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There’s a certain kind of power in the passage of time: wounds mend, rivals become lovers. Feng Xin…has learned to decipher the subtle shifts on Mu Qing’s face that hint at his thoughts.
Okay, maybe it’s not that potent. Because as hard as Feng Xin tries, he ends up second-guessing himself when it comes to the “feelings” he gets regarding Mu Qing’s mood. Besides, even knowing Mu Qing’s emotions did not always help him when it came to puzzling out what it was that was causing said emotions. At best, these cues gave Feng Xin a clue as to whether he should tread carefully with Mu Qing that day…or simply run for the mortal realm.
Today, there is something off with Mu Qing. Again.
He’s smiling at Feng Xin, which Feng Xin doesn’t trust for a second, even if the smile is just a small, reserved one that shouldn’t be out of the ordinary.
The corners of Mu Qing’s mouth have this tightness to them, which implies that he isn’t actually happy. But that doesn’t actually help Feng Xin, because there are a plethora of other emotions in Mu Qing’s arsenal that are not-happy. For example, could he possibly be angry instead? Feng Xin needs a whole lot more to go off of before he can say for sure.
“Fujun,” Mu Qing says softly, startling Feng Xin. “What would you like for dinner tonight?”
Feng Xin’s heart starts to flutter. Involuntarily, he melts just a little at the way Mu Qing called him that. But then, the panic returns. Maybe his first instinct was right and Mu Qing is secretly mad at him.
The best guess Feng Xin can come up with is that he had been away for too long. The mission was supposed to be a simple one, but the ghost turned out to be tricky and hard to pin down. Feng Xin had had to track that bastard for weeks through an untamed jungle. And it had kept fucking raining.
So, yes. He’s filthy and probably stinks at the moment. It’s likely that Mu Qing is simply being sarcastic while holding back his derision.
Or…it could be possible that Mu Qing genuinely misses him and is just trying to show his husband that.
Feng Xin gives himself a mental shake. That’s preposterous. Mu Qing can be nice at times, even sweet, but there’s a distinct difference between Mu Qing being nice and…whatever’s going on now.
Well, Feng Xin’s gotta try something. He stops walking and turned to face Mu Qing, attracting more than a few looks and whispers from the other heavenly officials strolling down the Grand Avenue of Divine Might. “Qing’er, just tell me. Did I do something wrong? Should I have washed before coming back? I promise I’ll remember to do it next time!”
In response, Mu Qing lets out a light tinkle. Humoured, but definitely strained. Feng Xin is on the wrong damn path.
“Don’t be silly, A’Xin. You must have been exhausted. It’s much better for you to come home and take your time to relax during your bath. Speaking of which, I’ve already prepared one for you.” Mu Qing takes Feng Xin’s hand and pulls him back on track toward the street their palaces are on. He even leans into Feng Xin, which is enough of a shock that Feng Xin nearly stumbles.
This is getting stranger and stranger.
He casts his mind back to the days when he had been just a youth, training to become Dianxia’s personal guard. Feng Xin may have been born a noble, but he’d spent his fair share of time living in the guardsmen’s barracks. Young and impressionable, he’d received a lot of “manly advice” from people who’d eaten more salt than he’d had rice.
The ones that stand out from the rest all concern how to behave with his spouse. Of course, they’d meant a wife, but surely it works the same with Mu Qing. The insight that seems relevant now has to do with one’s spouse being too nice. According to the old guards, that means that Mu Qing must have done something that would upset him.
The examples Feng Xin had been given were things like losing too much money in mahjong, spending too much on bolts of fabric, and getting into an argument with his parents. Not relevant, when it comes to Mu Qing, his equal in all things.
Feng Xin levers himself onto his tiptoes to look into the distance. Thank goodness, his golden palace is still standing, so Mu Qing definitely didn’t destroy it. A tough challenge, considering their palaces are attached to each other. They each have their own entrance and receiving hall, but the common areas are mostly shared.
So what could it be if not that? Feng Xin can’t think of anything else. Besides, assuming that Mu Qing did something wrong seems more like a trap. One that he’s setting and luring himself into.
Thus, Feng Xin is back to the theory that Mu Qing is enraged with him and hiding it with a bright smile until which time he can castrate Feng Xin for it.
His best move now is probably to try and get on Mu Qing’s good side so that he might show his fujun some mercy when the time comes. But fuck, Feng Xin really can’t wrap his head around the fact that Mu Qing called him that. It’s too formal yet too intimate by far, for all that they’ve been officially married for decades now.
