Work Text:
1.
It happens in the blink of an eye. One moment he’s under the moonlit sky, watching the amber of Mu Qing’s eyes glimmer like constellations, each individual lash delicate and pointy, flecks of heaven reflected in his gaze.
The next moment, Mu Qing won’t even deign to look at him, won’t even spare him the mercy of recognition.
(Feng Xin had mustered up the courage required to charge into a herd of binu, and was surprised to find that it came so easily – of course it was, when in every battle he knew Mu Qing would watch his back. It felt right, the cool summer breeze playfully tossing Mu Qing’s hair, the way Mu Qing was stealing glances at him poorly, the way their conversation had fallen into comfortable silence.
“You know, I-” Mu Qing was saying, and then clamping his mouth shut.
Feng Xin was holding Mu Qing’s hand with his bulky, clammy ones – and Feng Xin’s mind stuttered painfully: cold, small, smaller than mine, rough, firm, long, he has long fingers.
“I- I- wh-what are you doing?” Mu Qing was asking, small, his hand frozen in Feng Xin’s.
He looked so small. He looked so- scared, eager, hopeful, and Feng Xin could hear the gears in Mu Qing’s head sputter to life.
“I- uh, I, well,” Feng Xin bit his tongue. “I mean, I- I’m just, you know.”
“I don’t!”
“Uh, I,” Feng Xin squinted at the golden glow of the heavenly capital below them. “I’m, I guess I’m declaring my intentions.”
Mu Qing’s eyes were so, so wide. Feng Xin could discover an entire galaxy in them.
“You-” Mu Qing ducked his head, and his ears were already red. Feng Xin felt his pulse rabbit at the sight. “You’re d-d-declaring your-”
Feng Xin nodded uncertainly. And then Mu Qing fell silent.
Mu Qing’s hand was still in his, Mu Qing was still there, his hair gently dancing in the breeze. It felt good. It felt right, and it felt a little like-
Mu Qing took a step back, and teleported away swiftly.)
There’s a human wall between them, the gaggle of Xuan Zhen’s deputies all too eager to shout in riddles at him. Behind him, his own Chen Juncheng was staring in horror at the sight of their combined verbose strength.
“Wait, Mu-”
“Please, General Nan Yang, we would be grateful if you could refrain from addressing our general so familiarly,” Tao Yue, Mu Qing’s trusted head deputy (and until now, Feng Xin had also trusted her to have a level head on her shoulders), says.
“Yeah! Others might misunderstand!” the shortest one of them quips, raising her sheathed sabre.
“Misunderstand? I think you’re misunderstanding-” He waves at Mu Qing, who’s busy inspecting a carved pillar. Bullshit. “Mu Qi-”
“Please! General Nan Yang! You’ll sully our general’s good name if you continue!”
Feng Xin understands why Mu Qing rolls his eyes so often now. “What good name-”
The flock of deputies gasp collectively, which. In all honesty, that’s quite effective at making Feng Xin feel like he’s just committed some great, ancient taboo. He scratches at his neck, a nervous tick, and thinks he sees Mu Qing’s eyes flit over at him. And then Mu Qing’s stubbornly staring at the pillar again. It’s ridiculous.
Feng Xin sighs, and tries to step around them. “I’m just trying to tell him about the ghost-”
The deputies unanimously step to the left to block him. Feng Xin might be impressed with their coordination, if he’s not so exhausted from their verbal rally.
“Stand back, General, it would be improper otherwise,” yet another one of them says, which prompts a wave of assenting murmurs among the deputies. “It’s common knowledge that unwed singles shouldn’t mingle without proper boundaries.”
“What unwed singles-”
“Oh, right, General Nan Yang had a child, didn’t-”
“SHHHHHH-”
“But they weren’t married!”
“Not even betrothed!”
