Work Text:
Mu Qing, Martial God of the Southeast, is in love.
And he’s sick of it.
He grinds his teeth, staring down at the report. His head deputy watches him impassively.
“Is it unsatisfactory, General?”
Mu Qing forces his jaw to relax. “It’s fine.”
He doesn’t say anything else, and Sun Ying doesn’t ask about the reaction. “Is there anything else?”
Mu Qing briefly considers sending someone else, just to remove the temptation of going himself. “Where is Fan Shen?”
“Organizing the library.”
“Liao Lihua?”
“Sparring with Deputy Shuqing.”
Mu Qing doesn’t want to know where A-Jun has gone. “What about Xiu Qian?”
“With Deputy Yi.”
Doing what likely doesn’t bear repeating. “...Fan He?”
“In the infirmary,” Sun Ying answers, with enough of a hint in his voice that tells Mu Qing he knows exactly what he’s doing. Mu Qing rolls his eyes. “Very well. I’ll be leaving now.”
Sun Ying bows, his blank face never even twitching at Mu Qing’s bizarre behavior. After 800 years, he’s long gotten used to it. He merely bows. “Was there anything else the General needed?”
“Don’t let A-Jun burn the palace down,” Mu Qing says, sliding Zhanmadao into its holder on his waist. “Again,” he adds under his breath.
He descends without another wasted breath, landing in a field of wildflowers. He pays them no mind and walks in the direction from the report, ignoring the increasing rate of his heart.
A flower has been discovered in a cave on the southeast-southwest border. Allegedly holds the power to reveal one’s true love.
It was too suspicious. Too innocuous to be left alone. And for Mu Qing, who’s been in love for the last eight centuries and spent them all suffering for it, it was impossible to ignore.
The temptation to test it, to see, to know …how is he supposed to resist? It makes him seethe as he walks, annoyed and embarrassed with himself. As he walks, he becomes increasingly angry, and worried.
What would the other heavenly officials say if they knew? If they heard how quickly he’d left the palace upon receiving the report? Even if Pei Ming didn’t find out, somehow, there was no telling how quickly this information would circulate in the network of the Middle Court deputies. Mu Qing has spent enough time cleaning up the drama between the deputies to know just how quickly things get spread around.
But if he goes back now, he’ll face questions. Why had he descended and then returned so quickly, empty-handed, for seemingly no reason? It makes him hesitate slightly in his steps, but he can’t turn around, so he forces himself to keep going.
Besides, it’s probably only a fluke anyway. He’s going to make sure there aren’t any ghosts causing trouble in his territory! He’s doing his duty as a martial god, there’s nothing pointless about that. If any heavenly official has a problem with it, then they can take it up with his deputies.
And even if it is what the report says it is, there’s–there’s no reason to fear. Mu Qing swallows tightly, refusing to allow his steps to falter. He’ll just–he’ll just check the flower, test its abilities, and if it doesn’t do what the report claims, he’ll destroy it. And if it does, then . . .
Then maybe I’ll finally know,
a traitorous voice whispers in his mind. Mu Qing shoves it down savagely.
It won’t be much of an answer, anyway. He’s known full well how Feng Xin feels about him all this time. It’s not as if Feng Xin has done a marvelous job hiding it, either. Always staring at him, eyes dark with the anger that always simmers under the surface, hands clenching into fists every time Mu Qing talks…
He pretends it doesn’t hurt. Mu Qing says his piece in meetings and tries not to look at Feng Xin, and he sweeps out quickly when the meetings are over. Feng Xin tries to catch up to him sometimes, calling out for him harshly, but Mu Qing doesn’t want to hear his coarse words. He’s heard enough of them over the last few centuries, and the worst ones never really fade, anyway.
They echo in his mind now even as he tries to shove them back, back into the dark little corner he keeps for them, bombarding him as he walks. Mu Qing closes his eyes briefly before numbly reciting the sutras he learned as part of his cultivation. They push the harsh words back some, at least enough for him to focus.
He finds his way to the cave easily enough. It’s buried almost halfheartedly in the ruins of some establishment, what looks like an old cultivation sect—as if someone had tried to hide it but lost the energy halfway through. Mu Qing fights through tangled weeds and gnarled branches, steps over a cracked stone threshold, and approaches the dark mouth of the cave. And all the while he ignores the increasing rate of his heart.
Despite it still being early, the light from outside hardly penetrates the dark of the cave. Mu Qing lights a palm torch to illuminate his way, his steps confident even in the pitch blackness. It’s hard, though, to ignore his thoughts completely, with nothing at all to distract him from them, and so they crowd forward to the front of his mind, each demanding attention he suddenly feels far too fragile to give. It makes his steps sound unnaturally loud and blunt in the cave.
Most unforgiving is What if he really does hate me? He’s not sure if he can stand to know the answer to that, but worse is not knowing, and he tries to comfort himself, tries to entertain himself with the prospect of continuing on as he has for so long. It makes him sick to think about.
And beside the fear is the resignation, which is altogether worse. What would knowing really change, if it turns out that Feng Xin does, in fact, hate him? He knows what would happen, as much as he likes to amuse himself with the notion of confronting Feng Xin about it. He won’t. Mu Qing will continue to suffer in silence, watching Feng Xin from afar, doomed to love a man who hates him as much as he always suspected.
So no. Knowing wouldn’t change anything at all.
It almost makes Mu Qing want to turn around, the sudden flood of dread and resignation that takes him then. He thinks, do I really want to do this? Is it really worth it, to have simple confirmation of something he’s sure he already knows? Part of him thinks no, it’s not worth it, but then he’d never have a moment’s peace if he turns around now, and so he keeps going, heaving a deep sigh as he does.
Eventually a light ahead pauses his steps, and his thoughts. Mu Qing approaches slowly, a hand drifting to his sabre.
