priorities.
Thankfully, for Feng Xin who has always been a little afraid of women his age (why do they always stare at him? What do they want?! ), the aunties are like mother figures to him.
Even more thankfully, for Feng Xin and the entire company, the aunties are beyond Pei Ming’s preferred age range for hook-ups, so they can avoid any scandal or lawsuit or generally undesirable situation.
(Though, Pei Ming insists he does not have an age ceiling and simply does not mix business with pleasure.)
But apart from this, they are an average bunch, in Feng Xin’s opinion. They chat about mundane things, like whether so-and-so's parents or partner, or children, or pet are doing well, or whether anyone has read any good books or watched any good shows lately. All while simply enjoying one another’s company with food and drinks subsidised by the boss.
This time, however, the prospect of the holiday season on the horizon has probably affected Feng Xin. He’s not tight-lipped normally: on the contrary, he could do with thinking more before he speaks. But for the most part, there are certain parts of his life that he simply does not talk about. The parts that he himself would rather not think about too deeply. He’s not avoiding anything, per se. He just likes things the way they are, so there’s no need to think or talk or reveal too much of anything to anyone.
This time, though, the light buzz he has from the alcohol coupled with the nice aftertaste of the drunken chicken must have made Feng Xin’s lips loose.
“It’s okay, Auntie,” Feng Xin says with a little laugh, light as the foam on the top of his beer, “I’m in the same boat as you. It’s hard being single.”
In the ensuing silence, Feng Xin instantly knows that he's made a faux pas.
Of all the things he resolutely does not mention (not to his colleagues, not to his loved ones, not to Xie Lian and absolutely not to Mu Qing), his love life is up there. Number One, in fact.
He should have just let it be, Feng Xin groans internally, struggling now that five sets of wide eyes are staring at him. He should have just let Auntie Yu lament her love life like she always does. Should have left her to complain about her eternal singledom; should have let Pei Ming handle it like usual.
But nooo! He just had to open his big mouth to say something that he had hoped sounded sympathetic, but had probably just come across as self-pitying.
Pei Ming breaks the awkward silence, blinking slowly as he says, "So, what you mean to say, is that you are single?”
The enunciation is strange. This is not what Feng Xin expected Pei Ming to say.
“Er, yeah?” Feng Xin replies, rubbing the back of his neck, confused.
Is it not obvious that he’s single? Sometimes the loneliness feels so enormous inside Feng Xin, so huge and heavy, that he feels as though anyone who takes even one look at him would know that he doesn’t have anyone to love. Not in the way that he wants to, anyway: not overtly and with his entire heart and soul.
“But what about your lunch boxes?” Auntie Lin comments, neck shooting upwards, like a meerkat standing to attention, “Every few days you’ll have such a lovely and balanced, beautifully neat lunch!”
Feng Xin grimaces. This is true, but only because Mu Qing believes in batch cooking and meal planning. He says that this is healthier and saves them money, and as much as Feng Xin hates admitting it, Mu Qing is right.
“My flatmate makes those. We take it in turns to make the lunches,” Feng Xin mumbles, embarrassed.
“So you're not the one who makes those cute bunnies out of rice balls?” asks Auntie He, her earrings jangling to the tune of her sing-song voice.
“ Er, no,” Feng Xin gulps.
He feels guilty, for some reason. He’s already internally apologising to Mu Qing. He doesn’t know why, but letting people know about their domestic habits feels like an admission of something, something intimate and special, that no one else is supposed to know.
He supposes that the idea of cold and aloof Mu Qing doing something so… endearing would be embarrassing for him. Who would believe such a thing, if they had ever met Mu Qing, with his constantly folded arms and rolling eyes! Feng Xin certainly wouldn’t have, if the situation were different and he hadn’t seen with his own eyes the way Mu Qing put those little rice bunnies gently into Feng Xin's red and gold lunchbox, even maneuvering a sheet of nori to cover them like a blanket.
In the back of his mind, Feng Xin sees Mu Qing’s scowling face, berating him for ruining his reputation by telling people about his propensity for moulding animal shapes out of rice.
