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When Feng Xin makes it out to the orchards, Mu Qing is picking cherries.
It sends a frisson of anger through Feng Xin almost immediately—like a reflex, the sight of Mu Qing just annoys some deeply integrated part of Feng Xin’s psyche. Except… well, it’s not really that integral, is it? He’s just been annoyed with Mu Qing lately in general, and the feeling hasn’t faded.
It would help if Mu Qing’s personality wasn’t what it was. Mu Qing doesn’t actually spend all that much time doing objectionable things, but every time he opens his mouth, it feels like it’s with the express purpose of annoying Feng Xin—and half the time he opts to keep his mouth closed, too! Refusing to be clear about his meaning by keeping silent, then giving such vague, roundabout explanations when he’s accused of something… Feng Xin doesn’t know how Xie Lian puts up with it so gracefully. Mu Qing wouldn’t be half as annoying as he is if it wasn’t for the way he talks around things.
That’s the real crux of things, to be honest. Mu Qing’s attitude towards Xie Lian is so ungrateful! His Highness is the crown prince and still takes the time and effort out of his day to defend Mu Qing, and all he gets in return is Mu Qing acting like a sullen child. It’s disrespectful, and Feng Xin can’t even honestly say so without earning Mu Qing’s ire and Xie Lian’s gentle reprimand.
Not that sulking around stops Mu Qing from taking advantage of Xie Lian’s kindness. Here he is, after all, with yet another basketful of ripe red cherries.
Feng Xin storms up to Mu Qing. By the time he gets there, Mu Qing has stopped picking them and placed the basket on the ground, keeping himself half-turned as he watches Feng Xin approach out of the corner of his eye. It’s not until Feng Xin makes it into his vision properly that Mu Qing’s shoulders un-hunch from where they’d climbed nearly to his ears, and the realization that he doesn’t take Feng Xin seriously at all compared to the other disciples just stokes the flames of Feng Xin’s ire higher.
“Don’t you think you’re taking advantage of His Highness with all this?” Feng Xin demands, stopping a scant couple of steps away and crossing his arms.
Mu Qing looks up at him quietly for a moment, brows furrowed, and crosses his arms as well. “What are you talking about?”
Feng Xin flails a hand at the basket of cherries. Upon closer inspection, there are mandarins inside, too: gleaming with dew and the color of sunrise, almost overripe as their picking season is nearly at an end. “This! Just because His Highness said to use his name if anyone questions you picking fruit doesn’t mean that you should take so much! Didn’t you just take a basket down the mountain the other day? You shouldn’t be so greedy! You’re going to pick the trees bare!”
Mu Qing’s mouth thins, and he stays silent.
“... Well?” Feng Xin asks, feeling awkward. “Aren’t you going to say anything?”
“What is there to say?”
“You could at least explain why you’re taking so many! Are you living off of cherries or something? Sorry to say, but red lips aren’t going to make up for your unbearable personality.”
At that, Mu Qing snatches the basket up and hides his mouth behind his palm. The rest of his face is quickly streaking red to match his cherry-stained lips, and he turns away from Feng Xin as he makes to leave.
“Hey!” Feng Xin follows after him. “I’m serious, Mu Qing! Are you giving them out to all the street kids? This orchard can’t feed everyone!”
Mu Qing stops walking, still turned away, and Feng Xin realizes that his shoulders are hiked up again. Good, he thinks. At least that means Mu Qing is taking him seriously instead of relaxing at the sight of his anger like some kind of cat that couldn’t be bothered to care about the barking of a dog so long as it gets its bowl of cream.
“I’m not taking these off the mountain,” Mu Qing replies, quiet and dismissive. “Is that good enough for you?”
“Then what are you using them for?”
“What’s it matter to you?” Mu Qing asks.
“I won’t stand for anyone taking advantage of His Highness’s kindness!”
“You—!” Mu Qing whirls around, spilling a few cherries from the basket as he goes. His face really is red now, his eyes bright with anger as his tied up hair whips around his face. Feng Xin just squares his jaw and crosses his arms, ready to meet whatever words Mu Qing is about to fling at him head-on.
Mu Qing does not fling any words. In fact, he takes one look at Feng Xin, and then refuses to look again. He just stands there, hands clenched over the basket for a few seconds, before muttering quietly, “If you want to take the issue up with anyone, you’re free to go speak to His Highness about it.”
Then, Mu Qing leaves.
Feng Xin doesn’t follow, instead watching Mu Qing’s short little ponytail bob along behind him as he walks, clutching that basket of fruit like he’s afraid somebody is going to rip it out of his hands. There are still a few cherries in the grass where Mu Qing had spilled them—and something about that really discomfits Feng Xin. Mu Qing normally really isn’t the type of person to leave things lying around on the ground.
What was it that Xie Lian had said the other day? That the next time Mu Qing wants to pick fruit for his mother, he should just tell people that he’s doing it at Xie Lian’s command, so nobody should bother him?