“There was no need to do that!” he insists, more than a little belatedly. Mu Qing shoots him an impatient and somewhat exasperated glance at that, finally showing a hint of his usual self. But he didn’t say anything, so Feng Xin kept going. “And about dinner, you can just make something simple. Maybe congee? That’s really easy, right? Or just whatever you like to eat.”
The look Mu Qing gives him turns more into a glare, one that’s even more cutting than before. “What part of ‘what do you want for dinner?’ don’t you get? Can’t a man cook for his husband after a month apart?” The grip on Feng Xin’s hand grows vise-like.
But then, just as swiftly as it had come, Mu Qing’s temper disappears. His face turns smooth as glass and just as slippery, a frightening mask of vapidity that gives nothing away. After that, Mu Qing smiles again and says, spuriously saccharine, “If that’s what Fujun wants, Qing’er will cook him some congee.”
Except, of course, Feng Xin doesn’t actually want congee. This confirms the idea that he’s definitely being punished for something. There’s no doubt about it.
After his lengthy bath, however, Feng Xin finds the dining table set not with a pitiful selection of braised pork with pickled vegetables and salted egg but a full feast. There is steamed fish in the middle, surrounded by dishes that are each successively more mouthwatering than the last. Sweet and sour pork, prawns stir-fried with chillies, poached chicken, claypot tofu, thinly sliced lotus root with mixed vegetables…
Feng Xin sits his ass down on a chair and waits for his husband to show up. He’s nearly buzzing as he salivates at the food, but he doesn’t touch any of it.
“Qing’er, this is amazing!” he exclaims when he spots Mu Qing, his heart so full of affection and appreciation for his most adored person. But then his face falls when he sees that Mu Qing is holding two bowls of plain congee.
In his heart, Feng Xin knows that this meal will be perfect with some fragrant white rice, but congee wouldn’t be too bad!
Mu Qing must notice his torn look, because he snaps, “What? Didn’t you ask for congee?” He sets the bowls down hard enough that some of the contents slosh out. It doesn’t seem to bother him, though, as he starts collecting portions of food on a plate and places it in front of Feng Xin.
It’s awkward to be having such a decadent meal with congee, in all honesty, but Feng Xin doesn’t mind. Too much time, love, and effort have gone into this meal for Feng Xin to mind such a tiny detail like that.
Only, he notices that Mu Qing barely picks at the food that’s spread out on the table, only scooping spoonfuls of congee flavoured with the sauce from the fish into his mouth.
The meal suddenly doesn’t seem as delicious anymore.
Mu Qing has been acting off ever since Feng Xin came back to the heavenly realm, but his behaviour now proves that there is something truly catastrophic over the horizon. And Feng Xin doesn’t even know what it might be.
Fortifying himself, Feng Xin puts a chicken wing—Mu Qing’s favourite—onto his plate. “What’s on your mind, Qing’er? You know I’ll always be here for you, whatever you need.” Feng Xin just manages to stop himself from asking if he’s at fault again, if he’d made a mistake somehow and hurt Mu Qing. And even if he hadn’t, he wants to be here to help anyway.
Mu Qing doesn’t try to smile this time. He just says tiredly, “Everything’s fine. Eat your dinner.”
He tries to emphasise his normalcy by working on the chicken wing. But, of course, he fails because he’s prim and proper and tries to eat chicken wings with a pair of chopsticks.
“Here, let me get that for you.” Feng Xin leans over and makes quick work of deboning the chicken. He puts the tender pieces straight into Mu Qing’s congee, and Mu Qing finally— finally— rewards him with a genuine smile.
“Thank you,” Mu Qing says, blushing so red that one would think something much different had conspired between them.
Feng Xin is no less bewildered about the situation, but he’s beginning to feel like it will all be okay. Mu Qing has always been a tough nut to crack, but with some patience and effort, Feng Xin knows he’ll get the truth out of Mu Qing at some point. He won’t be helping himself if he pushes Mu Qing now.
The more Feng Xin reflects on it, the more he can appreciate just how far they’ve come as a couple.
Looking over at Mu Qing as he loosens his hair for sleep, Feng Xin feels warmth spread all through him. After all that they’ve been through, they were somehow still together and devoted to each other, despite their old rivalries and fights, despite the poison words they hurled, only aiming to hurt. They might not be in sync outwardly, but their hearts and goals were pointed in the same direction.