But I never told them your name!! , Feng Xin argues with his inner Mu Qing. Which is also true, because he knows Mu Qing is the most private and frustrating asshole he’s ever met in his entire life, and they fight often enough, so he doesn’t exactly want to do anything that encourages Mu Qing to insult him more. That’s why at work, he’s only ever ‘the flatmate’.
His colleagues seem to ponder something before one of them hits her fist against her palm.
“But your clothes!” Auntie Chen says, “They’re so neatly ironed!”
Feng Xin grits his teeth to stop himself from actually growling. The ironing is a sore spot for him. He keeps telling Mu Qing he doesn’t need his clothes to be ironed, even while Mu Qing berates him for going to work with wrinkled shirts, because doesn’t he care about his career? Doesn’t he want a promotion? Who goes to work looking like they can’t afford a roof over their heads when the company knows how much they pay you?
Feng Xin will argue forever that it’s fine, that no one cares, but then Mu Qing will do it for him anyway after laundry day, lauding it over Feng Xin for the next day or two until Feng Xin finally gives in and buys him dinner.
It’s annoying. But it’s also just how they work: Feng Xin and Mu Qing.
Feng Xin feels like his colleagues just wouldn’t understand.
“What’s to say I don’t iron my clothes myself?” He ends up saying, as politely as he can, even while his jaw remains clenched.
His colleagues exchange looks. Auntie Yu eventually sighs, perfectly manicured nails playing with the rim of her glass,
“I’m sorry, Feng Xin, it’s just that we’ve seen you fold your cardigan. We, er, didn’t think that you yourself would pay such close attention to your clothes.”
Feng Xin’s face turns beet red. He can already hear Mu Qing’s voice, like a phantom voice inside his head, laughing at his expense.
Sure, Feng Xin has a particular way of folding his garments, which involves holding up said garment, folding it in half mid-air and then rolling it into a sort of square ball.
“So what if this isn’t the proper way to fold clothes?” Feng Xin argues with Mu Qing all the time.
Mu Qing would just roll his eyes, clicking his tongue and folding all his own clothes immaculately before undoing all of Feng Xin’s good work, and trying to teach Feng Xin how to do it ‘the correct way’.
(Feng Xin acknowledges that this sounds like Mu Qing’s being nice. But!!—his internal voice insists—that’s because people don’t know that Mu Qing talks at Feng Xin with the same tone he’d use for a five-year-old.)
“Okay, okay, I get that I’m a bit messy,” Feng Xin concedes, “but none of that means I’m not single! My flatmate and I share chores and to be honest, he’s better at a lot of that stuff than I am, so he helps me out.”
Feng Xin writhes inside himself, hoping desperately that Mu Qing never hears these words because that bastard would just misinterpret them.
Feng Xin’s inner Mu Qing is already berating him:
What, am I your servant or something? ‘Better than you at chores’—are you pretending to be bad so that I do everything? You’re unbelievable!
Feng Xin clears his throat.
“A-Anyway, I’m sure that if you just disregard all the stuff to do with chores, you’ll be less surprised that I’m single.”
Feng Xin truly believes this, even as his colleagues gaze thoughtfully into the distance.
“Oh!” Pei Ming chimes in. All the aunties lean forward. “But what about last week, when you told me that your flatmate got you the limited special edition Flower Crowned Martial God keychain that you wanted?”
There’s a chorus of yes- es and of course! around the table. Feng Xin’s heart sinks.
“I have a friend who also tried to get that keychain,” Pei Ming continues, rubbing his chin in thought as his eyebrows waggle. “He told me that you had to be in a virtual queue for eight hours to get it. Only those who were able to pay close attention and make sure their connection didn’t time out actually got their hands on it! Your flatmate can’t have just gotten that by accident.”
“Well, he had a day off so…” Feng Xin says sheepishly, scratching the back of his neck.
He had been really surprised when Mu Qing had gifted it to him. In typical Mu Qing behaviour, he’d been offhand about it, saying that he’d gotten lucky with the timings, seeing as he’d been off work that day and just relaxing at home. But Feng Xin had been very excited about the prospect of getting that keychain for weeks, and had talked about it a lot in the build-up. Mu Qing would even tell him off for getting too worked up about a silly little keychain.
