Work Text:
Mu Qing is slicing scallions when he sees the child in front of his stall. Dressed in a red tee and black shorts, his eyes are wide with panic as he paces the food street – alone.
Years of hawking scallion pancakes at the night market have given Mu Qing the uncanny ability to spot distressed children from miles away, and this one is clearly lost.
Mu Qing puts the knife down and dries his hands. “Little friend,” he says with a friendly smile. “Are you looking for someone?”
The child is startled by Mu Qing’s appearance at his side, but recovers his composure remarkably fast. “Dad. Have you seen my dad?”
Mu Qing takes a quick look around them but doesn’t spot anyone who might be missing a child, just a handful of regulars trying to grab dinner before the storm. “Where was the last place you saw him?”
“At the stall with the balloons. Dad was trying to win the Ferret Warrior!”
The child must mean the balloon darts booth that opened not too long ago, notorious for their ridiculous prizes (and prices too). “Is it still 200 balloons for the ferret plush?”
“300. And Dad had popped 244 when I left to check out the fishing booth.”
“That’s right next door.”
The boy looks regretfully at his canvas shoes. “I also went to the ring toss booth and the gacha shop and when I got back, Dad was gone. I thought I saw him coming this way, but it was someone else – and now I’m lost," he tells Mu Qing in a strained voice, lower lip quivering as his large eyes turn shiny with tears. "I don’t want the ferret anymore. I just want my dad!”
“Hey, hey, it’s going to be fine,” Mu Qing assures him, but his words are swiftly contradicted by a loud crack of thunder. Glancing at the dark skies, Mu Qing can only hope that the weather will hold long enough for father and son to reunite.“I’m sure your father is looking for you, but it’ll be harder with you running around. This is a central location, where all the main alleys meet. Do you want to wait for him here?”
The child gives Mu Qing a curious look. “What’s your name?”
“I’m Mu Qing, but you can call me Qing-gege if you want.”
“I’m Cuocuo.”
“Is that a nickname?”
Cuocuo nods. “I use this name with my friends. Is it okay?”
Mu Qing breaks into a smile. “Sure, I’d love to be friends with you.”
“Me too,” Cuocuo says, sounding relieved. “Because I’m not allowed to talk to strangers.”
Mu Qing laughs. He’s not sure why Cuocuo has chosen to get around this rule just for him, but he sure is charmed. Handing over his phone, he asks, “Do you know your father’s phone number? Maybe you can call him and tell him where you are. My shop is –”
“Xuan Zhen Scallion Pancakes!” Cuocuo finishes, pointing excitedly at his signboard.
“You read well,” Mu Qing says, genuinely impressed, for these are rather complex characters rarely found in children’s books. “How old are you?”
“I’m four! We go to the library every Saturday. And I’ve read hundreds and thousands of books.”
“You must know a lot.”
“Not as much as my Dad, but even though he’s smarter and stronger than me, he lets me win at thumb wrestling and chess!”
Mu Qing chuckles. “He sounds great."
“He’s the best! I think you’ll like him!”
“I’m sure I will,” Mu Qing says, already liking what he hears. “Let’s help him find you quickly, okay? Then I can meet your father too.”
Nodding, Cuocuo punches in a sequence of numbers and presses the phone to his ear.
“Tell him that my booth is just opposite the boba stall with rainbow lights. If he can’t find it, ask the other vendors. We’ve been here for more than thirty years. Everyone knows where we are.”
“I will,” Cuocuo tells him, but looks increasingly worried with each ring of the phone. “He’s not picking up.”
Mu Qing tries to sound reassuring. “Maybe he didn’t hear his phone. He’ll probably call us back, or we can try again later.”
Mu Qing invites Cuocuo to rest on one of his wooden stools, but the poor child can’t seem to relax at all. Tense and anxious, he sits on the edge of his seat, jerking up whenever he hears footsteps, only to slump in defeat when he finds that it’s someone else.
Despite his limited experience with children, Mu Qing can tell that Cuocuo is on the verge of a meltdown and it’s something he prefers to avoid, so he thinks it might be time for a distraction.
By trade, Mu Qing knows a few cheap tricks to draw a crowd, especially on slow days like this. “Hey buddy, look!”
Turning around, Cuocuo gasps. “No way!” he yells when he sees a scallion pancake spinning on the tip of a wooden chopstick. “That’s super cool!”
“Is it? And how about this ?” With a quick toss, a second pancake flies into the air and Mu Qing is now juggling two pancakes with a chopstick in each hand.
Cuocuo slides off the stool. “How do you do that? Can you teach me?”
“Sure! If you promise to try some first!”
Cuocuo takes a few suspicious sniffs of the scallion pancake on Mu Qing’s tray. “Dad makes my pancakes with honey, butter and cream. I don’t think he’s ever made them with onions. I don’t like onions all that much.”
Mu Qing nods. “I don’t like onions too, but these are scallions, which are milder and sweeter.”
Cuocuo eyes the green condiments skeptically. “Spicy?”
“No, but they have a pretty distinct taste,” Mu Qing admits. “Tell you what, I can make you one without scallions for now. Maybe you’ll like them more when you’re a big boy.”
“I am a big boy!” Cuocuo informs him, his face and chest all puffed up like a tiny parade commander. “I’d like to try scallions – please.”
While waiting for his scallion pancake to cool down, Mu Qing learns that there are foods that Cuocuo avoids – like chocolate that looks like poo and lemonade that looks like pee, but they’re infinitely better than ketchup which looks like blood.
They agree that grapes are the best but raisins are the woooorst; Apples and cherries are only good in pie; And the best three dishes are: fried rice (with fried egg), fried rice (with shrimp) and fried rice (with chicken) – if and only if there aren’t any white, yellow, green, red or brown onions inside.
All the talk about food makes the child hungry and once he’s told that his scallion pancake is safe to eat, he wolfs it down at a rate that would put a mukbanger to shame.
Mouth full, he echoes Mu Qing’s calls to the crowd. “Welcome, welcome! Try the best pancakes at the Xianle Night Market! They’re fragrant and crispy and very, very tasty!”