It isn’t a particularly bright light. It’s barely even a light, really; more just a weak, pale pulsing, as if someone had lit a red candle and left it to burn alone until it went out. Mu Qing steps ever closer, on the lookout for treachery—of what kind he’s not sure, but some habits die hard, especially the last time he was in a cave like this—and jerks down in a duck as the weak light illuminates a low arch just in front of him.
Mu Qing straightens with a frown, but it fades almost immediately. The light has gotten stronger since he entered the smaller cave, which he now finds is little more than a hollow, and filled only with a small stone pedestal at its center. And on the pedestal is the flower.
He’s not sure what he expected, really. Perhaps something more sinister, or something more grandeur—after all, it’s a flower that can supposedly tell one their true love, so shouldn’t it be . . . less innocuous?
Mu Qing circles the pedestal, scrutinizing the flower critically. He supposes its pink color might make it noteworthy, but it’s not as if pink flowers don’t exist. And it’s closed, too—the petals haven’t even opened. He’s not sure why this surprises him—they’re underground, of course the flower isn’t blooming. But it surprises him all the same.
Very quickly Mu Qing finds himself growing irritated, and embarrassed. Shouldn’t something have happened now? Shouldn’t the flower have reacted to his presence, or . . . something? He feels inexplicably stupid standing there staring at a fucking flower for who knows how long now, and the longer he lingers, the deeper the humiliation sets in.
What was he expecting, truly? For the report to be any sort of accurate? For this to be anything other than a stupid trick? A farce? What kind of idiot believes in flowers that can proclaim true love? This is something Xie Lian might have believed, in his consistent quest to see the beauty and romance in everything, now that he’s married to that devil spawn Hua Cheng. This is something for foolish mortals to bet their hopes upon, a silly indulgence.
Mu Qing has never had that luxury.
He’s never been able to indulge in foolish fantasies of magical flowers. He’s never had the luxury of betting on ridiculous rumors and magic flowers—he’s had to make his own path, his own fortune, his own future. Trusting in something else to shape his life has never been something he could do—he’s not sure why he thought it would be different now, eight hundred years later, and wholly without the things that made him want to indulge in fantasy in the first place. Bitterness floods his body like a tidal wave.
The only person Mu Qing might have wanted to waste any luxuries on is gone, and has been for a long, long time. He doesn’t know why he’s bothering now.
For Feng Xin, whispers that voice, and Mu Qing shakes his head. Another pointless effort, another one on whom this luxury would be wasted. As if Feng Xin would be halfway interested, anyway.
He should just go. This was foolish, and there’s hardly anything Mu Qing hates more than being made a fool. He raises his hand, gathering spiritual energy in the palm, a sudden wash of anger and humiliation making it glow brighter with every passing second.
And then the flower blooms.
It’s a slow thing. Almost agonizingly slowly, as if it can sense the way the spiritual energy fades and Mu Qing’s hand lowers, the way he stares with wide eyes—as if it’s going slow on purpose, just to say, watch this.
Mu Qing is watching. He feels like he can’t tear his eyes away.
The petals unfurl one at a time, and with each one, the faint pink light in the hollow grows steadily brighter, and the unfurled petals release some sort of white pollen. It almost looks like spiritual energy, the way it floats up into the hollow, languidly and gently, and Mu Qing feels a breath shudder out of him, sudden weakness flooding his muscles and buckling his knees. He steadies himself with a hand on the pedestal but doesn’t look away, utterly transfixed.
The energy in the cave shifts, the way the air changes with an oncoming storm, except it feels anticipatory; a build-up of tension that surrounds him like a cloak, fills the small space till it’s all Mu Qing can feel.
And it’s warm. It’s warm and comforting and—and safe. It reminds him of lazy afternoons arguing under cherry trees, of stolen moments behind the broom shed on Mount Taicang, and more recently, of strong arms holding him tight, carrying him to safety. The onslaught of memory slams into him so suddenly that he lets out a sharp breath, eyes blurring.
Any doubts he has in his mind are dead and gone with the wind. The flower has barely done a thing, and yet Mu Qing knows—the reports had not lied. The power is there, it’s real, and Mu Qing—
—all he has to do is ask.
He blinks the mist from his eyes. Straightening from his slouch, he gives the flower a long look. Opens his mouth. Shuts it. Opens it again.
A sigh bursts out of him, and he buries his face in his hands. How is he supposed to even do this . . . he’s a Martial God, for heavens’ sake! The ridiculousness of the situation hits him full force, cutting right through the thick sense of warmth and safety—of l-l-love, he realizes, gods he’s going to be sick—and makes him want to turn tail and run. What is he supposed to do, really?? Ask a flower if his eight-century-long rival is in love with him? What if the answer is no? How will he even tell what the answer is ? What if—
Mu Qing squeezes his eyes shut, breathing out harshly. What if Feng Xin really does hate him?
It’s a possibility he’s always been aware of. Until very, very recently, he’d believed that was his reality. And it was—he’d been fine, it was fine, he’d survived, but—but he—
He doesn’t want to just survive anymore. He’s tired, he realizes. The only person who’d loved him has been dead for centuries, and he’s tired of being alone. If this flower can at least give him some clarity to Feng Xin’s true feelings, whatever they may be, then—then he could muster up the courage to ask it a few questions, no matter how silly it makes him feel.
The flower has given him hope; ever so difficult to crush, once allowed to take root. And the longer he stands in this cave, Mu Qing feels a garden grow in his heart.
He sucks in a deep breath, squashing the voice in his head still yelling about how ludicrous this is, forcing out the tremor in his voice, and says, “My name is Mu Qing.”
A moment passes where nothing happens, and a wave of fresh, piping hot embarrassment rises up in him—but then the flower’s glow flares up.
Just a little, barely there to illuminate Mu Qing’s pinched face. But it’s there. It’s enough.
He can’t hide the tiny tremor in his next breath. “I am an orphan from the kingdom of Xianle.”