He hadn’t really thought about the effort Mu Qing must have gone to to get it, but now that he’s forced to think about it—well, it must have been a lot of effort.
Feng Xin can feel his ears going red. He knows that even his tan can’t hide that.
Auntie Lin and Auntie He sit either side of him, wide grins on their faces, like cats that had got the cream.
“It’s a lot of effort for someone to go to, just because they have a day off,” Pei Ming says aloud what’s in everyone’s mind, “If it were me, I’d go out and enjoy myself, instead of waiting around on my phone for a keychain for only my ‘flatmate’.”
Feng Xin feels like he’s combusting. He wants to crawl into a hole, hopefully for a very long time. He can already see in his mind’s eye the shade of ugly red that’s crawling from his ears and neck to his face and brow (like you’re breaking out into hives, Mu Qing had once helpfully described it).
“W-Well,” Feng Xin flounders, clutches at straws, “My flatmate’s not like you! He’s not normal!”
He’s a weirdo! Feng Xin wants to say. A freak who never says what he means; never does what he says. Always making big threats then never pulling through with them. How many times has Mu Qing said he’s had enough of living with Feng Xin? And yet here he is, still living with him after all these years.
Argh! Just thinking about it infuriates Feng Xin in a way no one else does—in a way no one else but Mu Qing can.
The aunties seem to have caught on. Pei Ming’s observation unleashes a barrage of other, equally pressing observations:
“Wasn’t there that time you were sad because you wanted to eat durian, but they don’t sell it in the supermarkets around here. The next day, you brought a box of durian to work and I asked you how you managed to get your hands on some, and you said your flatmate ‘happened to’ swing by a marketplace on the other side of town, and got you some?”
“And what about that time, you said that you missed having a dog like you did when you were younger, and then the next week you told us that your flatmate insisted you go to X city, and that you went to a dog cafe there? I seem to remember you saying it was an accident and that you stumbled across the cafe, but I always thought your flatmate probably knew, and took you there because you were feeling sad. That’s very thoughtful of them…”
“The tie you’re wearing, that’s a gift from them too, right? Weren’t you eyeing up that tie for a while but you were saving for something else and didn’t want to buy it?”
The aunties hum approvingly with every suggestion. Feng Xin’s head is buzzing with their voices, each comment a revelation to him.
So much for keeping a lid on certain parts of his life. If his love life is Number One on the list of unspeakables, then Mu Qing is absolutely Number Two.
Come to think of it, when did he share this much about his life at work?
The durian had been a bit of a coincidence, Feng Xin admits. But then, Mu Qing had also bought some really cheap and fresh cherries from the same market, so Feng Xin had thought that was the reason that Mu Qing had gone so far for the fruit.
The trip to X city and the incidental passing of the cafe…Feng Xin had been the one who suggested they go in, so he’d thought it was his idea. But then Mu Qing had been the one who was leading them around the city as he was the one who’d suggested the trip in the first place. Mu Qing had led them down that street, so it was possible that he knew the cafe would be there.
As for the tie… Mu Qing had thrown it at Feng Xin’s head when he’d arrived home after work one night and said he’d picked it up from a second hand store. Feng Xin hadn’t thought much of it; had thought that it was lucky, because Mu Qing was really good at finding bargains at thrift stores. But it still had the label on and everything (Feng Xin remembers, because the label had almost taken his eye out), so maybe, it could have been new?
It’s a lot of information to take in. Guilt presses down on Feng Xin as he starts thinking that maybe he’s underappreciated Mu Qing. He’s always thanked him—or at least, tried to, before Mu Qing told him he was being weird and creepy and to just shut up—but somehow, with every situation lined up in front of him like this, it doesn’t feel enough.
Feng Xin’s eyes flit between the aunties and Pei Ming. The aunties seem to be enjoying themselves, recalling all the little conversations they’ve had with Feng Xin, at these dinners and around the water cooler. There seems no end to their frighteningly accurate memory recall.
Again and as ever, Pei Ming is the one to interrupt the general chatter:
“I believe you. That you’re single, I mean,” he says, before leaning so far forward that Feng Xin feels the need to lean back a little, “but if I were you, I wouldn’t want to be. They say play hard to get but that flatmate of yours—how long have you been making him work this hard? I’d say it was time to reward him a little, don’t you?”
