Work Text:
“Mu Qing! Hey, Mu Qing!”
Sighing deeply, Mu Qing rolls his eyes and turns. “What do you want, Feng Xin? I’m busy.”
Feng Xin catches up to him, a bright smile undimmed by Mu Qing’s lack of enthusiasm. “The other boys were talking about this trick.”
He holds up two . . . Mu Qing raises a brow. “Cherry stems?”
“Yeah! You have to tie it into a knot with your tongue. Apparently it’s really hard.”
Mu Qing stares at him like he’s grown a second head. Really? This is what he’s wasting his time on? Tying cherry stems into knots with his t-tongue?
(For a second, he imagines it. Feng Xin working his jaw, eyes focused, as his pink tongue twists and works a stem into a knot, lips parting to triumphantly stick his tongue out to show Mu Qing . . .)
Mu Qing rolls his eyes again, hefting the armful of scrolls he’s holding, and hopes his blush isn’t as obvious as it feels. “If you have enough time to fool around and play stupid games, then you must not be doing your job.”
Feng Xin peers at him, frowning. “Yeah . . . are you okay?”
Fuck. Mu Qing turns swiftly, heading down the gilded hall of Xianle Palace. “The Crown Prince is looking very unprotected right now. You should get on that.”
“Hey, Mu Qing, wait–! Ah shit, His Highness’s sword practice . . .”
His footsteps hurry down the opposite end of the hall, fading quickly, and that’s the end of it.
Or so Mu Qing thinks.
He brings it up again a week later.
Mu Qing is busy washing Xie Lian’s robes when Feng Xin sidles into the washroom. Mu Qing pays him no mind except to give a beleaguered sigh, before bending to lift the soaking robes out of the basin to wring them out.
For a long moment he thinks Feng Xin is just going to stand there in silence, but of course that was too good to last. Feng Xin seems to view silence as some sort of curse, and actively avoids it as if it’ll infect him somehow.
“So, um . . . you remember that game I mentioned? Last week? With the, uh—”
“The cherry stems?” Mu Qing mutters, wringing the excess water from wide sleeves.
From the corner of his eye, Feng Xin has sidled into view. At his words, he turns an interesting shade of red. “Right. So uh, the other boys were saying that it’s easier if, um, if we. I-If I—a person—were to, ah . . . d-do it. With, um. Someone.”
Abruptly and wholly unwelcome, the memory of a few days prior comes to the forefront of Mu Qing’s mind. He’d been walking with the king’s personal servant to learn where the stain removal soaps were kept, and seen Feng Xin standing with a few other guards. They’d been talking with a group of court ladies, who’d been openly flirting—some rather shamelessly—with Feng Xin.
Mu Qing had tried to ignore them and focus on the king’s servant, but it had been hard with sweet, tinkling laughs floating through the air, and Feng Xin’s voice responding. The smile had been evident in his tone, and after a while, they’d started to sound rather targeted, the way Mu Qing had unwittingly tuned in to the sound. Like every coquettish giggle was made specifically to stab into Mu Qing’s chest like tiny needles.
Needless to say, now, Mu Qing has only to draw the connections for a sharp feeling to sink into his heart.
He turns only long enough to send him an unimpressed look. “So you came here to tell me how you had fun with those court ladies? I’m not interested.”
It’s a little too revealing, but his stomach is doing that uncomfortable flipping thing again, and he’s just a bit too raw to soften the edge of his words. He doesn’t want to hear about how Feng Xin was kissing those beautiful girls, even as his mind supplies an entirely unhelpful image of Feng Xin wrapped up with one of them, hands tangled in long hair, robes slipping off shoulders, red kiss-bitten lips—
Mu Qing bites his own lips hard before he can torture himself with how Feng Xin might sound and instead turns back to the laundry.
Beside him, Feng Xin frowns. “What? No I meant—well, I was going to ask if . . . if, uh—”
What the hell is wrong with him? Mu Qing has always known Feng Xin is an idiot around women, but they aren’t even around any right now! Annoyed, Mu Qing yanks the cloth out of the water. “ What, Feng Xin?! Spit it out!”
“If you wanted to do it with me!”
If his shouted words were jarring, the silence that follows them is even more so. Mu Qing stares at him, the shirt in his hand slipping back into the basket with a wet slap. He couldn’t have heard that right—he did not just hear Feng Xin suggest—suggest—what he thinks! He’d never—and anyway, Mu Qing would never agree.
(He tells himself so, anyway.)
Feng Xin’s face is bright red, his eyes squeezed shut and fists clenched at his sides, and at the silence he peeks up at Mu Qing. Whatever he sees in his face makes him swallow. Traitorously, Mu Qing’s eyes flick down to watch the movement of his throat.
And of all the times for Feng Xin to become astute, it has to be now, because when else would it happen? He catches the direction of Mu Qing’s gaze, and something in his own changes. Mu Qing yanks his eyes back up in time to see Feng Xin’s dart away from his mouth, which Mu Qing realizes has been parted. He seals his lips closed quickly, face flushing, and resists the urge to swallow.