Another flare, somewhat brighter this time. He feels a surge of that feeling of safety, as if the flower is reminding him that he isn’t there anymore, isn’t that lonely child anymore.
(If it coincides with the image of the first day he met Feng Xin, thirteen and nervous and angry, that’s for him to know.
He’d stood in front of Xie Lian’s rooms in the Xianle palace, a bright and happy Xie Lian introducing them, unaware of the storm of feelings broiling in Mu Qing’s young heart. Nerves, at being chosen to attend the prince. Anger, at the other palace boys, who had bullied him on the way in. Sudden, wracking attraction, at the older boy standing at Xie Lian’s side, skin already golden and face already haughty. He’d looked at Mu Qing, thin, wearing the best rags he owned, and wrinkled his nose. In a fit of humiliation compounded by his nervousness, Mu Qing had told him that his nose looked strange, maybe he needed someone to fix it for him, and clenched his fists, as if his meaning wasn’t clear. Feng Xin’s golden eyes had flashed, and Mu Qing had been ruined from that day.
Hours later, when the same palace boys had returned for another round of harassing him, Feng Xin had found them kicking Mu Qing while he was curled up on the ground, and launched himself into the fight, fists flying. When the boys ran off, no match for the crown prince’s bodyguard even back then, Feng Xin had pulled Mu Qing to his feet and demanded why he hadn’t fought back. Upon hearing the reason, he’d stared so hard at Mu Qing that Mu Qing had felt himself reddening, and opened his mouth to snap.
“Next time they attack you, fight back so I can join you.” )
The words had not registered fully, not when Feng Xin had offered a smile, fierce and wild, and walked away, as simple as that. But that night, they had curled around his heart like a tendril of fire, warming him from the inside out. He’d turned to face the wall and buried his smile in the cuff of his blanket.
Now, he stares at the flower and closes his eyes, letting out his breath very slowly. When he opens his eyes next, there’s a faint fluttering in his gut, growing stronger the longer he stands there, turning over the words of his next question in his mind. His heart starts to pound despite the way he tries to manage his breathing, and he swallows against a dry throat.
Just spit it out, he thinks, hands curling and uncurling in his robes.
His lips part. “Does—”
The sound of clattering rocks precedes a loud curse, and the unmistakable sound of a very familiar voice echoes through the tunnels. A sigh bursts out of Mu Qing as his nerves evaporate, along with the last of his patience.
He has a few seconds at most before the newcomer enters the cave—stumbles in, more accurately—and Mu Qing lifts his chin to regard them, taking in their disheveled state.
Feng Xin meets his gaze as he straightens. His eyes widen and his mouth opens, but Mu Qing beats him to it.
“You look like you rolled down a mountain.”
There it is—the scowl that always takes over his face every time Mu Qing speaks to him. Mu Qing pretends it doesn’t hurt to see it.
“I did,” Feng Xin gripes, and Mu Qing raises a brow.
“Why?”
“I didn’t do it on purpose, you idiot,” Feng Xin snaps, then seems to visibly restrain himself. He takes a deep breath and holds it for a few seconds, before letting it burst out.
So it takes that much effort to be decent to me, Mu Qing thinks, something in his chest sinking.
There’s a moment of silence before they speak, but when they do, it’s at the same time, and even the same question.
“ What are you doing here? ”
Mu Qing rolls his eyes. “Stop copying me.”
“I wasn’t copying you, you just—whatever,” Feng Xin mutters. “I received reports of a demon harassing the village above this cave. I was on my way back to Heaven when I noticed a strange qi signature nearby, and it led me here.” He turns to fix Mu Qing with a look, who refuses to fidget. “Now answer me. What are you doing here?”
The reality of what he was doing here, and what he was about to ask, makes Mu Qing prickly. “This village is on my border too,” he snaps, and tries not to flinch at the way Feng Xin’s brows draw together in anger. “It’s none of your business why I’m here, General Nan Yang.”
“Oh, fuck off,” Feng Xin says. “First of all, this village is in the south west —”
“Is not.”
“It is , and it also is my business, so, General Xuan Zhen, ” he leans in, crossing his arms and smirking, “please do enlighten me.”
Mu Qing maintains a neutral, haughty face, but on the inside he’s fucking fuming. Gods damn Feng Xin, with his stupid, bulging muscles and stupid amber eyes and stupid fucking smirk. It’s like he knows what it does to Mu Qing!
Just—why does he even have a face? Mu Qing seethes internally, glaring at that annoyingly handsome face. He’s ruining everything.
He’s gone too long without an answer, and Feng Xin just smirks more, as if he’s won. Mu Qing cannot let it stand.
He distracts Feng Xin—and himself—by making an obvious once-over of his body, finally noticing the ragged state of it. “Why are you covered in bruises?” He squints, sharp eyes immediately catching the way Feng Xin’s smirk abruptly drops and he shifts, and peers at his topknot. “Are those sticks in your hair?”
A loud, deafening silence fills the cave. Mu Qing stares at Feng Xin, something building in his chest, and says, “Did you actually roll down the mountain?!”
“I said I did!” Feng Xin shouts, ears reddening in embarrassment.
“Yeah, but somehow I didn’t think you really meant it!” Mu Qing feels hysterical laughter bubbling in his chest, and barely manages to get the words out before it escapes him. It fills the cave and echoes out into the tunnels, and it’s everything he doesn’t allow himself to be: wild and unrestrained and loud, the exact opposite of the image he created for himself. He can’t remember the last time he let himself be so free.
His stomach hurts with it; he bends over himself, eyes squeezed shut against the tears leaking out, and sucks in a breath before another bout of laughs take over him. It’s a while before he calms, and the sound of Feng Xin angrily explaining why he rolled down a fucking mountain only spurs Mu Qing on, but eventually he gets ahold of himself.