Feng Xin is flabbergasted. He’s pretty sure that as well as being as red as a furnace, his jaw has dropped and he must be gaping like a fish out of water.
“E-Excuse me?” He manages to splutter, as shocked as he is at the notion that any of whatever his relationship with Mu Qing is could be construed as lovers playing hard to get.
(Friends, Feng Xin’s mind supplies to him, you’re sort of, almost definitely, friends. Sometimes.)
Pei Ming shrugs, as though what he just said isn’t outrageous .
“Look, I don’t know what you two have going on—only the two of you know that—but I’m just saying. It sounds like he does a lot for you. In fact, it sounds like you’ve got him wrapped around your little finger.”
Feng Xin blinks in response to that statement before a familiar anger takes over the residual shock in him.
“What the fuck?!” he exclaims, indignant because, though his colleagues don’t know this, Mu Qing would hate the suggestion that he’s subservient to anyone, let alone Feng Xin of all people.
“Language!” Auntie Lin yells immediately, a knee-jerk reaction to anyone cursing (much to Feng Xin and his eternal potty mouth’s remorse).
The other aunties burst into giggles. Auntie He pours everyone another drink, sparkly bangles glimmering in the amber mood lighting of the restaurant.
Pei Ming lets out a little huff of laughter. He holds up both his hands, palms open, as though backing away from a predatory animal.
But a hint of a smile remains playfully on his lips.
“Okay, buddy, I admit, my phrasing was off,” Pei Ming says, “but the truth remains. If I were you, I’d reconsider being single. He sounds like a great guy. I mean, even if you don’t like him right now, you might later if you give him a chance, right?”
Feng Xin wants to deny this. He and Mu Qing grew up together. They’ve been in each other’s vicinity for so long, their relationship is as it was and always has been. He can’t see things ever changing between them. They will always argue. They will always fight. They will always come home after work to watch television together. Mu Qing will always squeeze his ice cold feet under Feng Xin’s thighs to warm them up. Mu Qing will always know how Feng Xin likes his coffee in the morning, and Feng Xin will always know how Mu Qing likes his tea in the evenings.
Feng Xin can’t imagine how he could possibly like Mu Qing in any way that’s different to how he does now. Which is to say, that right now, he—that right now, his feelings for Mu Qing are—that is to say, he likes Mu Qing a totally normal and reasonable amount, as a—
Feng Xin tips his head into his hands. This is why Mu Qing is Number Two on the list of things he does not talk or even think about.
Pei Ming pats him on the back, even as he laughs, shouting loudly for the waiter to bring another round of drinks to the table.
- x -
The words ring inside Feng Xin’s head as he commutes home. They never stay out too late at these meals and this time is no exception, even if it’s close to the New Year.
Feng Xin likes it. Because most of the time, Feng Xin wants to go home.
He likes his home. He likes being home. He likes the smell of the dinner that Mu Qing made that night, wafting down the hallway and into his nostrils as he opens the door. He likes calling out that he’s home and having Mu Qing respond by telling him to shut up because he’s watching something. He likes taking off his shoes and padding into the living room in his socks to find Mu Qing deep in concentration, thin eyebrows drawn as his eyes hone in on the detective drama he’s inevitably watching. He likes trying to steal Mu Qing’s blanket and elbowing his way onto their sofa so he can watch, too.
Today, after the conversation he’s had with his colleagues, Feng Xin finds it difficult to look forward to any of these regular events.
He’s overthinking. He knows this, and knows that he’s two thoughts away from short circuiting.
Still, Pei Ming’s voice repeats in his head over and over:
If I were you, I’d reconsider being single. He sounds like a great guy.
They don’t know anything about Mu Qing, Feng Xin thinks, grinding his teeth as he grips the handlebar of the train tighter in his fist, they don’t know that he makes fun of me all the time, laughs at my expense, ignores me when he’s being petty and used to beat me to a pulp.
Nor do they know that Feng Xin does the same back, and used to beat him to a pulp too, until Xie Lian threatened to stop being their friend if they didn’t cut it out.