The extra publicity attracts a wave of curious customers, many of whom stop to coo over the adorable child in front of the stall. Some even mistake him for Mu Qing’s son.
“Oh! Look at him! He’s so cute!”
“Look how fast he’s eating. Dad’s cooking must be delicious!”
“How sweet - to help his father sell pancakes! Aw!!!”
Neither of them correct the mistaken patrons. Cuocuo is too busy eating his second pancake of the evening and Mu Qing is swamped with a surge of new orders he hopes to fulfill before it starts to pour.
It isn’t long before a gust of wind whistles ominously as thunder rumbles over the sizzling of food, heralding the storm’s imminent arrival. With the threat of rain growing increasingly real by the second, the crowd begins to disperse.
But there’s still no sign of Cuocuo’s father. Mu Qing starts to worry. What’s taking him so long? Looking at his phone, he recites the string of numbers keyed into his device. “Are you sure this is the right number?”
“It is, but I don’t know why Dad isn’t picking it up. Maybe –”
Breaking off mid-sentence when something lands on his forehead, the child looks up at the sky – and is struck by a second droplet of rain.
“Quick! Get inside!”
Nodding, Cuocuo hurries inside the stall, narrowly escaping the torrential rain pouring down as a reminder of nature’s raw power.
As Mu Qing rolls down the retractable awnings, Cuocuo stares, fearful and fascinated, at the scenes of chaos unfolding before his eyes.
Curtains of rain dim the bright lights and the night market transforms into a sea of umbrellas. Howling winds chase stragglers down the streets towards the nearby buildings as the signboards of abandoned stalls rattle in protest.
Cuocuo’s little arms are wrapped around his body and he’s shivering too. His cotton tee and shorts that were perfectly fine a few minutes ago are starting to look inadequate.
Squatting in front of the child, Mu Qing watches him closely. “You cold?”
“No,” Cuocuo lies through his chattering teeth.
Mu Qing unzips his hoodie and drapes it around Cuocuo’s shoulders. “Try to stay warm. Can’t have you getting sick, then your dad is going to blame me.”
“I – I want my dad,” Cuocuo mumbles softly, sounding so forlorn that Mu Qing’s enormous soft spot for kids begins to clench and ache.
Damn . And now he wants Cuocuo’s dad too.
“Dad,” Cuocuo wails. His voice is cracking up and his large eyes are filling up faster than the drains lining the alley.
“All right, all right. Don’t cry. Otherwise, when we go searching for your father, you won't be able to find him with your swollen eyes."
The tears stop. “Are we going to look for him?”
Mu Qing nods. “But we’ll have to get wet. Are you afraid of the rain?”
“I’m not afraid of rain!” Cuocuo tells Mu Qing bravely. “Unless it’s crimson – because that’s the work of a supreme ghost king.”
Mu Qing nods solemnly. “And that won’t do. Thank goodness you have a divine brocade hoodie. Do you know that wearing one makes you invisible and protects you from calamities?”
Cuocuo notices the hoodie draped around him for the first time. “For real?” he whispers, running his little fingers over the waterproof material.
Mu Qing doesn’t like lying to children, but he also doesn’t like them getting sick. “Of course. Want to try it on?”
“Kay!”
With the child bouncing around so much, it’s a struggle to pull the hoodie over Cuocuo’s head, but Cuocuo helps by slipping his arms through the sleeves. “Can you see me?”
Mu Qing does a double take, pretending to feel around blindly as Cuocuo squeals in delight. “Wait – Where did you go? I can’t find you!”
Stubby little fingers close around Mu Qing’s wrists and guide them to his shoulders. “Gege! I’m right here!”
“Oh! There you are!” Mu Qing exclaims. “Tell me, little one. Are you ready to go on a journey into a mystical realm brimming with fearsome monsters?”
An enthusiastic Cuocuo raises both arms, waving his long, loose sleeves like they’re part of a cultivator’s robes. “With heaven’s blessings, no paths are bound!”
Laughing, Mu Qing scoops Cuocuo onto his left arm and holds an umbrella with his right, gazing at the long ribbons of rain falling outside the umbrella’s range. “Keep close, young disciple. These pesky scorpion snakes can sting.”
“Yes, Master Shifu!”
Holding Cuocuo close, Mu Qing sprints through puddles, his rainboots making ripples in the rain-soaked streets.
“Master! Master! Crocodile Monsters! Just like you said!”
Mu Qing deepens his voice. “The audacity! We will vanquish them for the commoners!”
“Hai-ya!” Cuocuo chops the rainwater with his hands. “Master, over there!” he yells, pointing to one of the larger puddles on their street.
“Blackwater Lagoon,” Mu Qing whispers as Cuocuo tightens his arms around his neck. “Watch out for the bonefish dragons.”
Surging forward and leaping into the puddle, Mu Qing creates a wave to expose the imaginary monsters lurking under the surface. “Quick! Heavenly Fireball. Now!”
Waving his hands, the child mimics the launching of an energy blast. “Ka-boom!” he yells, his whole body shaking with excitement.
“Woo-hoo!” Cheering, they move on to the next building in search of Cuocuo’s father, but they only encounter other market-goers, munching on panfried buns and meat skewers as they wait for the storm to pass.
The rain keeps falling, cascading down the awnings of stalls like waterfalls. Neon lights, veiled by glistening raindrops, transform their surroundings into something out of a cultivation film. As they move from building to building, Mu Qing and Cuocuo are having the time of their lives – laughing, running and fighting in the rain.
With all the squealing in his ear, Mu Qing thinks nothing of it when Cuocuo taps his shoulder and points at something in the distance, but whatever he says is drowned out by the loud crack of thunder that shatters their imaginary world –
And brings them back to earth, where Mu Qing is lying on his back, his tee and jeans soaking up the rain.
Instead of his umbrella, the most attractive man he’s ever seen is looming over Mu Qing, rainwater rolling off his tousled bangs and onto his face. Mu Qing takes in the broad shoulders, muscular arms and a white-knuckled fist which comes crashing towards his face.