Feng Xin keeps talking. “They said it’s easier with two people trying to tie the stem.”
It’s an unnecessary explanation, because Mu Qing is not going to humor him.
“How would that even work?” Mu Qing asks, and vaguely wonders where the last of his sanity went.
Feng Xin fixes him with an intense look, one that has Mu Qing fighting off a shiver. “We . . . we’d both use our tongues.”
Unbidden, Mu Qing’s mind is filled with images. Feng Xin slipping a cherry stem into his mouth before pressing his lips to Mu Qing’s, his tongue coaxing Mu Qing’s mouth open. Their tongues brushing, trying to tie the stem but getting tangled together instead. Feng Xin holding their heads together, gripping Mu Qing’s ponytail to guide him properly.
And isn’t it just a sad cover, a thinly veiled excuse for kissing? Is that what Feng Xin wants? He can’t possibly believe two people would actually make tying the stem easier—but then, he did believe Mu Qing when he told him eating rotten orange peels would make his eyesight better, so he supposes he should give credit where credit is due.
The question now, though, is whether or not Feng Xin realizes that this cherry stem business is just a cover for kissing. It’s obvious enough to Mu Qing, but . . . well. There’s really only one way with Feng Xin, and it’s to plow forward. He’s certainly not going to put the suggestion out there and be ridiculed for it if Feng Xin somehow doesn’t know.
His face is flaming, he can feel the heat in his ears, and he clenches the sleeves of his robes. “Fine,” he says, affecting an unbothered air. Feng Xin perks up, like a dog, and steps up, but Mu Qing backs away. “Not here,” he adds. “Someplace private.”
He ducks away from Feng Xin’s intense gaze, hurrying into the palace. Feng Xin’s boots click behind him, much closer than usual, and when Mu Qing ducks into an empty storeroom, he turns to find Feng Xin nearly on top of him. The sudden proximity makes him glad they’re the same height, even as Feng Xin closes the door behind them and reaches into his belt. He pulls out a pouch, reaching in to pull out a single red cherry stem, and it’s only then that Mu Qing realizes how hard his heart is pounding.
He stares at Feng Xin as he slips the stem into his mouth, leaving part of it sticking between his lips, and tries not to jerk too violently when he feels fingers at his chin, tilting his face up. Mu Qing finds golden eyes fixed on him, dark and hot, pupils dilated, and feels his breath come faster.
This is really happening. He’s really—you’re really going to—Mu Qing, you—
And then Feng Xin’s mouth is on his, and his thoughts evaporate.
Mu Qing has never kissed anyone before. Pecks on his mother’s cheek at the most. He’s imagined it, surely, especially after meeting Feng Xin—but only in the dark of his room after night has fallen, and only when he masters his own embarrassment long enough to allow himself to wonder.
And while he knows this isn’t really how one usually goes about kissing, he never thought it would be like this.
It’s . . . warm. Feng Xin is firm and hot against him, his breaths puffing against the line of his jaw, and his fingers tighten on his chin. Something is poking his lips, though, and belatedly he realizes it’s the cherry stem. Mu Qing parts his mouth, remembering the purpose of this farce with a hot flush, but it quickly fades again as the stem slides in, along with something, something else—
Oh.
Feng Xin’s tongue enters his mouth right behind the stem, seeming to reach, searching for something, and through the maelstrom of sensation, Mu Qing realizes it’s looking for his tongue. He scrambles to accommodate, muddling through the feeling of a foreign object in his mouth, brushing along his teeth and around the stem.
It’s weird. It’s hot and wet, and when it finally finds his tongue, he can’t stop the noise he makes, low in his throat.
It’s that noise that makes Feng Xin jerk away from him, coughing violently. He holds Mu Qing at arm’s length as he coughs up a lung, and Mu Qing tries not to feel too humiliated. This is just a stupid game to him, he reminds himself viciously, watching Feng Xin straighten, with as stiff an expression as he can muster. It’s not kissing to him.
Feng Xin takes several deep breaths, swallowing as he meets Mu Qing’s frigid gaze. “I . . . I accidentally swallowed the stem,” he says.
His voice is hoarse. Mu Qing forces himself to keep his voice steady as he replies, “Maybe we should stop—”
It’s as much out of self-preservation as it is to give Feng Xin an out, but the idiot just grabs his arms. “No! I want to try again.”
Mu Qing is about to snap, what if I don’t?, but by the time he takes a breath, Feng Xin is already fitting another stem into his mouth. He pulls Mu Qing close again, as if he hadn’t just choked with his tongue in Mu Qing’s mouth five minutes before, and angles Mu Qing’s chin up.
“Open your mouth,” he murmurs around the stem. “It’ll be easier.”
Mu Qing wants to make a comment, but their proximity has already stolen whatever breath was left in him, and so he simply parts his lips. The stem slides into his mouth, and he has a moment to feel it rest on his tongue before Feng Xin is pressing his lips to his again.