But, sometimes, he does laugh with Mu Qing at his own expense too. Because it’s nice. To laugh with Mu Qing.
Mu Qing is kind of great , Feng Xin admits to himself, meekly and with a sigh.
If someone asked Feng Xin how he came to live with Mu Qing, he would say that it had been a coincidence. After they graduated, they both got jobs at very similar, rival companies that had their headquarters opposite the road to one another. They were both looking for housing in similar areas, with an easy commute to work, and because it was more affordable, they’d agreed to live together.
(Sure, at the time, their mutual friends had looked at them sceptically and had asked them if they were sure they wouldn’t kill each other. But if nothing else, Mu Qing and Feng Xin had both always been stubborn as a mule once they’d made up their minds about something, so Mu Qing had simply rolled his eyes while Feng Xin had simply crossed his arms. No one said anything after that.)
Their apartment is in a high rise, sixteen floors above the ground. Their balcony faces towards the heart of the city, where in the distance, steel towers and buildings covered in glass grow high into the sky. Between their block of flats and those towers lie countless streets: rows and rows of houses that seem so small, it’s hard to imagine them with real people and real lives, and far easier to think of them as the backdrop in a film instead, an unimportant detail in a painting.
But it is in that detail, from the gardens of those little houses, that the fireworks preceding the New Year usually arise. The larger fireworks, funded by the municipality, which take place in the large park at the heart of the city, only happen on New Year’s Day after all.
Though people normally spend New Year’s with their family, for Feng Xin, whose parents passed away some years ago, and for Mu Qing, who never knew his dad and whose mother passed away when he was a teenager, they normally spend New Year’s Day with Xie Lian.
(And so, reluctantly, also, Hua Cheng.)
The days leading up to New Year’s, though: these days are for Feng Xin and Mu Qing only. They spend the time together, doing what they’d usually do on any extended weekend: bickering as they go to the mall, nudging each other as they watch a film at the cinema while trying to steal each other’s popcorn, walking about town and getting a little lost (and thus, aggravated with each other) while scouting out the nearest specialist shops for both archery and fencing, Feng Xin and Mu Qing’s respective hobbies.
It’s nice, Feng Xin thinks. It’s everything he’s always wanted. It’s what he forgets, when that aching loneliness rises up in his chest and takes hold of him: he forgets that he already shares his life with someone; an intimate and familiar life.
As Feng Xin walks through their dark, silent living room, it comes as no surprise to him that Mu Qing is out on the balcony.
There’s no telling if their neighbours might set off fireworks tonight. If they will, they must have yet to start or else Mu Qing would be inside already.
He’s leaning on the balcony bannister, head tipped back as his eyes look at the stars, waiting. His long black hair is tied back in a high ponytail like usual. His smart, outside coat covers what must be his pyjamas, judging by the fluffy material of the trouser bottoms that poke out from underneath. His socks are also fluffy, and stripey, stuffed into old sneakers that Mu Qing wears only on the balcony.
(“They’re too old to go outside-outside in,” he’d said, clicking his tongue as though it pained him to say aloud something so obvious. Feng Xin had pointed out that his ‘outside-outside sneakers’ were also about the same age, and in about the same worn state, which had made Mu Qing sneer at him about standards.)
From Feng Xin’s vantage point, Mu Qing’s wrists and the back of his neck are the only bare skin exposed to the winter night air, milk white and almost luminescent in the dark. Mu Qing must not be too cold to leave his neck like that, or else he’d be wearing the scarf that his mother knitted him, back when she was still around.
Looking at him like this, Feng Xin is reminded of the fact that Mu Qing is beautiful. It’s something so obvious to him that the thought comes and goes, without Feng Xin even being very aware of it. It’s like saying the sky is blue or that the sea contains water.
Mu Qing is beautiful, even just from behind.
Wait till you see his face! One half of Feng Xin scoffs, while the other half cringes.
After everything that his colleagues have said to him tonight, Feng Xin feels as though he should have thought about all of this before—all the little comments that he’s used to making in his head that he does not think further about. Why had he never thought about it anyway?
The answer is simple, really; it is glaringly obvious, even to Feng Xin, now that his mind is focused on it.