“What the fuck!” Mu Qing yells on the impact and when he looks up, struggling to see with one eye swelling shut, he finds the same fist in the air, poised to strike.
Instinctively, he blocks the blow, and the next, exerting himself as his muscles strain against the other guy’s arms.
The stranger is yelling, vehement and red-faced, but his words are incoherent and nothing makes sense. With each blow he narrowly evades, Mu Qing knows he’s dealing with a formidable threat and all his protective instincts kick in.
“Stay away!” Mu Qing yells, but Cuocuo only comes closer, blissfully unaware of the danger they’re in. “Not this way, the other – ow!”
Mu Qing’s left cheek explodes with pain and he’s starting to see stars, but this is eclipsed by his determination to keep the child safe. Fighting to stay alert, Mu Qing parries the blows that come down fast and furious and counters with a few solid strikes of his own.
One particularly forceful punch connects squarely with the other man’s cheek, halting the assault for all of three seconds, before it resumes with renewed aggression.
In a burst of frustration, Mu Qing lands his fist on the other cheek and flips his opponent on his back, climbing onto him. “Will you just stop! What the hell is wrong with you! Leave us alone!”
Struggling under Mu Qing’s weight, the other man yells back, “You leave him alone! Don’t think you’re getting away with this. Prepare to rot in jail – you sick fuck!” he growls as a direct strike to Mu Qing’s jaw sends him reeling.
Mu Qing coughs and sputters as rain washes away the blood on his face. Amidst the pain, a wave of exhilaration surges through his body, invigorating all his senses.
A skilled fighter, Mu Qing has never backed down from a fight. His natural instincts and well-practised moves have subdued many a thug demanding their unfair share of protection money. Yet, despite these victories, Mu Qing has always yearned for a real challenge, to find a worthy adversary who would test his mettle and push him to his limits.
It’s too bad he can’t seem to move.
With Mu Qing out of action, the highly-skilled fighter who’s materialised out of thin air, like a martial god descending to right the wrongs of mortals, shows no further interest in him and turns his attention to the child instead.
Panicking, Mu Qing scrabbles for the hem of a shirt. “Don’t. Or I’ll…”
“Or you’ll what?” the stranger challenges, grabbing Mu Qing’s collar in one rain-soaked fist. “Tell me. What the hell were you planning to do with my son?”
“Your son?” Mu Qing gasps as long fingers wrap around his windpipe, squeezing it shut.
“Dad!” Cuocuo yells, grabbing his father’s arm and he inserts himself between them, just before Mu Qing blacks out. “Look at me! I’m fine! I’m right here!”
Keeping one wary eye on Mu Qing, Cuocuo’s father takes the boy into his arms. “I thought I lost you,” he mumbles, his voice soft and breaking with emotion. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine,” Cuocuo answers. “Not sure about Qing-gege though.”
"Qing-gege?" he growls, glaring over Cuocuo’s shoulder at Mu Qing. “Cuocuo, we’ve been over this. What did I tell you about talking to strangers?”
“Qing-gege is not a stranger. He’s my friend!” Cuocuo argues. “And I didn’t talk to him! He talked to me!”
Cuocuo’s father narrows his eyes. “What did he say? Did he offer you candy? Or ice cream?”
“No, no, just scallion pancakes from his stall, but that was after promising to help me find you!”
The other man looks from Mu Qing to Cuocuo and back at him again. Mu Qing can almost see the gears turning in his head before something finally clicks. “Oh my God,” he wheezes, looking pale and about to faint. “You were – you were trying to help.”
“Yes,” Mu Qing says drily, his voice hoarse. “Wish we could have had this conversation first. You the sort who always punches first and asks questions later?”
“I’m so sorry! I saw Cuocuo in your arms and I lost it. Thought you were taking him away, but you were – you were looking for me. I feel terrible!” Cuocuo’s father groans, his whole face a picture of remorse.
“ You feel terrible?” Mu Qing huffs. However bad the big guy feels, he’s sure he has it worse. Everything hurts. He’s probably broken something. And he might be suffering from some sort of brain damage, because he can’t even bring himself to be mad.
Cuocuo’s father offers him a hand. “Can you stand?”
Slapping the hand away, Mu Qing makes a move to sit up. “Dude, you punch hard, but not that hard. Let’s be real. If you hadn’t sneaked up and attacked me from behind, you’d be the one lying here. Reaching for the umbrella, Mu Qing uses it as a crutch to drag himself to his feet. “I’ll be okay,” he mutters gruffly. “You worry about yourself.”
“We should go to a hospital,” Cuocuo’s father suggests, and his ridiculously large hand is holding Mu Qing’s arm to keep him from falling over. “I’ll pay for treatment, of course. It’s all my fault.”
“I don’t need the hospital. Got a first-aid kit.” Mu Qing notices that Cuocuo’s father is also covered in a smattering of cuts, highlighting his rugged good looks. “You should come.”
“Where?”
“Back to my stall, where Cuocuo and I were waiting for you,” Mu Qing holds the umbrella above them, not that it makes a difference now that they’re soaked. “What kind of father forgets his own child while playing a game?”
“The best dad in the world!” Spotting the ferret plush (wrapped in plastic) along the flooded streets, Cuocuo runs forward to pick it up, squeezing it gleefully in his arms as he walks a few steps ahead.
Mu Qing huffs. Kids might hold no grudges, but for Cuocuo’s sake, he’s not going to let the matter rest. “We called you several times.”
“I left my phone in the car.”
“What? Why?”
Feng Xin shrugs. “Cuocuo ran out of the car once I parked and I had two seconds to grab everything. I got a lot of stuff,” he informs Mu Qing while heaving a backpack onto his shoulders. “Just forgot my phone. Could have gone back for it I guess, but that would mean losing sight of Cuocuo, even though I still lost him in the end.”
“Right,” Mu Qing mumbles. It sounds far-fetched, but he can see it happening, because it is happening, right now, all over again. In the brief time taken for Feng Xin to bumble through his explanation, Cuocuo has run out of sight.
“Cuocuo!”
“Wait!”