“Right, so it doesn’t count-”
“No, you idiot, we talked about it- not for this-”
“SHUT UP! STOP THAT RIGHT NOW!” Feng Xin roars, which does, in fact stun the muttering kittens into silence for a second.
Tao Yue clears her throat. “General Nan Yang, forgive my subordinates’ impudence, they mean no harm.”
“No, I-” Feng Xin presses a palm to his face, and sweeps his hair out of his eyes. Mu Qing’s still staring at the pillar, a conflicted wash of hurt and amusement on his face – it’s so easy to mistake his expression for something sinister, and Feng Xin bats away the 800-year old instinct to judge. “Mu Qing, I don’t know what’s going on-”
“General,” Tao Yue says again, a sharp edge of warning to her voice. “If you should have any message, we would be most willing to pass it on to our general.”
“He’s right there!” Feng Xin jabs an aggrieved finger at Mu Qing.
The shortest deputy from before stands on her tiptoes to block Mu Qing from view. She’s not very successful.
“Tao Yue, I don’t know if there’s been some misunderstanding, but I need to-”
“If these are official matters,” Tao Yue says slowly, like she might to a particularly stupid puppy. “If these are formal matters of business, General, you would find it equally effectively to speak to us first.”
Feng Xin turns back to his deputy for support. Chen Juncheng shakes his head furiously, hands held up in surrender.
“Fine,” Feng Xin says, glaring at all of them – the shortest one glares back, until another deputy slaps his hand over her eyes. “Fine, fuck-”
Another wave of gasps. Feng Xin pinches the bridge of his nose and holds his hand up before they can berate him again for some unknown slight. God, it’s going to be a long day, isn’t it?
2.
It was not, in fact, a long day. It was not a day at all. For the course of the next few weeks, that’s all it was – rinse and repeat: he’d be unable to find Mu Qing anywhere, be denied entry to the Palace of Xuan Zhen, find Mu Qing at their weekly Martial God meetings, be thoroughly ignored throughout said meeting, chase after Mu Qing when each meeting ended, and then be faced with the same group of deputies standing between him and Mu Qing.
It was exhausting and confusing, and it got to the point that Feng Xin knew almost all of Mu Qing’s deputies by name.
Today it’s Yang Miao standing in front of him. He’s taller than Feng Xin, though he’s definitely less stoic than Tao Yue. Briefly, Feng Xin wonders if he’s sick of this too, what with the way Yang Miao’s doling out repeated phrases of indecency and improper behaviour with the same dripping sarcasm as his general. In the middle of Feng Xin’s protests, he rolls his eyes too – definitely learned behaviour.
“Mu Qing,” Feng Xin says, because by now the deputies are kind of taking pity on him too. And it must mean something, right, that he’s still trying? “I don’t know what I did wrong, if that’s why you’re ignoring me- I thought everything was going- uh, I thought we were okay?”
Mu Qing’s face is flushed pink, the same fluffy pink of steamed peach buns. Feng Xin wants to cup it with his hands and tilt Mu Qing’s face to look at him directly.
“No, General Nan Yang,” Yang Miao’s sardonic drawl cuts in. “You haven’t done anything wrong. You haven’t done anything.”
The shorty – Zhang Yi – nods enthusiastically, her eyes sparkling. Like that means anything.
“You really, really haven’t done anything!” Zhang Yi says emphatically, eyes as round as saucers.
“So then what is this?!”
“It’s just proper etiquette,” Yang Miao says, bored. “In any case, we’ll get back to you on the reported huli jing sightings shortly once we’ve consolidated the reports on our end too.”
Feng Xin sighs, shrugging. He turns away in defeat.
“What-!” it’s Zhang Yi, but she’s muffled by lowered voices strategising.
There are purposeful stomps, and then the deputies are chasing after their general.
Feng Xin strides off in the direction of his palace, only to bump into Pei Ming, who’s lazily leaning against a wall. By his crooked brow and bemused smile, he’s witnessed the entire thing. It’s not surprising – half the capital’s alive to the sudden cold war (however one-sided) between the two Generals of the South.