It’s not the same situation, exactly, but the echo of Xie Lian’s voice is ringing in Feng Xin’s ears anyway. Even if Mu Qing isn’t bringing those cherries off the mountain, wasn’t Feng Xin doing the same thing as those other disciples? Just picking on Mu Qing because he doesn’t like the sight of him? And to the point where Mu Qing decided it was worth using His Highness’s words to defend himself against Feng Xin…
Feng Xin sighs, and bends down to pick up the cherries Mu Qing spilled. Polishing one on his sleeve, it shines with a ruby-like luster, and he pops it into his mouth. Sweetness bursts across his tongue and he shoves at the cherry pit with his tongue to avoid cracking a tooth on it.
He’d thought this whole situation was pretty straightforward, but… as ever with Mu Qing, that’s not the case at all.
The next day, Feng Xin, confident that he is alone in Xie Lian’s common rooms, lets his footsteps slam against the floor as he storms inside.
If he leaves scuff marks on the floor, well, then—
Well, he’ll probably clean them up in a bit. But he can be satisfied about it for now. After all, Xie Lian certainly doesn’t seem to care about scuffs on his reputation. Not if he’s brushing off all of Feng Xin’s concerns about Mu Qing’s actions like he did in the conversation Feng Xin had just tried to have with him.
Feng Xin supposes that comes with being the crown prince. Xie Lian may as well be gold-painted and invulnerable with how everything bounces off of him—and the things that don’t are left to be cleaned up by other people anyway. It would be very impressive if some of those things (some of those people) didn’t grate on Feng Xin’s temper so much.
“You’re reading too much into it,” Xie Lian had said when Feng Xin brought up Mu Qing taking advantage of his name to pick so much fruit. “It’s not that big of a deal, and the orchards have many thousands of trees. He could pick cherries all day for a week and not make a dent.”
Talk about not getting the point. It’s fine—it’s not like Xie Lian was there to see it like Feng Xin was. Of course he doesn’t understand. And he’s so used to dealing with honorable people that he wouldn’t expect the worst from Mu Qing just like that, even though he knows Mu Qing had resorted to theft in the past.
Feng Xin sighs aggravatedly and throws himself onto one of the cushions surrounding a tea table. It’s technically Xie Lian’s space, but as his bodyguard, Feng Xin has his own space in the same set of rooms, so the guest areas have slowly turned into a sort of common area for free time and occasional snacks and food. It would probably be different if he and Xie Lian had a more formal relationship, but as friends, it just feels natural.
Mu Qing, as a servant, sleeps in the servants’ quarters in the same wing of the palace. He has access to Xie Lian’s rooms and frequently plays a part in keeping them clean, so Feng Xin does his best to keep his areas spotless. He’s not about to give Mu Qing anything to complain about on his behalf.
There’s a covered basket on the table that he hasn’t seen before, and Feng Xin leans forward to peer under the folded cloth covering the top, curious about what snack is currently available. Once he picks it up, he flinches and drops it right back down.
What in the world?
Leaning back in, he drags the cloth off to the side, and stares at the contents of the basket.
Two neat rows of dragon’s beard candy sit in the basket, delicate spun sugar adorned (and presumably filled) with glazed, shiny cherries and neat slices of bright orange mandarins. They look fresh, the sugary fruit glaze still glimmering with wetness, and one of the cherry-flavored ones is missing from the bunch. There’s also a note, in careful, exacting calligraphy: ‘Thanks.’
Feng Xin grabs a stick of the mandarin-coated candy, and heads into the private courtyard attached to Xie Lian’s rooms.
Fresh air always helps him get his head on straight, and Xie Lian’s courtyard is one of the nicest in the palace. Xie Lian doesn’t maintain it himself, but his preferences are clear in its design: Peaceful bamboo frames the yard, yet leaves plenty of space for practicing forms and sparring in the center area.
There’s also a nice set of steps that Feng Xin likes to sit at when he needs to think for a bit, though it’s currently occupied by the exact subject of his thoughts.
For the second time that day, Feng Xin sighs and slumps down, sitting beside Mu Qing.
“You’re always so quiet and aloof,” he tells Mu Qing, gesturing at him with the candy. “Nobody would ever guess you have good intentions under all that, you know?”
“Good intentions?” Mu Qing says.
“The candy,” Feng Xin mutters. “Obviously you were picking fruit to make it earlier. You know, if you’d have just said so, I wouldn’t have been so mad.”
“Hm,” Mu Qing says. “Are you sure I didn’t just decide to make the candy for everyone because you caught me picking fruit?”
“... Did you?” Feng Xin blinks, incredulous.
Mu Qing just shrugs, looking out over the courtyard and twirling the missing stick of cherry-flavored candy in his hand. He hasn’t looked at Feng Xin once yet.
“If you did, it wouldn’t make sense for you to put that idea in my head,” Feng Xin decides. “Why did you do it?”