As Mu Qing joins him on the bed, Feng Xin takes his hand and says, heartfelt, “I’m really thankful to have you, Qing’er. You’re the best husband I could ever ask for.”
And then, Mu Qing promptly bursts into tears.
Feng Xin is at a complete loss. Mu Qing doesn’t cry; he’s not that type. There have been so many challenges and hurdles in his life, molding him into the man he is, and something within him whispers to him that he’s a weaker person if he sheds a tear. Feng Xin has seen his beloved open up more, but he’s never seen this veritable deluge of grief.
“Hey, hey, no,” Feng Xin comforts, not really sure about what he can or should say. “Baobei, what’s wrong?”
He tucks the silky strands of Mu Qing’s hair behind his ear, trying to angle Mu Qing’s face towards him to survey the situation. Eyes red-rimmed and downcast, Mu Qing adamantly refuses to even look at Feng Xin.
The mere sight of it plunges daggers into Feng Xin’s heart. He tries to bundle Mu Qing up in his arms, but the other god struggles out of his grasp and scoots away from him on the bed. Feng Xin tries to follow, but Mu Qing throws a hand out to warn him off.
“No!” Mu Qing’s voice is shrill and panicked. It even catches as he speaks more. “No, I’m not! I’m a horrible husband!”
Now, Feng Xin will readily admit that their marriage hasn’t gone perfectly smoothly, but that’s a part of life. Disagreements, small tiffs, those are all part and parcel of a life lived together. No pair of people can possibly survive operating in the same household without any conflict at all. Well, maybe Dianxia and that one-eyed ghost king, but there’s something clearly wrong with that crimson bastard.
When it comes down to it, Feng Xin loves Mu Qing, and he’s never been happier. It’s just a matter of communicating that to Mu Qing in a manner that he’ll actually believe it.
Despite his panic, Feng Xin figures he needs to find out what’s going on before he can do something about it. Mu Qing is too skittish at the moment for anything else.
“Why would you think that, Qing’er? Don’t I tell you I love you enough? Because I do. Mu Qing, I love you so fucking much I don’t know what I would even do without you.” Feng Xin reaches out, instinctively, because he’s always been a practical, physical kind of man. He needs the contact to show Mu Qing that he really means what he says.
Thankfully, Mu Qing takes his hand, but he doesn’t come any closer or even look up at Feng Xin.
“I know that.” Typically, Mu Qing would pair that with an eyeroll, but Feng Xin doesn’t think Mu Qing is that kind of a mood. “It’s me. I’m petty and selfish and mean. I made you congee with dinner even though I was sure you didn’t want it!”
Mu Qing sobs again, curling himself into a ball but still holding onto Feng Xin’s hand.
Fuck giving Mu Qing space. Feng Xin manoeuvres himself behind Mu Qing and embraces his husband’s hunched-up form.
Soothing a hand down Mu Qing’s back, Feng Xin says carefully, “You’re not. Like you said, I asked for it. I didn’t want you to tire yourself out. You made me a feast anyway. How is that at all selfish?” After a pause, Feng Xin goes all out on a hunch and asks, “What’s really bothering you?”
Somehow, it’s at this that Mu Qing turns to Feng Xin. He sniffs. “You promise you won’t laugh?”
Feng Xin knows clear as day what the right answer to that is, but he doesn’t get the chance give it before Mu Qing is slipping off the bed. When he comes back, he’s holding a finely made box, its lid inlaid with pearl. After undoing the delicate latch, Mu Qing holds the box out to Feng Xin.
Nothing would really explain Mu Qing’s current state, but anything would have served better to enlighten Feng Xin than what sits in the box.
For a second, Feng Xin can’t even tell what it is. There aren’t many lit lamps in their bedchamber, so he summons his spiritual energy to bring forth a ball of light in his palm. He moves to pick the item up from the box, but Mu Qing makes a strangled noise, which immediately makes him stop.
He frowns but doesn’t say anything as Mu Qing takes his hand and guides it closer to the box. What’s inside is little more than loose threads boldly attempting to stay woven together, but whatever structural integrity it might have had in the past is gone. The shiny silk is too aged to be anything more than that, so far beyond repair that Feng Xin can’t even identify its colour.
“What is this, Qing’er?” And what significance does it hold? Feng Xin isn’t sure if knowing would help.