They race down the flooded streets, but their brawl has taken a toll and they’re soon panting and out of breath. Thankfully, they find Cuocuo inside Mu Qing's stall, playing happily with his new ferret plush, seemingly oblivious to all the stress he’s caused.
Leaving his umbrella, Mu Qing follows him inside, with Cuocuo’s father trailing behind, tracking muddy footprints all over his stall with his boots.
Cuocuo’s father panics when he notices the mess. “Damn it, I’m so sorry!”
Mu Qing laughs. “Keep on saying that and I’m going to think it’s your name,” Mu Qing teases. “You know what? Let’s start over.” He stretches out his hand. “Hi, I’m Mu Qing. Full-time Scallion Pancake Vendor, Part-time Finder of Lost Children.”
“Mu Qing,” he mumbles softly as if in a daze.
“Yes, that’s my name,” Mu Qing says slowly, almost like he’s talking to another lost child. “Now, you tell me yours.”
“I’m Feng Xin.”
Mu Qing nods. “It’s good to meet you.”
“Yeah. Me too. Thanks for taking care of Cuocuo and not holding my mistakes against us.”
Mu Qing looks down at their hands, still clasped together. “Are you asking for a rematch or do you always shake this hard?”
Realising his blunder, Feng Xin releases the hand at once. “I’m sorry!”
That’s my good hand,” Mu Qing tells him lightly. “I’m going to need it to fix my face, unless you want to help me out.”
“Sure, I’ll help.”
Feng Xin heads to the sink to wash his hands and before Mu Qing can tell him that he’s only joking, Feng Xin has rummaged through his enormous backpack of wonders and found antiseptic wipes, disinfecting solution and bandages.
“Are we really doing this?” Mu Qing asks, his heart pounding.
Feng Xin hesitates. “Only if you want to. I mean – I just punched you in the face. It’s understandable to be afraid.”
“I’m not afraid,” Mu Qing huffs. Logically, he knows that Feng Xin isn’t going to hurt him, but the idea of his hands on his face is making his head spin and his heart race. Hiding behind an act of nonchalance, Mu Qing rests his back against the counter and tries not to squirm (too much).
“Does it still hurt?” Feng Xin asks as he looks him over and puts one hand on his jaw to hold him still.
“No,” Mu Qing croaks.
The disinfecting solution stings a little when it comes into contact with the open wounds, but Feng Xin’s rough hands are surprisingly gentle, perhaps from his experience of patching up a very active child who’s currently exploring the territory (his stall) with the ferret plush.
Released from his plastic bag jail, Mu Qing can now fully appreciate the creamy whites and warm browns of the ferret’s rotund body and his rosy pink heart-shaped nose. Despite the round face and full cheeks, he retains a regal charm, fitting for the crown prince of an ancient kingdom.
Cuocuo finds a wooden chopstick on the counter and holds it high on Master Ferret’s chubby arm. “Legend tells of a legendary warrior whose legend has inspired legends,” Cuocuo begins. Waving the chopstick as he traverses the stall, Master Ferret bounces on the stool, the counter and some of his high shelves. “Never before has a ferret been so feared… and so loved.”
“Cuocuo, come down!”
“Stop that. You’re gonna get hurt.”
“How many times do I have to say it? Feet on the ground!”
Parents are well-known for their multi-tasking prowess, but witnessing it in person is something else. Without taking his eyes or hands off Mu Qing’s face, Feng Xin somehow supervises Cuocuo’s playtime and keeps him safe.
“No, don’t touch that. Or that. Is that a knife? Come here! Oh god! It is a knife!” Feng Xin yells, his voice switching from caution to alarm until Mu Qing plucks said knife from Cuocuo’s hand and stows it in its drawer.
Cuocuo’s antics are a welcome distraction that give Mu Qing something to focus on. Otherwise, how is he to cope with the warm puffs of breath against his cheek with Feng Xin hovering so close, cleaning the same cuts so thoroughly his face is starting to burn?
“That’s enough,” Mu Qing decides, moments before he spontaneously combusts.
Catching Feng Xin’s wrist, he swaps places so Feng Xin is now leaning against the counter. “Your turn,” he mumbles to the other man, who looks a little nervous himself as he shifts his body to give Mu Qing better access to his face.
Objectively, it’s a beautiful face, the sort of visage that turns heads, stops conversations and launches three thousand ships. As Mu Qing cleans off all the blood and grime, he gets the privilege of seeing (and touching) the sculpted contours of a lofty nose bridge and a jawline so sharp it would cut glass.
“Sorry,” Mu Qing mumbles when Feng Xin flinches at the contact.
“It’s all right,” Feng Xin assures him, a playful twinkle in his eye. “I probably owe you that – and more.”
“Definitely more.”
“Are you plotting revenge?” Feng Xin asks, his tone light and playful. “I’m at your mercy, so do your worst.”
Mu Qing smirks. “Don’t give me ideas.” He’s just joking, of course. Getting back at Feng Xin is the last thing on his mind. Cross his heart, he’s trying to be gentle. It’s not his fault that his hands are shaking so much.
In the background, Kungfu Ferret continues to bask in infinite glory. He’s found a plastic cup for his head and is wielding his chopstick sword with more enthusiasm than grace. Frolicking around the stall, he quips iconic lines from the films.
“Get ready to feel the thunder!” Each time the lightbulb flickers, Master Ferret lands loudly on the counter ( Boom!) , the stool ( Pow!) and back on the table ( Crash!).
The ferret hops from one foot to the next, zigzagging across the empty table. “I’m coming at you with my crazy feet. I’m a blur. I’m a blur,” he chants as he brings his chopstick down in lightning-fast strikes.
Excitement peaks when Master Ferret executes a backflip, soaring high into the air before landing on Feng Xin’s shoulder. “I love kungfuuuuuuu!”
Like the antagonist of the film, Feng Xin throws his head back and lets out a maniacal laugh, adding a touch of drama to his naturally deep voice. “You can’t defeat me. You’re just a little ferret.”
Flinging the chopstick on the table, Master Ferret adjusts the cup on his head. “I’m not a little ferret. I’m The Little Ferret!”