“Lover’s spat?” Pei Ming asks, and it sounds like a taunt.
“Fuck off,” Feng Xin says, by habit.
And then Feng Xin pauses. Because they’re not- they’re not fighting, and Mu Qing’s just suddenly decided that Feng Xin isn’t really worth his time or something, and they’re still working in tandem for the South. So things are… objectively, they’re good.
And they’re not… lovers? They’ve not done anything like lovers, they’re not- just the flimsy, vulnerable moment of Feng Xin grabbing Mu Qing’s hand-
Feng Xin swallows. He misses it so much, being allowed to be around Mu Qing, close enough to touch. He misses seeing Mu Qing up close, the way he’s allowed to watch Mu Qing’s million micro-expressions dance across his face, the way Mu Qing’s eyes light up momentarily – just a split-second! – when he sees something curious, or interesting. All these privileges, now denied, and Feng Xin has to stand at attention, at a careful, measured distance.
Pei Ming must see something in his face, because, “Ho ho.”
Feng Xin flips him off.
3.
It’s ridiculous. It’s also his last resort.
Xie Lian is all smiles and radiant cheer when he greets Feng Xin. His husband, a little less so. But Feng Xin must do this – he has to figure out what the hell is going on with Mu Qing. Or it’d be another eight hundred years of speaking to Mu Qing by proxy; he’s dense enough, and Mu Qing is stubborn enough.
“…so that’s it,” Feng Xin finishes lamely, his explanation stiff and desperate. “He’s just being so weird about everything! I don’t even get to talk to him – he’s kicked me out of his array too!”
Xie Lian tilts his head. “That is strange, don’t you think, San Lang?”
There’s a twinkle in Hua Cheng’s eyes. Feng Xin doesn’t like what this means, but he also recognises that it’s a little less malice, a little more mischief. A shudder runs down his back at what it means that he’s getting better at reading Crimson Rain.
“Well, what does Ge-ge think?”
Xie Lian taps a finger against his chin. “It doesn’t sound like you’ve done anything, and that’s corroborated by Mu Qing’s deputies. Mu Qing’s allowing it, which must mean he’s in approval. Plus he’s still willing to be in the same public areas as you, and then there’s the talk of propriety and proper steps to be taken, etiquette…”
Xie Lian sits a little straighter, struggling to bite down a smile. Hua Cheng stares at him with fond amusement.
“Ge-ge is so smart,” Hua Cheng praises.
Xie Lian blushes. “Oh, well, Mu Qing’s never really been direct, has he?”
“What’s going on?” Feng Xin leans in, just as Hua Cheng leans back in his chair, considering:
“Well, I can’t say I understand the way idiots think.”
“San Lang!”
“But I can’t say I entirely disagree with the General’s flair for the dramatics,” Hua Cheng finishes, grinning wolfishly. “Very romantic for a pragmatist like him.”
“THERE’S NOTHING ROMANTIC ABOUT THIS?!” Feng Xin gestures wildly at everything.
“Calm down, Feng Xin.”
“Your Highness,” Feng Xin begs Xie Lian instead. “You’ve got to know something.”
But Xie Lian shakes his head – he’s smiling. “I think you’re figuring it out, Feng Xin. You’ve got everything right in front of you.”
Feng Xin sighs, sinking back into his seat. Xie Lian pours him another cup of tea.
It’s useless. Absolutely useless.
4.
Salvation comes in the form of a mission doled out by Ling Wen. To be more precise, Mu Qing, for the first time in an unreasonably long while, gives Feng Xin a look from beside Pei Ming (Pei Ming! Of all people!) as Ling Wen reads out yet another mortal woe (Feng Xin spent the larger part of the meeting tapping his heel restlessly – he had bigger things to worry about, okay?!).