He bites off a bit of the candy after he asks, sweetness dissolving on his tongue as the mandarin syrup threatens to glue his teeth together with deliciousness. Feng Xin isn’t sure where Mu Qing learned to cook like this, but he has to admit that he’s talented.
“Didn’t you read the note?” Mu Qing says.
“Are you asking just because you don’t want to say it out loud?” Feng Xin manages after a few seconds of chewing.
Mu Qing finally looks at him, though it’s only to glare, and Feng Xin finds himself laughing lightly, mood lightened immensely now that he knows Mu Qing hasn’t been up to anything nefarious.
The sound just makes Mu Qing frown harder, and he turns away again, looking down at his candy. “There’s no point in saying anything for me, anyway.”
Feng Xin’s brow furrows. “What’s that mean?”
Mu Qing is silent for a long, long moment, and Feng Xin would be more annoyed if he couldn’t spend the time filling his mouth with more candy. It’s been a while since he’s had something this sweet—he’s missed it, to be honest.
“I have to let my actions speak for me,” Mu Qing eventually says quietly. “When I explain my perspective, people don’t believe me.”
“Actions don’t always work out, either,” Feng Xin complains. “You’re always so closed-mouthed, of course people don’t know what to make of you. What are people supposed to think when you don’t explain yourself at all?”
“You just don’t get it!” It’s the first time Feng Xin has heard Mu Qing raise his voice all week, and it startles him. Even when he speaks, Mu Qing is usually quiet and withdrawn. Especially if somebody is trying to argue with him.
“It’s like you’re from another planet,” Mu Qing goes on. “I don’t even know where to start explaining my perspective on your own entitlement to you. So what if I was taking all of those cherries just to sit in my room and eat them all day? Or to take them to my mother? If it was His Highness, not a single person would question it!”
“Obviously.” Feng Xin takes a page out of Mu Qing’s book and rolls his eyes. “It’s His Highness.”
Mu Qing, not to be outdone, rolls his eyes right back. “There. Clearly you don’t understand at all, so why should I waste my energy saying words that can just be used against me?”
“Heavens above, Mu Qing, not everybody is out to get you.”
Mu Qing huffs quietly, taking a big bite out of his candy and then crossing his arms.
Feng Xin, despite Mu Qing’s accusations, is not so unaware that he can’t see the little bit of hypocrisy in that statement, considering his recent perspective of Mu Qing’s motives. Still, he maintains that it’s not unreasonable to be suspicious when Mu Qing keeps acting suspicious without saying anything.
“How about this,” Feng Xin says. “I’ll do my best not to jump to conclusions before I hear you out, but you need to actually explain things to me so that I can listen.”
“I shouldn’t have to,” Mu Qing mutters around a bite of his candy.
Feng Xin is ready to throw his hands into his air. “I’m not a mind reader!”
“No,” Mu Qing says. “You just assume I’m up to something that needs explaining all the time. Everyone does.”
Feng Xin’s teeth click shut as he bites down on his next words. “Oh.”
Mu Qing just looks down, fiddling with the candy stick in his hands. “If His Highness was picking cherries, nobody would have thought twice about it,” he repeats.
This is uncomfortable. Mu Qing was a thief, at least once, but it’s not like finding that out actually changed Feng Xin’s perspective that much. It just sort of… justified the attitude that he already had.
Being unlikeable isn’t a good enough reason to mistreat somebody.
“Sorry,” Feng Xin says.
Mu Qing’s head whips around, eyes wide. “What?”
“You heard me!” Feng Xin exclaims. “Don’t make me repeat myself when you couldn’t even say ‘thank you’ out loud! I’m sorry, okay? I’ll be less suspicious.”
Mu Qing bites down on his lip, which is once again stained a cherry red, and doesn’t stop staring at Feng Xin.
“Okay?” Feng Xin asks again.
“... Okay,” Mu Qing eventually mumbles. “As long as you’re being serious.”
“I’m always serious.”
“That’s a lie. You laugh at the stupidest jokes.”
“Just because you have no sense of humor—”
“Mu Qing!” comes a call from inside of Xie Lian’s rooms, interrupting Mu Qing’s attempt to shove his candy into Feng Xin’s mouth to shut him up. His Highness himself pokes his head out the window, brandishing one of the dragon’s beard candies. “This tastes great! I didn’t know you could cook like this! Come inside, you should show me how you made them!”
Mu Qing stares at Feng Xin in dread. Feng Xin stares back, equally nervous.
“... You don’t think cooking skills are genetic, do you?” Feng Xin asks.
Mu Qing bites his lip again. “I mostly learned from my mother…”
Feng Xin cringes. Well, at least his and Mu Qing’s new accord will be united against a common enemy.
Mu Qing sighs, schooling his face until the wide-eyed vulnerability is a distant memory, and stands up to head inside. Feng Xin follows, but first stuffs the last of the mandarin candy into his mouth, determined to savor the lingering burst of sweetness.