He’s more insistent about it this time, the press of his mouth harder. Mu Qing feels them move against his, coaxing him to meet him, and he does with half a thought, lost in the warmth and pressure. Feng Xin’s tongue enters his mouth a moment later, and this time Mu Qing is more prepared for the wet hotness of it as it slides along his. The cherry stem is trapped between their tongues; vaguely, Mu Qing makes an effort to try and curl it, to bend it into shape, but Feng Xin’s tongue is blatantly in the way, bumping against Mu Qing’s and ruining every effort he makes to actually tie the stupid stem. It gets annoying enough that Mu Qing bites the stem between his teeth and breaks off the kiss.
“This isn’t working,” he snaps.
“You’re not doing it right,” Feng Xin pants, fingers tightening on Mu Qing’s jaw.
“You’re in my way,” Mu Qing snips back. Feng Xin responds by crushing their mouths together again.
His tongue bullies its way back into Mu Qing’s mouth, pulling at the stem until it’s out from the clench of Mu Qing’s teeth, and then sets about trying to bend it the way Mu Qing was doing—before completely abandoning the effort in favor of tangling with Mu Qing’s once more.
Mu Qing meets it with an angry push—what the hell was the purpose of this, if Feng Xin was just going to—to do this instead? He curls his hands into Feng Xin’s collar, yanking him closer, and in response Feng Xin’s hands go to his waist.
His fingers reach all the way around—Mu Qing can feel it. It sends a shiver through him, and he knows Feng Xin feels it because he groans into Mu Qing’s mouth, and it’s that sound that makes them break apart once more.
“I still think you’re doing it wrong,” Feng Xin pants, lips brushing Mu Qing’s, and it’s all Mu Qing can do to scoff, never one to back down from a challenge.
“Fine. Watch me prove you wrong.”
He shoves another stem into his mouth and yanks Feng Xin in by his hair. It’s the angriest not-kiss they’ve shared yet, and the count keeps rising the longer they try. They go through nearly half the sack of stems, but every attempt lasts longer than the one before it, and after an indecipherable amount of time, Mu Qing surfaces from the haze long enough to realize they’ve lost yet another stem. He yanks weakly at Feng Xin, who stops sucking on Mu Qing’s tongue long enough to mumble, “Let’s try again,” against Mu Qing’s lips.
He doesn’t even bother reaching for the sack of stems before claiming Mu Qing’s mouth again, and Mu Qing doesn’t have the wherewithal to deny him. They’ve been kissing for so long now that it feels strange to not be kissing, and neither of them are bothering to pretend anymore.
Feng Xin’s hands are tight on his waist, even as one of them slips down to grab at his ass, squeezing hard enough to make Mu Qing arch into him. Mu Qing bites Feng Xin’s lip in retaliation, but of course the brute likes it, from the pleased rumble he gives. He backs Mu Qing up against the door, pressing the solid line of his body along Mu Qing’s, his tongue reaching deep into Mu Qing’s mouth, and one of his hands reach for the sash of his robes, yanking at the silk—
“Mu Qing? Feng Xin? Where are you guys?”
The speed with which they part probably breaks some sort of land speed record; Feng Xin rips himself away, hand frozen on Mu Qing’s sash; he meets Mu Qing’s wide eyes, neither of them moving.
Xie Lian’s voice sounds again. “Where do you think they went, Guoshi?”
“Off fighting again, I suspect,” comes Mei Nianqing’s voice, cool and just this side of disdainful. “It will be useless to seek them out, Your Highness. Let us continue on with the lesson.”
“All right.”
Xie Lian’s voice is unsure, but he of everyone knows what Mu Qing and Feng Xin are like, so he accepts Mei Nianqing’s words easily enough. Inside the storeroom, Mu Qing stands utterly still, heart racing with adrenaline and leftover arousal. It can’t be more than a few minutes while they wait for Xie Lian and their Guoshi to leave, but it feels like an eternity to Mu Qing, who’s just had Feng Xin’s tongue down his throat for who knows how long—
Feng Xin, who’s still pressed up against him like a flea on a dog, chest rising and falling in time with Mu Qing’s own heartbeat. He meets Mu Qing’s eyes, and for moments after their prince and teacher’s footsteps have faded, they stare at each other, and Mu Qing doesn’t know if he’s seeing fresh desire, or a leftover of what they’ve been doing. He can’t tell if the cloud in his mind is growing, or fading in fresh clarity.
Then Feng Xin’s eyes dip down to Mu Qing’s lips, and he sees what he must look like in the mirror of Feng Xin’s face. Red lips, swollen and kiss-bitten, flushed cheeks, dark eyes darker with desire—does Feng Xin see it too?
Mu Qing’s thoughts are a wild mess, but then Feng Xin’s tongue dips out to lick at the corner of his mouth, and Mu Qing’s breath stutters.
“I think,” Feng Xin starts, “the results are, uh . . .”
“Inconclusive,” Mu Qing finishes, and Feng Xin nods, eyes fixed on Mu Qing’s mouth.
It makes his throat run dry. “Y-You should come to my rooms later,” he finds himself saying. He forces himself to look into darkened gold eyes. “To finish the experiment.”
Feng Xin nods again, and doesn’t back away. For once, Mu Qing can’t say he’s too bothered by it.