A few giggles still escape him, and he’s too focused on getting his breath back to realize Feng Xin has stopped yelling, and is simply standing there staring at him. There’s a sort of bemused smile on his lips, an indecipherable look on his face, and when Mu Qing finally, really looks at him, Feng Xin huffs out this short laugh.
“I’ve never seen you laugh like that,” he says.
Mu Qing has never heard his voice like this. Gentled from his usual gruff tones, soft, even. It unsteadies him, makes his lips twitch with the desire to smile back before he reclaims control. He forces his face to settle back into a neutral expression, but something feels off-center, like Feng Xin’s smile has knocked something loose and he can’t right it. It doesn’t feel as bad as he might have thought.
He watches Feng Xin open his mouth and beats him to it, rolling his eyes. “I’m here because of this thing,” he says, gesturing at the flower. It hasn’t stopped pulsing soft, white puffs of light into the small space, and they illuminate Feng Xin’s face as he turns to look at it. “What is it?”
“A flower.”
Feng Xin rolls his eyes. “Helpful. It must be magical in some way.” He glances at Mu Qing. “What did the reports say?”
Mu Qing shifts on his feet. Feng Xin notices immediately, because of course he does. “What? What do you know?”
“It’s not important—”
“Well, now I know it’s important—”
“What do you know,” Mu Qing snaps, hating how he can feel his cheeks heating. His hands ball into fists. “If you insist , the reports said it was a dangerous and unstable flower.”
Lies, bald-faced lies, but he’d eat his own tongue before telling Feng Xin the truth. And, because the universe fucking hates him, Feng Xin immediately proves him a liar. He raises a brow. “Oh really? I heard it tells people their true love.”
“You heard wrong,” Mu Qing says, just a little too quickly, and Feng Xin catches it. He grows angry, Mu Qing watches it overtake his face until it resembles a storm cloud, and he rounds on Mu Qing. “Why are you lying? What’s the point, Mu Qing? It’s just a fucking flower, why do you have to be so contrary and obtuse about the dumbest things—”
Anger and embarrassment at being caught broil together in Mu Qing’s gut, and he snarls out, “What the fuck is it to you? You may think everyone needs to be as honorable as you all the time, but my business is my own! No one owes you anything, Feng Xin, not the truth, and not information given in private !”
“That just makes you a hypocrite!” Feng Xin shouts, and the sound of it echoes in the caves. “You demand to know everything from me, but refuse to offer any of the same! So why the fuck should I tell you anything, huh?!”
Mu Qing opens his mouth, but Feng Xin cuts him off. “Make a fucking choice, Mu Qing. Either give me the truth, or keep it all to yourself and never learn to trust anyone. Even me. But just stop with the bullshit.”
Suddenly, somewhere in his tirade, his voice had gone from enraged to tired . It stops Mu Qing in his tracks, mouth open and frozen in indecision, and sends cold racing through his veins. He stares at Feng Xin who meets him across the glow of the flower, his chest heaving and fists clenched, and in his golden eyes is an expression Mu Qing has never seen. He’s looking at Mu Qing like—like he’s sad. It steals whatever words Mu Qing had held at the ready, steeped in vinegar and salt, and leaves him floundering.
He hates that expression. He never wants to see it again, wants to erase it from those golden eyes, and makes him grasp at anything to say to do it.
“It—it is magic.”
It’s weak, even to his ears. But it makes Feng Xin blink at him, some of that inexplicable sadness fading, leaving confusion in its wake. “What?”
Mu Qing swallows, forcing himself to meet Feng Xin’s eyes. He tries for a haughty expression, but something tells him he doesn’t quite manage it. “The flower, it’s—you were right. It’s magical.”
“How do you know?”
His voice has gentled; Mu Qing allows himself to relax marginally, forcing himself to take a less shallow breath. “I . . . ask it a question.”
Feng Xin raises a brow. He opens his mouth, but Mu Qing snaps, nerves frayed, “Just do it!”
He gets a beleaguered sigh and an eyeroll for it, but Feng Xin does as he says. “Um . . . is anyone in love with me?”
What the fuck.
“What the fuck,” Mu Qing says.
Feng Xin’s face is red. “It’s the first thing I thought of!”
“Why is that the first thing— !”
They both freeze as the flower brightens, more white lights floating up. They illuminate the bright red flush on Feng Xin’s face, dumb shock on Mu Qing’s. He quickly schools it into something he hopes touches on mocking, or even imperious, but somehow he doesn’t think he succeeds.
Is someone in love with me. For a split second, Mu Qing allows himself to be deluded into thinking it’s about him—and then reality settles in with the gentility of an earthquake, and another face flashes in his mind, caked in makeup and twisted into a sneer as it was the last time he’d seen it.
A stone the size of Mount Tonglu settles into his gut, and he swallows against a tight throat. Of course it would be about Jian Lan. Feng Xin’s great love, the woman he sired a demonic child with, the woman he ran away from them for. Fled Xie Lian’s presence, fled Mu Qing’s—
He’s not surprised, not really. It just hurts to be reminded so firmly, that regardless of Mu Qing’s feelings, Feng Xin’s affections lie elsewhere—have always lain elsewhere.
And Mu Qing responds as he always has, though it feels less like defense against an imagined slight, and more like a desperate grab at normalcy. He always makes fun of Feng Xin about Jian Lan—he doesn’t always fall into silence at the mere, glancing reminder of her, and he’s been quiet for far too long already.
So he lashes out. Scoffs, “I didn't know the great General Ju Yang could be so sentimental.”
Feng Xin’s eyes narrow. “There’s a lot you don’t know about me.”
What a lie. After 800 years together, there’s hardly a thing Mu Qing doesn’t know about Feng Xin. He rolls his eyes to show his derision, and it earns him clenched fists and a grating voice, coated in frustration. “Well, if you’re going to be so damned haughty about it, then why don’t you ask it something?”