“And I am the White-Furred Calamity! Anything you can do I can do better! I can do anything better than you!” Loud voice booming with hubris, the villain attempts a truly diabolical move, and succeeds in knocking over the plastic cup on Master Ferret’s head.
“Really?” Large eyes shining with defiance, Master Ferret picks up his plastic cup, but makes no move to put it back on. “How about this? ” he asks, smashing it into the villain’s chest.
The villain gasps, clearly weakened by the mortal blow. “What move – is that?”
“ Smashing Boulders on One’s Chest .”
“Beautiful,” the villain wheezes and promptly “dies”, collapsing on the floor to the sounds of cheers, applause and a long bout of laughter.
It’s a marvel Feng Xin keeps a straight face through it all, but Mu Qing takes advantage of the lack of movement to finish his work while Cuocuo runs around the stall seeking new villains to subdue.
Under the fluorescent lighting, Feng Xin’s bronzed skin takes on a divine glow, reminding Mu Qing of statues one might find in a temple. He’s so still that Mu Qing thinks he must have fallen asleep.
Work done, Mu Qing leaves quietly to catch a few breaths and inspect the damage to his own face. The bruises on his fair skin will fade in time and none of these cuts are likely to leave a scar. Maybe it’s the poor resolution on his outdated phone, but Mu Qing doesn’t look as bad as he feels.
A sudden bout of self-consciousness regarding his looks has him finger combing the rain of his hair and rearranging his ponytail into something more presentable. It’s only when he’s satisfied with his appearance that he notices Feng Xin peering over his shoulder, and Mu Qing angles the screen so both their faces fit.
"Wow," Feng Xin says, turning his cheek to scrutinise his cheekbones. "Look at all this high-definition contouring. Who needs brushes when you’ve got fists?”
Mu Qing chuckles. "What do you think of your eyes?"
"You killed it. This smoky eye is so fierce. The blending, the depth – pure art.."
Mu Qing hums. "Maybe I should consider a career change, start my own makeup line – Warpaint Cosmetics . It’s got a nice ring to it, huh?"
Feng Xin raises a brow. “I love it. Do you need a partner?”
Mu Qing pretends to consider. “What were you going for over here?” he muses, indicating the battered sections of his face, “Human Face Disease?” He pats Feng Xin’s shoulder in commiseration. “Don’t quit your day job just yet, my friend.”
Feng Xin’s laugh is genuine and uproarious, like a viral blooper reel, and Mu Qing wishes to capture the moment and keep it forever. He actually does, but only realises it when Feng Xin whips his head around to look.
“What?” Mu Qing says innocently, when Feng Xin stares pointedly at the picture of them on his phone. “I’m collecting evidence, in case you go to the police and claim I assaulted you first. Just a head’s up – if these avant-garde looks turn any suitors away, I’m coming after you.”
“Sure,” Feng Xin says, without missing a beat. “I’ll be responsible for your conjugal happiness,” he adds, a little too earnestly for Mu Qing’s heart.
Mu Qing takes a long, deep breath and looks away. This is ridiculous. Why are they flirting like there’s no one else?
In Mu Qing’s case, there really isn’t, but Feng Xin has a son, who must have a mom, who’s probably waiting at home with hot soup and a medley of dishes, worried sick because her husband isn’t answering her calls.
Mu Qing holds out his phone. “Is there a wife or mom you should call? To explain why you guys are running late?”
“Oh, no. It’s just Cuocuo and me,” Feng Xin tells him quietly.
“Okay, cool. Well. It’s still drizzling, so feel free to stay – if you want. Or go – if you must. You can take my umbrella and hoodie, just return it when you have the chance. It’s my favourite.”
Mu Qing is lying. He has five umbrellas and ten hoodies identical to this one, but how else is he going to get Cuocuo (and Feng Xin) to come back?
Feng Xin hums thoughtfully as he peers at the weather outside. “I don’t know. It’s a long walk to the carpark and Cuocuo seems happy here. I think we’ll stay, if you don’t mind us getting in your way.”
Mu Qing shrugs. “Sure, I don’t mind. Make yourselves at home. I don’t think there will be other customers tonight.” Mu Qing fires up the stove, luxuriating in the heat that would hopefully dry their hair and clothes.
“And yet you’re still making scallion pancakes?”
Mu Qing shrugs. “Yeah. Want some?”
Feng Xin eyes the ball of dough in Mu Qing’s hands with open curiosity. “After hearing so much about them, I’d be a fool to pass.”
“You say it like you aren’t already one.”
When Feng Xin laughs, his good-natured face radiates genuine light and warmth, brightening the space around them and Mu Qing wants to make him laugh over and over again.
Realising that he’s staring, Mu Qing clears his throat and quietly adds, “Cuocuo talked them up a bit, but they’re just scallion pancakes, so don’t expect too much.”
Still smiling, Feng Xin shares “Cuocuo is the pickiest eater I know. I don’t know how you’ve convinced him to try something new, but I’m sure they’re very special.”
Personally, Mu Qing thinks they’re very special too and now, he wants Feng Xin to agree, so he makes these pancakes with just about every topping on his menu, frying them with omelette, cheese, sweetcorn, radish, ham and crispy bacon.
The sound of sizzling pancakes soon brings Cuocuo running over. “Qing-gege, Qing-gege!” He bounces around, vying for Mu Qing’s attention. “Show Dad the pancake kungfu!”
“Pancake kungfu?”
“The thing where you – whoosh whoosh whoosh!” Cuocuo explains, flailing his arms like a young fledgling struggling to fly.
Mu Qing bites his lip to stop himself from giggling. How can a child be so cute? “Oh, do you mean – this ?” he asks, tossing one of the pancakes high into the air over all of their heads.
“Yes!” Cuocuo shrieks, clapping his hands excitedly as Feng Xin’s mouth falls open.
Heartened by their cheers, Mu Qing is soon juggling three, four, then five pancakes with his trusty pair of wooden chopsticks. None of this spinning and juggling does anything for the taste or texture of the finished product, but Mu Qing likes the attention and he’s very aware of how good his arms look in the semi-damp tee that clings to his curves.