Mu Qing blinks up at him, his tears drying up now. “Your hair ribbon. You gave it to me after Zhu-shixiong picked on me. I was such a mess at that time…But I haven’t been able to take care of it. I only take it out of the box when you’re away from the heavenly realm, but it still disintegrated.”
Feng Xin’s brain works as he tries to wrap his head around this revelation. Is Mu Qing beating himself up because of a hair ribbon Feng Xin doesn’t even remember giving to him? And for what?
A pained look crosses his features as he tries to talk some sense into his husband. “Qing’er, it’s silk. We’re centuries old. You know what happens to fabric after so long. It’s amazing that you managed to preserve it until now.” Why can’t Mu Qing let it go? “My love for you has nothing to do with how well you keep the things I give you. The ribbon isn’t a symbol of your devotion.”
“I-I-I…” Mu Qing stutters, but doesn’t get anything substantial out. He avoids Feng Xin’s gaze again. “I feel like I’ve let you down somehow. And I tried to be a better husband, but just look at what happened today.”
The admission only makes Feng Xin hold onto Mu Qing tighter. “What happened today was proof of how much my husband loves me. You met me when I got back and welcomed me home with a bath. You cooked me a delicious meal. And don’t say that you were only doing that as some kind of compensation. You’ve always done so much for me, for us. You take immaculate care of our palaces, even when it’s not your job to. You make everything better, Qing’er, including me.”
Mu Qing rubs his eyes with balled fists and looks at Feng Xin with a hopeful expression. “Do you really mean that?”
“Of course I do. I would never lie to you.” He pauses to stroke a stray tear from Mu Qing’s cheekbone, indulging in the soft feel of skin. “Are you feeling better now? Is there anything I can do for you?”
Shaking his head, Mu Qing arranges himself so that he fits more properly in Feng Xin’s arms. “Just hold me,” he requests, and they sit like that for a while, just breathing.
After a while, it occurs to Feng Xin that, if he’d given Mu Qing that ribbon while they were still teenagers on Taicang Mountain, then there must be a reason Mu Qing kept it, even then. A wicked smile spreads on his face.
“Oh, Qing’er,” he coos, voice so affected that it draws a wary look from Mu Qing. “You sure kept that ribbon for a long time. Does that mean you were in love with me even then? I’m impressed with myself, really. I never knew I held so much allure. And what agony it must have been for you to wait so long before you could even tell me about your feelings.”
Quick as a flash, Feng Xin is shoved so hard that he falls off the bed. Rubbing his head, he complains, “Hey, what was that for?!”
“You were being a pig.” Mu Qing huffs and rolls his eyes. “Who do you think you are, Feng Xin? Your allure? More like your cluelessness! If you won't look in the mirror, then at least piss on the ground and look there.”
The insult doesn’t so much as sting. Feng Xin knows for a fact that Mu Qing thinks very highly of him, and the implication that he has a false and inflated sense of pride is just Mu Qing being defensive. In truth, Feng Xin was indeed asking for it with his comments. But he just can’t help himself.
“Well, what am I supposed to think? You were so devastated that you didn’t take good enough care of something I gave you centuries ago. How’s that not a compliment?”
Mu Qing lets out a derisive snort. “Oh, please. I only kept it because the silk was of high quality. It wasn’t special then, and you weren’t either!”
“But I am now, aren’t I?” Feng Xin can’t help but tease, even as he picks himself off the floor.
Gratifyingly, Mu Qing’s face turns pink. “Sure, whatever,” he mumbles.
Nevertheless, Feng Xin is allowed back on the bed and even to hold Mu Qing as they fall asleep. In the liminal space between wakefulness and slumber, Feng Xin even thinks he hears Mu Qing reiterate that he loves him.
The next morning, Feng Xin ushers Mu Qing over to the vanity and sits him down. He meticulously combs Mu Qing’s soft hair and bundles it into the usual high ponytail that Mu Qing prefers, securing it with a hair ribbon of his own before finishing it off with a guan.
“Now do the same for me. This can be our ritual from now on, okay? And no getting upset if we don’t get to do it.”
Mu Qing regards him critically for a moment, as if judging the merits of the idea. “Okay,” he pronounces, “but don’t act so pleased with yourself. We’re just doing each other’s hair.” Not exactly resounding support of his very romantic idea, but.
Feng Xin can live with that. As long as Mu Qing is his, and he is Mu Qing’s, he can live with whatever’s thrown at him.