It does the intended job, Mu Qing has to give him that. His smirk drops from his face like a dead animal, killed on sight, and he crosses his arms to hide his suddenly trembling hands. “W-Why would I do that?”
Feng Xin knows he’s got him. He smirks, matching Mu Qing’s pose. “Why not? I already told you to make a choice, Mu Qing. I asked it something, now you.”
“How do you know I haven’t already? I was down here before you, idiot.”
Feng Xin doesn’t rise to the bait. Perhaps he can hear the tremor in Mu Qing’s voice, perhaps he knows he’s winning, even if he doesn’t know what the prize will be.
(Mu Qing’s humiliation, his exposure, the pleasure of knowing his darkest secret he’s carried for centuries, the satisfaction of dangling it over Mu Qing’s head forever—)
“It’s just a question, Mu Qing.”
Just a question. Just a question. Would he say that if he knew? Would he be so cavalier if he fucking knew ?
Panic begins to bubble in his chest, scrambling coherent thought till his head’s a buzzing mess, and he ends up blurting out the first thing he thinks of, and only much later will he remember the burning irony of it all—
“Do you hate me?”
Mu Qing barely has time to process the shock spreading across Feng Xin’s stupid, handsome face, because he’s consumed with watching the flower slowly droop, petals wilting amidst the dimming light.
Wilted. It wilted . Whatever he was going to say dies on his tongue, and he turns his body to fully face the flower, as if its proximity would put lie to what he’s seeing. Feng Xin is conspicuously silent beside him, but for once Mu Qing says nothing to him, trying desperately to believe that he doesn’t—that Feng Xin actually—
If blooming brighter means yes, then wilting naturally means a no . which means—
He turns to Feng Xin, meets golden eyes in a quiet face, watching him closely. Mu Qing can’t erase the look of blank surprise on his own face, can’t force himself to muster any of his usual snark. He can only stare at Feng Xin and ask, in a small voice he’ll berate himself over later, “You don’t hate me?”
Feng Xin sighs, and something in Mu Qing’s chest dies—there it is, it’s coming, the rejection, the—
“I wanted to do this a different way,” Feng Xin says, and Mu Qing has never heard this voice from him before. Not directed at himself, anyway. He stares at Feng Xin, unable to move an inch as Feng Xin approaches slowly, the way one approaches a spooked animal. Distantly, Mu Qing supposes he is, in a way. “I had a whole plan, you know. Dinner and everything.”
The words process, somewhere in Mu Qing’s mind, but they’re buried under the electricity zipping up his spine as Feng Xin takes his hands, cradles them between his own, calluses scraping against his skin. “But of course, nothing ever goes as planned with you, does it?” he laughs, but it doesn’t sound as mocking or mean-spirited as usual. Mu Qing swallows against the lump in his throat, fights against his breathing, which has gone completely off-kilter.
It feels like they’re on the cusp of something, but Mu Qing is lost trying to figure out what. It ends up not mattering as Feng Xin says, voice loud and clear so Mu Qing has no way of denying this moment, “Am I in love with Mu Qing?”
Wh—
“What the fuck,” Mu Qing hisses, yanking his hands back, but Feng Xin has a tight grip on them, and even summons the audacity to push two fingers against Mu Qing’s cheek, turning his face towards the flower. Dread suffuses his gut, and he pushes back, but Feng Xin grips his chin and forces him to look—
“This isn’t fucking funny, you—you . . .” He trails off, words fading into nothing along with all the thoughts in his head.
For what feels like forever, his world narrows down to mere sensations. Feng Xin’s hands on his, warm and rough and perfect. The glow of the flower as it brightens, and brightens, and brightens, as silent a confirmation as the gentility of Feng Xin’s fingers against Mu Qing’s cheek, brushing a lock of his hair behind his ear. The ache in his neck from keeping his head turned towards the flower, but he can’t turn away, won’t dare to take his eyes off the flower, as if it’ll suddenly die the moment he’s not watching it anymore. Fear begins to fill him, a hysterical sort of worry that sets him trembling—but then Feng Xin’s fingers come back to his jaw, trailing along the skin there, and a sound escapes him, somewhere between a sigh and a nameless noise he’ll never admit to making.
Rough fingers push gently at his chin, nudging him to look back at Feng Xin, and his breath catches at their proximity. Feng Xin’s face is inches from his, and Mu Qing’s breath is stolen by the look in his golden eyes. Full lips twitch up in an almost-smile.
“I’d ask if you knew how long I’ve been in love with you, but something tells me this is the first you’re hearing of it,” he says, voice low and rich and just this side of teasing. Mu Qing can only stare at him. Feng Xin sighs again, but he’s smiling, stroking his fingers along Mu Qing’s jawline. “It’s been since Xianle, in case you were wondering. Even if I didn’t realize it for what it was, even if I just wanted to kiss you to make you shut up.”
Mu Qing jerks at the words, I wanted to kiss you, hands clenching and unclenching as they rattle around in his skull.
“By the time I realized it, it was kinda too late,” Feng Xin is saying, a strange note slipping into his voice. Mu Qing thinks it sounds like sadness, but he can’t be sure, and Feng Xin keeps talking . “I thought I could live with the thought of you hating me, but it never got easier. Just harder.”
His fingers stop briefly, thumb brushing over a small divot in the skin near Mu Qing’s eye, and a smile twitches at the sad cant of his lips. “So I tried getting closer, but, well . . . It seems I’ve pretended a little too well, huh?”
Something in his face, his words, sets Mu Qing trembling, and suddenly they land in their full meaning, slapping Mu Qing across the face with their impact.
It’s quiet at first, nearly inaudible. But Feng Xin catches part of it, and his thumb stops, right next to Mu Qing’s eye. His lashes flutter with the proximity, and he can’t bring himself to look away from golden eyes, from the softly hopeful look in them. He swallows hard.