Mu Qing raises his hand to accept the mission, and Feng Xin follows suit immediately. That earns him an indifferent nod from Mu Qing – and it soothes him embarrassingly quickly so that he’s not rocking his leg like an impatient fool. Like a man quenched of thirst in the desert.
He vaguely remembers men falling over themselves for a flash of ankles. He thinks he might sympathise, at least.
So when he’s descending with Mu Qing (he’d transformed into Fu Yao immediately after the meeting, and then none of his pesky deputies were around) to the mortal realm, he’s eager to talk to him again.
“Mu-”
“Did you even get the details of the mission,” Mu Qing is saying, handing him the scroll.
Feng Xin takes it, pleased that Mu Qing isn’t moving his hand away like he’s burned by Feng Xin’s fingers.
“I mean, kind of,” Feng Xin says.
Mu Qing huffs. “…was so out of it. I’m surprised… even had the mind to accept it…”
Feng Xin skims through the scroll. Something about a ghost bride, matchmakers of the town praying for peace, missing grooms or brides. It’s almost nostalgic, he notes, and wonders if that’s why Mu Qing wanted them to take this mission.
“Mu Qing-”
“It’s Fu Yao,” Mu Qing cuts in bluntly.
“Uh,” Feng Xin stares at him. “There’s no one around.”
“Precisely!”
“What- is this something, is this part of your, you’ve been acting weird!”
Mu Qing- Fu Yao flushes pink just as easily – pickled ginger. See! It’s such a flimsy disguise, and Feng Xin’s tired of running circles.
“What acting weird,” Mu Qing says.
“You’ve been avoiding me!”
“You mean my esteemed General Xuan Zhen,” Mu Qing says, stubborn as a bull, “and your General Nan Yang, Nan Feng.”
Feng Xin throws his hands up. “What, fine, yes, our Generals are avoiding each other. Why!”
“Well, how should I know, I’m not him,” Mu Qing mutters, sulking.
“And now, after ignoring me for so long, why’d you ask me to-” Mu Qing glares at him, so Feng Xin ‘tsk’s and changes, “your esteemed general, why’d he ask to take on this mission with me! With- with my general!”
“He’s not ignoring your general,” Mu Qing kicks at a rock. He’s so obviously pouting. “I wonder why!”
“You have to talk to me-”
“My general owes yours nothing.”
“You can’t just say that! You ran out on me all of a sudden when-”
“When did I ever run out on you?”
“Fine! When your general ran out on mine when they were both in the clearing, watching the meteor shower-”
Mu Qing flushes a further, darker shade of red. “Stop it! Do you want- do you want to sully my general’s good name further-”
“How am I sullying your reputation? What the fuck are you talking about?”
Mu Qing hisses. “You thank your god you a-aren’t in your- you’re still Nan Feng!”
“You’re making no fucking sense! We’ve been together forever and this has never been an issue! Is this because I held your-”
“STOP IT! T-TH-THAT WAS THEN! YOUR GENERAL-” Mu Qing took a steadying breath, running his hand through his brown hair. “You- stop running your mouth about such s-s-scandalous behaviour! About my general!”
“WHAT THE FUCK?! HOW- WHAT SCANDAL?! IT WAS ONLY JUST HAND HOLDING-”
Mu Qing punches him. The only thing stopping Feng Xin from punching back it the fact that Mu Qing’s face is completely red, and about to burst.
“SHUT UP!” Mu Qing yells, and he’s shaking so hard Feng Xin worries he’s gotten a concussion from just one punch. “Oh my god, I knew it, I shouldn’t have even bothered-”
“Bothered what?”
Mu Qing shoots him another glare. “Why don’t you use that big old head of yours for once?! Or is it simply for decoration?!”
Mu Qing teleports away again.
Feng Xin’s left in the middle of the barren land, staring, jaw agape. He’s about to split the earth beneath him in two when a quiet voice speaks to him in his private array:
“General Nan Yang,” it’s Tao Yue, clipped and professional. “Fu Yao will meet you at the inn in the town.”