Feng Xin would rather be lonely occasionally, than to think about something that feels so risky, so potentially life altering and irreversible. He would rather take this familiar routine, this…whatever they are, this secret fondness, this quietly happy everyday, than to ruin it with something so dangerous as his feelings.
Because, what if Mu Qing doesn’t feel the same? What if Mu Qing doesn’t treat him the same anymore, won’t be his friend, won’t want him in his life, because he’s decided that Feng Xin’s feelings are too much for him?
No. Feng Xin would rather everything just stay the way it is.
He tiptoes towards the balcony, cotton socks treading smoothly on the floorboards.
When he reaches the balcony door and slides it open, Mu Qing doesn’t even turn to acknowledge him, though he must know it’s Feng Xin. Feng Xin feels nervous after the shift in his perspective tonight, his foray into forbidden thoughts—but he takes a deep, silent breath and steadies himself.
“Hello?! Aren’t you even going to greet me?” He manages to say, in what sounds, at least to his ears, like his normal tone of voice.
Mu Qing continues looking out into the night, not changing his position at all. But he does deign Feng Xin with a response, “Why do you always need to be greeted? You can see that I’m here, can’t you?”
Feng Xin pouts, yet despite this rebuff, he settles himself into the space next to Mu Qing.
This is their position: Feng Xin on the left, Mu Qing on the right. Somehow, when they’re walking down the street, they always end up in this order, Mu Qing’s right leg going forward to take a stride, as Feng Xin’s left leg does the same.
They’re usually in sync, their tempo the same, even when they’re putting the opposite leg forward first.
Their sides don’t touch. Most times, if they do, it’s by circumstance—too many people in a lift or the seating space being only made for two people of a more average build, much smaller than either Feng Xin or Mu Qing. But like this, on the balcony of their shared home, where there’s ample space even accounting for all of Mu Qing’s beloved plants, it doesn’t feel appropriate to lean against one another; to so openly rely on the other, without an excuse or pretense.
So Feng Xin refrains. Even though he wants—
He closes his eyes. That’s the other reason he doesn’t think about these things: now that he’s started, he can’t stop.
Reconsider being single, Pei Ming’s voice purrs in his head. Feng Xin grits his teeth, sure his ears are red with this embarrassing and completely disruptive thought.
Even while Feng Xin’s pretty sure Mu Qing hasn’t turned to look at him once, somehow, he seems to notice this change in Feng Xin’s complexion. Though he misinterprets the reason behind it.
“It’s cold out here,” Mu Qing says, sniffing though he remains immaculate, no sign of snot in sight, “What are you doing coming out without your coat on?”
Feng Xin recalls the coat he’d thrown aside after taking his shoes off. There’s a perfectly good coat rack in the hallway, but Feng Xin always gets some glee out of throwing his coat on top of his shoes, as though he can finally unshackle himself from the outside world now and create chaos now that he's in the comfort of his own home.
Mu Qing must know what Feng Xin’s visualising. Probably because he’s always the one to find the abandoned coat, slumped over the shoes, sleeve dragging on the floor. He's also the one consequently yelling at Feng Xin to stop being so uncivilised.
Mu Qing leans back from the balcony railing without a word, detaches himself, turns and slides the balcony door open, shutting it with just enough force to suggest annoyance, but also not enough force to confirm he meant it.
Feng Xin doesn't even have to wait for one minute before the balcony door slides back open and hardly a few seconds after that, a heavy material is dumped unceremoniously onto his head.
“Hey!” he shouts, already removing the offensive garment, “What d’you do that for?!”
Mu Qing merely rolls his eyes and goes back to leaning against the balcony railing.
Despite Feng Xin’s audible outburst, in actuality, he's not annoyed in the slightest. How can he be? When placing the coat over his shoulders is already making him feel warmer in the chilly night air.
When thinking about the coat around his shoulders and how Mu Qing does these small things for him all the time makes him heat up from the inside out.
Mu Qing isn’t a normal person, Feng Xin thinks. He’s just Mu Qing.