“I never hated you.”
Feng Xin’s eyes are so intent on him. He feels like he’ll die if he looks away now, so he steels himself and forces himself to meet his gaze. “I never hated you, Feng Xin,” he says, and hates how his voice trembles despite his best efforts.
It takes a moment, but he gets to watch the very second those words process in Feng Xin’s mind. Lips part in a full smile, golden eyes crinkling at the corners, and Mu Qing feels his knees go weak. He remembers each and every time he ever saw that smile. It was never directed at him, which stung in its own way, but when Feng Xin offered it so freely to Xie Lian, or to his own family, so long ago, Mu Qing stood on the sidelines and drank it in from the periphery, greedily edging into its warmth, scant from his angle, but there nonetheless.
He knew the strength of that smile—he watched as it turned Xie Lian into a puddle, how it allowed Feng Xin to wheedle and ply him for a few hours on the town, or a bottle of wine from the kitchens to share. He knew, and still knows, how that smile is able to charm lesser gods into carrying messages for Feng Xin when he doesn’t feel like doing it himself, and he’s watched his own damned deputies melt under the force of it, gossiping and giggling about the dimples and crook of it in darkened corners of the palace, before falling into silence under Mu Qing’s glare. Fueled by anger, by frustration, by jealousy, by wanting.
He could never win against that smile. And he would never receive it for himself, and so the only recourse was to turn away when he saw it. Part of him still wants to snap, to pull Feng Xin’s hair and yell at him for being so stupid as to think Mu Qing hated him, of all things, but he supposes there wasn’t really any other conclusion to draw, really. He wasn’t exactly forthcoming in his own feelings, convinced as he had been that they would be met with spite and mockery, with disgust.
But now.
Now that smile is turned onto him in all its power, its beauty, and Mu Qing feels, humiliatingly, tears burn at the corners of his eyes. He blinks rapidly and sees Feng Xin’s face fall slightly, and curses himself for ruining it.
Feng Xin laughs awkwardly. “Well . . . I just wanted to, uh. To tell you. So, um, I’ll . . . I’ll go now.”
He turns to leave, apparently blind to the dumb shock spreading across Mu Qing’s face, and takes a step away. And another.
And all at once, the anger returns.
“Is that all?” Mu Qing hisses. He’s suddenly intensely, blindingly furious, so much so he’s trembling with it. His fists clench in the folds of his robes, wrinkling the fabric, but he doesn’t care.
Feng Xin stiffens, spine straightening, and Mu Qing watches the moment anger suffuses his body. He whips around, eyes already narrowed. “What the fuck do you mean is that all? I just told you—!”
“Yes, I know,” Mu Qing interrupts bitingly, because if he hears Feng Xin say he loves him again, he might just fall apart, and wouldn’t that be embarrassing at this juncture? “I heard very well what you said, and I’m asking, is that all ??”
Feng Xin stares in disbelief, and even this pisses Mu Qing off to no end. Was he really just about to leave after dropping that in Mu Qing’s lap? Just turn around and walk away like—like it meant nothing? Like it hardly took any effort to say, like it was just another report, written and written off, just like that?
Just like me, Mu Qing thinks, sickening realization settling in his gut. Just like I’ve always been.
Was Feng Xin even serious? Mu Qing forgets about the flower in his rage and heartbreak, the mixture swirling like poison in his stomach. Had he even been telling the truth, or had he decided that this would be a funny prank to pull? Make a joke of it, to see how Mu Qing would react? He feels ill, and takes a step back as Feng Xin takes one forward.
“Are you stupid?” he asks bluntly, a vein pulsing in his forehead. Mu Qing wants to parrot the words back to him, but Feng Xin doesn’t let him speak. “No, wait, you’re just doing this to rile me up. You’re fucking with me, ” he says, with a gasp, as if he’s come to some realization.
Mu Qing’s fingers claw at his robes. “You idiot, ” he hisses, “I am not f- fucking with you!” Feng Xin opens his mouth, but Mu Qing speaks over him. “How clever of you, though, to accuse me of the very thing you are doing. You should be proud, General Nan Yang,” he spits with sudden vitriol, “to be so godsdamned clever! ”
He doesn’t stop, too embroiled in the mess of his emotions, in the aftermath of heartbreak. He kneels in the leftover shards of his heart and picks them up painstakingly with his bare hands, uncaring of the blood spilling over the sharp edges, and doesn’t bother to look up as he spits out words he’s held onto far too long.
“How unsurprising, for you to not realize what’s really happening. Though it’s not as if it’s the first time, either. You always were like this—so eager to walk forward, to be honorable, to be someone we could rely on—”
He doesn’t see the flinch when Mu Qing says “we”.
“—that you never bothered to look anywhere else but ahead of you! But even that was just a farce, wasn’t it? So talented,” Mu Qing sneers, “to hide under all that honor and loyalty, disguising your self-importance as something else, something good, something useful , all those things you always wanted to be! But you couldn’t, not really—you were always too full of yourself to notice anyone else but Dianxia. And when he was gone, all that was left was you!!”
He’s nearly frothing with fury, so lost now that he hasn’t noticed Feng Xin standing frozen, where usually he would have attacked—too lost, even, to notice the tears tracking down his face, hot and burning against his skin.
“You, who always wanted to be useful, who always wanted a purpose, but always too dumb to see anyone else around. You were always so focused on yourself and what you needed that you never bothered to look around you, never bothered to see me! But then,” Mu Qing laughs, hoarse, “why would you ever look at me? The ugly little servant boy, destined to wait on the sidelines forever, too lowly for the attention of his Royal Highness, or even his guard dog! Well, have you ever considered that I might have needed you, too?! Have you ever considered that I might have wanted you?! No! Looking ahead, as always,” Mu Qing snarls, but it lacks heat, and just makes him sound as broken as he is. “Too busy moving forward, right? Looking for someone worth your attention.”