He presses two fingers to his temple. “You do know that Mu Qing is Fu Yao?”
“Yes. Everyone does, really, but it’s easier like this,” And then, “he’s just embarrassed, General Nan Yang.”
“He’s embarrassed… of me?” A sinking feeling in his stomach overwhelms the sting of Mu Qing’s right hook.
“Oh, no, no, not quite,” Tao Yue purses her lips. “Well, perhaps that’s not- you might think of him as shy, maybe a bit more traditional.”
Feng Xin squeezes his eyes shut. “Well, I do think of him as an idiot right now.”
A pause. Tao Yue’s voice is considerably colder when she speaks, “General Nan Yang, you may wish to hurry. Night’s about to fall.”
5.
The mission goes a little more smoothly when he and Mu Qing enter an unspoken truce about the whole deal. In a way, it’s better like this – Mu Qing allows him to stand near, allows him to linger by his side when they’re hunched over to read from the same booklet of a matchmaker’s contacts, allows Feng Xin to push his hair behind his ear when stray strands fall into his eyes.
And though they had two separate rooms at the inn –
(“Is this-” Feng Xin had grumbled when he was given his key.
Mu Qing looked at him, questioning. “What?”
Feng Xin paused, unsure if he should break the fragile peace they’d just mended. “I mean… you, I thought, well-”
“Spit it out,” Mu Qing rolled his eyes, more habit than actual annoyance.
“I thought this was you avoiding me again,” Feng Xin blurted.
There’s silence. And when Feng Xin turned back to look, Mu Qing looked- shocked, genuinely. He’s not offended or anything. In fact, he was just turning a shade pinker. Barely.
“I- I mean,” Mu Qing crossed his arms. “This is how we’ve always done it?”
The way his voice rose at the end, faltering into a slight crack – yeah. That’s- Feng Xin tugged at his collar. “Oh. Well. I thought – because we shared a room the first time we were, you know, with that other ghost bride and his Highness…”
Mu Qing shrugged. “Well. I mean, that was one time.”
Feng Xin nodded.
And then Mu Qing was ducking his head, voice lowered to a whisper, “I mean, unless you want to-?”
“Want to-?”
Mu Qing made a small, irritated noise. “You’re the one kicking up a big fuss about the rooms!”
“Oh.” Feng Xin stared up at him, halfway up the stairs.
“Hand it over, you big oaf,” Mu Qing was trotting down the stairs hurriedly, the old wooden board creaking. “The key.”
Feng Xin let him take it.)
So there was that. And that was. That.
Feng Xin can’t sleep now. Not with half of Mu Qing’s hair stuck in his mouth, Mu Qing pressed all the way up against him. He’s still in his Fu Yao form, and he’s smaller than Nan Feng by a smidge.
Surprisingly, Mu Qing’s arms are stiffly crossed, tucked so securely in on himself, ungiving in the ways the man is when awake. It doesn’t look comfortable. It can’t be! And then it’ll be Mu Qing moaning about- complaining about the aches in his arms in the morning, which will somehow become Feng Xin’s fault.
Feng Xin stares up at the ceiling, and then out the window at the cloudy sky. They won’t have to wake early tomorrow – it’ll likely storm. He can taste the humidity in the air here.
Sighing, Feng Xin reaches over, lodges a hand under Mu Qing’s elbow. He drags Mu Qing’s arms out into a more human position – at which point Mu Qing’s fingers find their way into his. Handholding. Feng Xin wants to laugh. He settles for tugging Mu Qing closer, pulling the thin blanket over them both.
6.
Mu Qing’s dutifully leafing through yet another ledger accounting for the missing bride’s dowry, while Feng Xin fends off the persistent matchmaker who’s certain she can find at least ten eligible women of marriageable age. It’s fair, really, because at least Feng Xin doesn’t have to deal with the women directly.