So of course only Mu Qing would throw Feng Xin’s coat at him in the most irritating way possible. But in the same way, only Mu Qing would bother to go back inside the house to get the coat at all, and only Mu Qing would know Feng Xin’s habits well enough to find the coat so quickly. Only Mu Qing looks at Feng Xin closely enough, knows Feng Xin well enough, to take not even a full minute to gather what he might need.
Feng Xin relishes in the warmth spreading from the pit of his stomach, all the way through his chest. Now that he thinks about it, he's never felt so looked after. So cared for.
Oh god, Feng Xin thinks, there's no coming back from this.
He gathers the coat tighter around himself even though he isn’t cold anymore, glancing at Mu Qing to his right.
The other isn’t looking at him, still watching the skies, looking for sparks of fireworks and admiring what stars have persevered through the man-made lights.
Even so, of course, because it’s Mu Qing, and because apparently Mu Qing is hyper aware of Feng Xin’s every move, he somehow knows:
“What,” Mu Qing says flatly.
“You’re…” Feng Xin struggles, can’t get the words out.
You’re actually always being nice to me. You look after me. You’re good to me. You care about me. You're a great guy. I think I care about you, too.
Feng Xin says none of these things.
Even while he stares at Mu Qing’s side profile, his hand subconsciously inching along their balcony railing, cold as it is to hold the metal pole with his bare hands, aching to get closer to him. Even when his whole body tilts towards Mu Qing like a planet drawn into orbit, he can’t say it.
Mu Qing spares him a glance, then another, a frown forming on his face before it morphs into a full sneer.
“What do you want?” Mu Qing says, a pitch higher than his usual, controlled tone of voice. “Why do you have that weird look on your face?”
Mu Qing looks extremely uncomfortable with how close Feng Xin has gotten. Something about his face, that constipated, ugly expression he pulls that only Feng Xin seems to be able to produce, makes Feng Xin want to cackle with glee—so he does.
He laughs loudly—barks, hoots, and hollers, shocking Mu Qing, the latter’s eyes turning as round as saucers.
“Mu Qing!” Feng Xin grins, wide and toothy, barging his shoulder roughly into the other. “Happy new year!”
He nudges Mu Qing again and again, even as the other grumbles and starts to nudge him back. On their balcony, they descend into play-poking and little punches: tiny, controlled movements that they perfected in their teenage years so they could continue to fight one another without causing bruises (if there was no evidence of a fight, who’s to say they ever really fought?).
That was just entirely them: always finding any and all aggravating and childish ways to get their hands on each other; to make an impact.
It’s not like either of them can do something so obvious, so preposterous, as to ask for a hug, after all. It’s not like they can embrace or say nice things to each other—so instead, this is what they do. Poke and nudge and jab and flick and grab each other until one of them calls for mercy.
“S-Stop! You brute! S-Stop it!! Haha…ha…hahaha…”
Mu Qing tries to dodge Feng Xin’s hands, but it’s too late—Feng Xin has the upper hand this time and his fingers are making quick work of tickling Mu Qing at his sides.
It’s nice to see Mu Qing laugh like this, teeth showing, eyes squeezed shut as he slaps Feng Xin’s arms away, even getting some of his own attacks back in retaliation.
They only stop when they’re interrupted, fireworks shooting up into the sky. Reds, pinks, yellows, greens fly up into the darkness; artificial stars that pass on within seconds. A moment of joy, fleeting but wonderful.
Feng Xin and Mu Qing pause to look, mid-attack. Feng Xin’s hand is resting on Mu Qing’s waist. Mu Qing’s hand is on Feng Xin’s shoulder.
When they look at each other, they’re both flushed. It’s hard to know if it’s from their play fighting exertions, the cold, or something else entirely.
The light from the fireworks flash colours across their faces. Feng Xin’s thoughts have collapsed in on themselves. He’s unable to avoid the damning truth that he’s been in love with Mu Qing for almost his entire life.
“Happy new year, Feng Xin,” Mu Qing says quietly, barely audible above the noise of the fireworks. There’s a small smile on his face, so subtle that if Feng Xin had been thinking of anything other than Mu Qing in that moment, he’s sure he would have missed it.
This little happiness tucks itself quietly into Feng Xin’s heart. With all these new thoughts in his head, he already knows that this year will be like no other.