When Feng Xin finally finds his voice, it’s full of admiration. “How long have you been doing this?”
“My whole life,” Mu Qing answers, feeling nostalgic as he tells Feng Xin how he grew up here, learning the tricks of the trade before inheriting the stall from his mom, who inherited it from her mom (who won it at a game of majong).
Chatting away like they’re long-lost friends, it’s easy to lose track of time, and the only thing that brings them back to the present is the browning of the pancakes and the aroma of fried scallions and sesame oil permeating the cold, night air.
While Feng Xin, ever the responsible father, ushers Cuocuo to the sink to wash his hands and get ready for their pancake feast, Mu Qing runs across the street for drinks.
When he returns, he’s surprised to see Feng Xin and Cuocuo waiting at the table, steam billowing from the untouched pancakes to create a cloud of mist. “Why didn’t you start?”
“Cuocuo wanted to wait for you,” Feng Xin explains.
Mu Qing sets the soy milk in front of Cuocuo and hands a cup of tea to Feng Xin. “You didn’t have to wait for me,” he assures them, even though he’s rather touched that they did. “In any case, I’m back.”
Cuocuo, chopsticks in hand, urges them to dig in. “Dad, eat. Qing-gege, eat.”
“Eat, eat,” they tell the child and pick up the same piece, a thick one with cheese oozing out at the sides, only to drop it again.
“Oh, sorry.”
“Please go ahead.’
Laughing away the awkwardness, they take turns to pick food for Cuocuo, offering him a bit of everything.
“Mmm…” Cuocuo says appreciatively as he savours some scallion pancake with cheese. “This is soooooo gooooood.”
“How good?” Mu Qing asks. “Good enough to kidnap cute kids like you? Or should I open a candy store instead?”
“Scallion pancakes are better. They are my new favourite food.”
Feng Xin gasps. “But you hate onions!”
Cuocuo rolls his eyes. “Not onions, Dad! These are sca-lli-ons! They’re milder and sweeter and perfect with everything! ‘cept radish, because nothing goes with that, but who would have thought that scallions could taste this yummy?” Cuocuo continues. “If not for us meeting Qing-gege today, we wouldn’t know how much we’ve been missing in life.”
Mu Qing turns his head to look at Cuocuo, amazed. He was just thinking the very same thing himself – about how it’s been a while since he sat down to something akin to a family dinner and it feels like the gods had orchestrated this chance encounter to remind Mu Qing of all that he’s been missing in life.
“Dad, do you have my artbook?” Cuocuo sits up suddenly, struck by sudden inspiration. “I feel like drawing now.”
“Oh, you might as well. Because I brought this instead of my phone.”
Cheerfully, Cuocuo takes the A5 sketchpad and flips it open. “Qing-gege, want to see my drawings?”
Mu Qing doesn’t know what to expect, but he’s blown away by everything he sees. Page by page, whimsical animal come to life: a lion munching on animal crackers, a giraffe reaching for cotton candy clouds, an elephant slurping noodles up her trunk, a panda feasting on gummy bears, a capybara nibbling at a marshmallow raft, a narwhal devouring an ice cream cone…
“Oh, my! This looks like a zoo.”
“It’s a circus!” Cuocuo informs him, his round face beaming with pride. “And it’s about to have a new addition!”
Cuocuo’s fingers are short and stubby, but he has a great grip on the pencil he uses to sketch light, wispy lines that follow the contours of the ferret’s round body.
Having cleared the table and wiped it clean, Mu Qing excuses himself to do the washing and Feng Xin follows behind. “He doesn’t really like it when people watch,” he explains.
They observe Cuocuo from where they are. He’s bent over his sketchbook, humming the melody of Kungfu Fighting as he sketches away. His eyes are bright with wonder as his drawing is given the same focus that one gives to their birthday candles.
“He really likes drawing, huh?”
“It’s one of his many interests – animals, food, drawing.”
“And martial arts,” Mu Qing adds.
“And martial arts.” Feng Xin lets out an exhausted little sigh. “I hope he didn’t give you too much trouble.”
“Not at all. He’s a nice kid. Very well-mannered.”
Feng Xin snorts. “A nice kid? Very well-mannered? He must really like you then.”
Mu Qing frowns. “Why do you say that?”
“I got a call from his teacher this morning. He’s been fighting in school – again.”
“Fighting?” Mu Qing echoes, genuinely surprised.
“I mean – the other kid has been bullying the class, so I can see why he got mad. I just wish he would let the adults handle it and not make swearing and punching the default reaction to every injustice he sees.”
“Swearing and punching, huh?” Mu Qing snickers. “I wonder where he gets that from,” he teases, keeping his tone light.
“Ha ha. Not his mom, that’s for sure.”
“And how does she feel about all this?”
Feng Xin considers the question carefully. “She’d probably support him. She was always the sort of person who fought for justice. Back in the day, she wrote petitions, marched in demonstrations, but there’s no way of knowing now.”
“Why not?”
“She’s not with us anymore,” Feng Xin adds after a long pause. “They were in a car accident and she didn’t make it. And that’s how Cuocuo came into my life.”
Mu Qing’s heart clenches and when he tries to speak, his throat is dry. “Are you both – okay?”
“We are now, but there was a lot to get used to in a very short time.” Feng Xin sighs, and there’s a wistful look in his eyes. “I had moved overseas and had no idea we had a child, so you can imagine the sort of impact this has had on my life. One moment, I was a young expatriate just living for myself and then I was the dad of a toddler who wanted nothing to do with me. Let’s be real, I struggle to keep a plant alive. Having a son wasn’t something I ever thought I’d do. And here we are.”
Mu Qing offers him what he hopes comes across as a genuine, reassuring smile. “You’re doing great,” he says with heartfelt sincerity.
Feng Xin looks at him with uncertainty brimming in his eyes. “You really think so?”
Mu Qing nods. “Yes. To tell you the truth, I’m a little envious.”
“Of what?”