Feng Xin still hasn’t spoken, and something in Mu Qing breaks, and he screams, “Maybe if you weren’t so goddamned self-centered, you would’ve noticed how long I’ve loved you!”
His voice catches on a sob, and he turns his face away in scalding humiliation, but then there are hands on him, tight around his arms as they yank on him, and he looks up again with a hiss. “Let go! You—mmph!”
It takes him more than a moment to realize, but then—then—
Soft, warm lips closing over his own—
Feng Xin is kissing him. Feng Xin—
Feng Xin is kissing him—
Mu Qing lets out a muffled noise against his lips, fists banging on a sturdy chest pressed to his own, but strong hands only pull him closer, sliding up to clasp his face. Feng Xin kisses him harder, nipping at his lower lip just a little too hard, and Mu Qing feels blood well.
There’s so much around him—Feng Xin’s scent enveloping him, grounding him and sending him spiraling out of body and mind at the same time, their bodies pressed together from hips to chest, Feng Xin’s mouth—
It’s too much. Mu Qing curls his fists into a familiar collar he’s gripped hundreds, thousands of times, and rips his face away. “Feng Xin—!”
“Shut up, ” Feng Xin mutters, and kisses him again. Mu Qing’s mind blanks out.
It’s softer, this time. Less a clash of mouths together and more an insistent pressing. Feng Xin’s lips are soft, moving slowly against Mu Qing’s, encouraging him to reciprocate, to relax under them. Tremulously, Mu Qing lowers his shoulders, hesitatingly pushing back against Feng Xin’s mouth. He feels the chest under his hands rumble as Feng Xin hums, and he changes the angle, sliding one hand to shift Mu Qing’s head to kiss him better. Their noses brush together, and unbidden, a small whimper leaves Mu Qing’s throat, quiet and shy.
He feels Feng Xin shudder but he doesn’t step away, or stop kissing Mu Qing. It feels surreal, like a dream, and a part of him is filled with fear that it’s going to end—he’ll wake up in his bed at his palace, and they’ll go back to fighting and pretending to hate each other and he’ll be alone again—
Something hot and wet traces Mu Qing’s bottom lip, dragging lightly over where blood has welled, and Mu Qing’s knees go weak when he realizes. His lips part in a gasp, and Feng Xin slides his tongue inside to curl along Mu Qing’s.
Mu Qing is shaking. He realizes it belatedly, and most of his weight has collapsed onto Feng Xin, but it doesn’t feel as humiliating as he might have thought, not when he feels Feng Xin’s hands shaking where they cradle his face, when he hears the short, panting breaths Feng Xin lets loose into the space between their mouths as they kiss.
He’s as desperate for it as Mu Qing is, Mu Qing realizes. It gives him a bit of courage, enough to slide his hands into Feng Xin’s messy topknot, gripping the soft brown strands as if they’re the only thing keeping him tethered to the earth.
He loses track of time like this, holding onto Feng Xin and kissing as if they’ll die if they part, but eventually Feng Xin pulls away, though not without a light nip to Mu Qing’s mouth.
Mu Qing stares into those golden eyes, breath and words stolen for once, which leaves him with no way to stop Feng Xin from opening his stupid mouth.
“You love me?”
And against that, what defense can Mu Qing even raise?
So he doesn’t try. He just swallows hard, nods once.
He doesn’t know what he expects. Something stupid, perhaps, or something mocking. A confirmation that this is all a joke, just a prank that Feng Xin is putting all his effort into. A strike, even, right in the center of his chest. Feng Xin has the perfect angle for it.
What he gets is a kiss. Sudden and fierce, as if Feng Xin was barely holding back. He pulls away just as a whine was building in Mu Qing’s throat and looks at him again.
“You’ve loved me since Xianle?”
That, Mu Qing hadn’t said. But it doesn’t matter, because Feng Xin guessed right anyway. Mu Qing nods again.
This time, when Feng Xin kisses him, it’s slow and sweet, care in each brush of Feng Xin’s fingers along his jaw, in each slide of his lips against Mu Qing’s. It’s longer, too, just long enough for Mu Qing to sigh when he pulls away, missing him already.
His eyes flutter open, peering up at Feng Xin through his lashes, and sees the way golden irises darken just so. A shiver snakes through him, and he watches Feng Xin visibly take a deep breath.
“You’re right,” he says, and it takes a moment for Mu Qing to remember. But he does.
Before his expression can even shift, though, Feng Xin presses on. “I was too self-centered. I never noticed that you needed me, or that you—you wanted me, either. And I’m sorry, Mu Qing. I'm so sorry.”
It doesn’t take much to hear the sincerity in his voice, tight with contrition and regret. But Mu Qing doesn’t want apologies, even though it feels good to hear it, and he tells Feng Xin so.
“What do you want, then?” he asks, quietly, fingers brushing back and forth over the smooth skin of Mu Qing’s cheek.
It’s easy, at this juncture. Mu Qing doesn’t let himself hesitate.
“You. I just want you.”
For the second time, Feng Xin smiles like the sun, and Mu Qing finally, finally basks in the warmth of it the way he’s always craved. When Feng Xin leans in to kiss him, Mu Qing meets it with a smile of his own.
And beside them, the flower sits on its pedestal and glows, glows, glows.
When they remember themselves, they pull away, but neither goes far. Feng Xin nuzzles his nose along Mu Qing’s as Mu Qing turns his head to regard the flower.
“What do we do with that, then?” Feng Xin mumbles, busying himself with kissing a line down Mu Qing’s neck. Mu Qing tips his head to the side, regarding the flower critically.
“We’ll take it back with us,” he decides. However accurate the reports seemed to be regarding the flower’s power, it seems like a bad idea to let it remain, possibly to fall into the hands of someone who might abuse it. “I’ll keep it in my palace.”
He feels Feng Xin frown against his neck. “Why do you get to keep it?”
Mu Qing rolls his eyes. “Do you even know how to take care of a plant?”
“I had a cactus once,” Feng Xin mumbles. Mu Qing feels the moment he gets distracted, because sudden pain blooms at the base of his neck, where Feng Xin has pulled the collar of his robes down and bitten the skin. Pleasure follows quickly with the drag of Feng Xin’s tongue, washing away the angry retort on Mu Qing’s lips, and he lets out a sigh through his nose.
“We’ll keep it in my palace,” he says again, quieter, and this time Feng Xin only hums, focused on his mission. He nips and sucks at Mu Qing’s neck, leaving marks to be covered by his collar, and Mu Qing stares at the flower, curling his fingers into Feng Xin’s robes.
He’s not sure what the feeling is, washing over him in that moment, but it feels a little like he’s standing in Feng Xin’s smile. He stares at the flower, watches it glow bright, and buries his burgeoning smile in Feng Xin’s shoulder.
“Baobei. ”
Mu Qing steps to the side, setting down the can.
“ Xingan .”
He kneels, inspecting the leaves. Some brown, mostly green. He lifts the clips, carefully snipping just before the dead greenery begins. Crispy leaves fall to the floor; he’ll sweep them later, after the visit.
“ Qing’er. ”
“ No .”
He can almost feel Feng Xin’s pout. “I said I was sorry, baobei. ”
Mu Qing purses his lips, moving onto the next row. Annuals, this time. The soil looks good, the sprouts just beginning to show through. They’re coming along nicely.
“They didn’t seem all that surprised, though. ”
He tsks. “ It doesn’t matter if they were surprised. I said you were not to kiss me in front of Pei Ming, and what did you do? ”
“ I forgot, ” Feng Xin whines. “ Shi Qingxuan was looking the other way, anyway isn’t it fine? ”
“ You just said you forgot, now it’s because Lord Wind Master wasn’t looking? ”
A long pause. Mu Qing’s lips twitch.
“ I did forget. ”
“ Mhm. ”
The semi-annuals smell fresh, and the growth is going well. Mu Qing moves on, watering each one with the same care as he’s done for the last two hundred years. He needs to hurry if he’s going to finish before the visit.
“ You just looked so pretty, Qing’er, how could I not kiss you? ”
“Are you saying I don’t look that pretty all the time? ”
Feng Xin’s sigh echoes in his head, and Mu Qing laughs this time, happiness settling like a quilt over his shoulders. Just as he goes to take pity on Feng Xin, he hears another voice call his name.
“Mu Qing! I’m here, where are—oh!”
Mu Qing turns, setting the can down and flicking his sleeves back. He strides to the door, where Xie Lian walks in, looking around with wide eyes.
“Mu Qing, it’s beautiful in here,” he says when Mu Qing reaches him. He smiles brightly, one of the real smiles he wears these days. Mu Qing may not be able to stand Xie Lian’s hellspawn of a husband, but at least he looks really, genuinely happy these days. That much, at least, he can thank Hua Cheng for.
“Come in,” he says, gesturing for Xie Lian to follow him. “There’s tea ready.”
Some habits, he considers, simply can’t be broken, no matter how much time passes. He lifts the pot and pours, first for Xie Lian, and then for himself. Just as he sets it down, the doors open again, and Feng Xin strides in. “Dianxia!”
Then again, Mu Qing thinks, some things do change. Feng Xin smiles brightly at Xie Lian as he approaches, but instead of rounding the table to greet him, Feng Xin first goes to Mu Qing’s side, speaking into his private array as he goes.
“ Am I allowed to kiss you in front of Dianxia? ”
He doesn’t wait for an answer, but it’s because he already knows what it would be. Mu Qing allows him to wrap an arm around his waist and kiss him soundly before breaking away to bow to Xie Lian.
Xie Lian, for his part, doesn’t look surprised anymore. He smiles softly, gently, at Mu Qing, as if to say, I’m happy for you. Mu Qing holds that smile close to him as he sits, listening to Feng Xin’s chatter fill the room.
They talk idly for a while, catching up on the last few weeks. A ghost eradicated here, a new mortal food discovered there, another Mid-Autumn Festival passed like water over stone. This year the play was about the spectacle of Quan Yizhen rescuing Yin Yu’s ghost fire and nurturing it back to life, which had turned Yin Yu red to the roots of his hair and sent Quan Yizhen sprawling at his shixiong’s feet, a bawling mess.
Eventually, though, they stand and begin to circle the room, following along the wide planters set at the edges. Mu Qing is proud of this room, made just for him.
Well. Just for him, and for Feng Xin.
“This place is lovely, Mu Qing, really,” Xie Lian says, brushing his fingers along a climbing vine. He laughs softly as the vines follow his fingers, attracted by his spiritual energy. They round the edge of the row of planters and turn into the next, following the circular design of the room. Mu Qing had it built as a wide, circular atrium, with a glass dome above them to let the sun in, and put each long row of pots and planters in a concave design, all curling inwards towards the center the way living things reach for the sun, and in the center—
“Oh!”
Xie Lian lets out a soft gasp, a hand coming up to touch his chin. He’s mesmerized, Mu Qing can tell—he’s seen that look when Xie Lian had been gifted a new sword, back in Xianle. So long ago, now.
Back when he had the only person he thought would ever love him.
Fingers curl around his, and he looks up to see Feng Xin’s eyes already on him, a soft smile playing on his lips. After so long together, he knows Feng Xin knows what he’s thinking of. He feels him squeeze his hand as Xie Lian circles the center pedestal, face aglow by the gentle pink light.
“It’s beautiful,” he says, softly, as if the moment were too delicate to speak loudly. “Wherever did you find it?”
A squeeze, a voice in his head.
I love you.
Mu Qing smiles. “On my way.”
To you.