Mu Qing takes a moment to gather his thoughts. “I think it’s nice to be part of a family, even if it’s small. My parents have gone and I don’t have any siblings. As much as I love my own company, it sucks during the holidays to be alone.”
Feng Xin’s gaze softens. “You’re welcome to join us.”
Mu Qing’s eyes widen. He’s genuinely touched by the invitation. “Thanks. And both of you are always welcome back here.”
“After everything that went down, I'm thankful not to be blacklisted,” Feng Xin says, chuckling. “This night market is really a foodie’s paradise! It's no wonder you love it here!”
“Mn. And where else do I get the chance to reunite lost children with their parents?”
“I’m glad Cuocuo ran into you tonight.”
Mu Qing shrugs. “Me too, but there are lots of good people here, who would have taken care of him too.”
“Maybe.” Feng Xin’s voice is so soft it’s almost a whisper. “But they wouldn’t be you.” He’s looking at Mu Qing again, his gaze sincere and almost fond, and it causes Mu Qing’s heart to flutter uselessly in his chest.
Cuocuo comes running up to them at this moment, holding up his sketchbook to show them his latest masterpiece. Large eyes sparkling with determination and courage, Master Ferret holds a scallion pancake in one hand, like a hero would wield a shield.
“Adorable!” Mu Qing says. “He looks brave, determined…”
“And strong – from all the scallions he eats!”
Mu Qing looks at the blank page beside. “Will you be drawing his fox friend next?”
Cuocuo makes the same face he did when he bit into radish and spat it out. “Crimson Fox Corpse Flower?”
“Gross!” Feng Xin yells, wearing an identical look of disgust.
“Yuck!”
“Ew!”
Mu Qing finds himself laughing again. These interactions between father and son are pulling relentlessly at his heartstrings. He’s always valued his independence and freedom, but watching them goof around is making him long for a family of his own.
“All right, all right,” Mu Qing says. “Pretend I never asked.”
“I’ll draw Master Hound and Master Lynx,” Cuocuo decides. “They’ll be sharing a scallion pancake.”
Mu Qing smiles at the image of arch rivals doing something as wholesome as that. “You sure you don’t mean fighting?”
Cuocuo shakes his head. “Can’t fight forever. Calm comes after the storm. Look at you both. Moments ago, you were at each other’s throats and now you’re making heart eyes.”
Feng Xin coughs. “We’re not making heart eyes. This is called making eye contact. The polite thing to do when conversing with someone.”
“I think Qing-gege is polite,” Cuocuo says thoughtfully, “but you.. .”
“Hey! I am polite!”
“You run away whenever a woman tries to talk to you.”
“I – uh,” Feng Xin falters. “I don’t like –”
“Women?” Cuocuo gasps.
“Talking! I like women. And men,” he adds, out of nowhere. “It’s talking I don’t like!”
“You don’t like talking?” Cuocuo looks genuinely surprised. “But you haven’t stopped talking to Qing-gege the whole night.”
Coughing violently, Feng Xin takes a few sips of his oolong milk tea to calm himself down.
Cuocuo’s face brightens, illuminated by the imaginary lightbulb appearing above his head. “I know! You two should be boyfriends! Then we can have dinner here every day!”
Pearls and oolong milk tea fly across the table that Mu Qing had just wiped clean. Feng Xin clamps a hand over Cuocuo’s mouth. “Please ignore him. He's talking nonsense – ow – what the fuck! Why’d you bite me!”
“Let me go!” Cuocuo struggles out of Feng Xin’s embrace. “I’ve just thought of something to draw!”
“Sorry about that,” Feng Xin mumbles, scratching the back of his head, as they watch Cuocuo skip back to his workstation with renewed sense of purpose. “He just really likes you – and your pallion scancakes – I mean scallion pancakes. He likes them a lot. And he’s going for lifetime membership.”
Mu Qing laughs. “Lifetime membership? I’m afraid that’s off the table for now.” Reaching across the cash register, he finds a box full of cards and places one in Feng Xin’s hands. “This is how I get my favourite customers to come back.”
“A loyalty card? That’s brilliant,” Feng Xin says, finding space for it in a wallet bursting with membership cards and banknotes. Opening the billfold, he gives Mu Qing a look. “Oh, yes, I should –”
Mu Qing slaps his hand away. “No, no, no.”
“I insist.” There’s a resolute, almost stubborn expression in his eyes. “You’re running a business. I can’t take advantage of you like that.”
Mu Qing balks at the thick wad of bills in Feng Xin’s hand. “How long have you been living abroad? Have you forgotten how much food here costs?”
“Think of it as an advance payment.”
Mu Qing raises a brow. “Advance payment? For what? A hundred pancakes? Trust me – you’ll be sick of scallions by then!”
“Trust me – I won’t,” Feng Xin says, and that look of unwavering sincerity is back on his face. “When I take a liking to something, it’s for life.”
“But…”
“But what? Why are you being so polite? It’s not like we haven’t already beaten the shit outta each other!’
“Are you beating the shit outta each other?” Cuocuo asks loudly from the other end of the stall.
“No!” they answer and go right back to their little game of tug-of-war, trying to keep their laughter down as they wrestle, neither of them willing to yield.
Feng Xin succeeds in stuffing the cash in the front pocket of Mu Qing’s jeans, but moves too quickly and an over-zealous elbow finds its way to Mu Qing’s sore jaw.
“Ow!”
“Dad!” Cuocuo yells in outrage, ready to jump out of his seat. “What’s wrong with you! You’re not like this at home!”
“It was an accident!” Feng Xin yells.
Ignoring his father, Cuocuo turns to Mu Qing. “Qing-gege, are you hurt?”
Mu Qing shakes his head. “Just a little.”
“Dad?”
Feng Xin’s eyes grow wide at the unvoiced suggestion. “No, no, no way,” Feng Xin says, crossing his arms. “It won’t work.”
“What won’t work?” Mu Qing tugs at Feng Xin’s arm, but Feng Xin only turns away and refuses to meet his gaze.
Cuocuo grins. “Every time I get hurt, Dad heals me with spiritual power,” he explains, puckering up to make a loud kissing noise.
“Cuocuo!” Feng Xin exclaims. “That’s a family secret. And what did we say about telling secrets?”
“Not to do it,” Cuocuo says, ruefully. “Just like swearing and punching people. And yet you’ve done both of these things in one night.
“Why – you – you’re –” Feng Xin sputters.
“Your only son who just wants you to be happy?”
Feng Xin’s face softens. “I am happy. How can I not be happy – when I have you?”
“And I'm happy too, Dad. You make me happy every day. I like spending time with you, but I think you ought to have more friends that are your age. Qing-gege was my friend first, but I’ll share him with you, because you’re the besterestest dad and you should be the happiestest too!”
Feng Xin’s eyes are wet and he’s struggling to get his emotions under control. “Cuocuo….”
Cuocuo continues, “Me getting lost, finding Qing-gege, being caught in the rain - these are all signs from god. You can fight me; You can fight Qing-gege; But you can't ever fight your destiny.” Having imparted these sagely words of advice, he goes back to his drawing.
Feng Xin takes a deep breath and lets it out. “My son. How did I get so lucky?”
“You want the best for him, so it’s only natural that he wants the best for you.”
Feng Xin gives him a sly look. “Are you saying you’re the best?”
“Not the best, the bes-te-res-test …”
Feng Xin laughs. “Right.”
“So, about that spiritual power?” Mu Qing asks in a coy voice, twirling his long hair around a finger.
Feng Xin tries to laugh it off, but the telltale flush on his cheeks reveals he’s been thinking about it too. “Look, I like you. I want to see more of you, every day if I can. But we’ve only just met and I – I just hit you in the face – again.”
“Uh-huh. So are you going to take responsibility or not?”
“Do you want me to?” Feng Xin asks, uncertainty lingering in the air. “Are you sure?”
Mu Qing has never been more sure of anything in his life. Slowly, deliberately, he opens the cupboard door, so it functions as a makeshift screen. “Yes.”
The air cackles with an electrifying tension as Feng Xin swallows and wets his lips, inching closer to Mu Qing’s face. Closing his eyes, Mu Qing surrenders himself to the moment, waiting for the press of warm lips against his own. The promise of a shared breath hovers between them, an unspoken promise about to be fulfilled…
But the moment is shattered by a loud, high-pitched voice. “I’m done! I’m done!”
Breaking apart, Feng Xin and Mu Qing scramble to make space for Cuocuo, whose timing couldn't have been more comedic, and Mu Qing would have laughed if Cuocuo wasn’t trying to say something to him.
“Qing-gege, this drawing is for you. I hope you like it!”
“For me?” Mu Qing is surprised and touched as he accepts the scroll of drawing paper.
“Don’t look until we’re gone! Dad, Dad, should we go now? It’s stopped raining!”
Mu Qing hasn’t noticed, but the child is right. The rain has stopped and the crowd is slowly trickling back.
“When we go home, can we build a pillow shrine for Master Ferret?”
“As long as you take a nice hot shower and brush your teeth.”
“Love you, Dad!” Cuocuo says, wrapping his arms around Feng Xin’s thighs.
“Love you too.” Feng Xin returns the hug, wrinkling his nose when he catches a whiff of Cuocuo’s hair. “But boy do you need a bath and some fresh clothes.”
“Oh, wait! I almost forgot!” Cuocuo removes Mu Qing’s hoodie and hands it to him. “Thank you for this. It helped to ward off evil and find my dad.”
Mu Qing clears his throat. “Ah – about that – you see it’s really…”
“Qing-gege,” Cuocuo interrupts, with a twinkle in his eye and a knowing smile on his lips. “Do you really think I’m so easily fooled? How old do you think I am? Three?”
Mu Qing’s laughter is cut off when tiny, little arms go around his waist and squeeze the air out of him. “Thank you for everything! I hope we meet again!”
A smile tugs at the corners of Mu Qing’s lips. “You know where to find me.”
“I do! I know my way around here now. Won’t get lost next time,” Cuocuo assures him, before he runs back inside to pack.
Turning to Feng Xin, Mu Qing repeats the question. “What about you? Think you can find your way back?”
Feng Xin grins. “I was just about to ask – what’s the fastest way to the carpark?”
Mu Qing looks at him with amusement and warmth. “This is the shortest way, but not necessarily the fastest, because it includes stopping by the bakery at the end of this street to buy their pork floss buns. Take a left when you exit and visit the cleanest restrooms in this city before the long journey home. When you’re done, you’ll find a T-junction nearby. Turn left and you’ll find the carpark just around the corner.”
Feng Xin cocks his head to one side. “What happens if I turn right?”
Mu Qing’s eyes soften. “Turn right and you’ll come right back to me.”
“Good to know.” Feng Xin pulls Mu Qing in for a hug. “We still have unfinished business after all.”
Nodding, Mu Qing rests his aching jaw on Feng Xin’s wide shoulder. “I owe you ninety-nine scallion pancakes.”
When Feng Xin turns his head, his warm lips graze the tip of Mu Qing’s ear. “And I owe you one kiss.”
They exchange one last, lingering look as they pull away.
“See you again,” Mu Qing says.
“See you.”
As the vendor of a popular stall at a night market, these words are exchanged routinely with countless people every night, leaving a fleeting echo of goodwill along these crowded streets.
Tonight though, they ring of promise.
Cuocuo, with Master Ferret tucked snugly under his arm, staggers over with Feng Xin’s backpack, which Feng Xin takes and shoulders effortlessly on his back.
“Bye-bye, Qing-gege! See you again!” Cuocuo waves cheerfully with one hand while his father takes the other, no doubt holding it a bit more tightly than usual.
As Feng Xin and Cuocuo walk down the street, they turn back every few steps to offer Mu Qing a heartfelt wave. Mu Qing reciprocates the gesture, smiling brightly as he does.
He watches their silhouettes fading before his eyes. While they soon disappear around the corner, their parting words continue to echo in Mu Qing’s ears. Sweetness lingers in the air, mixing with the aroma of scallions and sesame oil, leaving behind some warmth to bask in until they meet again.