That, and Mu Qing would probably be carted off to be wed to some unsuspecting merchant; when they stopped by a snack stall earlier, the granny manning the stall had held both their hands with her leathery ones and wished them a good, long marriage. She also wagged a knowing finger at Feng Xin and made him promise not to neglect his beautiful wife. Her eyes were milky, squinted into crescents as she howled with laughter. Surprisingly, all Mu Qing could do was blush, bare denials fluttering uselessly, as he stared at the way she wrapped misshapen cubes of osmanthus cakes in brown paper carefully. Efficiently.
And if Feng Xin stood a little closer after, glared at anyone who walked too closely while Mu Qing was lost in thought, so what?
…Anyway, Mu Qing’s good with math.
“You’re so strong, so handsome,” the matchmaker coos, waddling after him. “And you’re not married! My boy, you need to settle down. Don’t you know how important it is to have a woman managing your household? If the home is not taken care of, how can one be at ease to gallivant outside?”
“That’s not necessary,” Feng Xin says blandly. “An-popo, you’ve been this town’s matchmaker for a really long time, right?”
“Of course!” An-popo puffs her chest out. “I’ve been arranging marriages for decades. It’s a very important job, and of course, I see all these hopeless young ones…”
Feng Xin nods. “And the disappearances only started happening-”
“Pah!” An-popo shakes her head. “They’re all that wretched Luo Jing’s matches! Disastrous, they were never fated to be! All bluff and smoke. You know how I know? I had read their eight characters, and their temperaments all incompatible! She was just rushing marriages to earn their commission! Absolutely no conscience, that woman!”
“But they still go to her?” Mu Qing’s pushing the beaded curtain out of the way.
He walks to them, which means he walks to Feng Xin’s side. The sudden awareness has Feng Xin standing up a little straighter.
“Pah, pah, pah!” An-popo waves it off dismissively. “All smoke and mirrors, all blinded by greed! Absolutely no courtship, no equivalent exchanges. There’s no lasting marriage like this.”
Feng Xin feels the side of his head burning, and swallows, hard. For some reason it’s hard to meet Mu Qing’s eyes like this.
“And then there’s this Li Ziren,” Mu Qing begins to say, holding up the ledger in his hand, but then An-popo is tutting and thwacking her stick on the ground impatiently.
“That was my only miscalculation, I’ll tell you! One in the past century – when I’ve successfully matched up the entire town, this was the one-” An-popo sighs. “So eager to be wedded, so deeply in love, pah!”
Feng Xin tilts his head. “Isn’t that a good thing?”
An-popo shrugs. “I thought so too then, but I was far too inexperienced, too naïve… it was the talk of the town, the beauty and the poet, equally matched in all aspects. Their families too. But that was my oversight… their sweet nothings, so terribly young.”
“They did not need a matchmaker then,” Feng Xin concludes.
“Impractical as always,” Mu Qing snorts.
Feng Xin turns on him. “But they were in love!”
“How easy it is to dole out empty promises!” Mu Qing hisses back. “She had nothing to show for it.”
Feng Xin frowns. “But there was no need – if they were well matched in every respect, and they were true to each other, who would care!”
“No, they did,” An-popo’s eagle eyes flash at Feng Xin. “Of course they did! It was only proper. I had just failed to account for the consideration…”
“He won’t know anything of courtship,” Mu Qing steps in, “he’s too thick-headed.”
“Hey!”
“But everything looks to be in order,” Mu Qing waves the ledger again.
“Li Ziren, Li Ziren… she was a good lass, the beauty and pride of the town. Everything was going so well, but then her father gambled all of her dowry away, the night before, and after the wedding…”
She sighs.
An-popo then pointed her stick at Feng Xin threateningly. “This is why you always need to follow the proper procedure! Or you’ll be left in the ditch, all your talk of romance and nothing of reality!”
An-popo continues shaking her head, leaving the two of them alone in the store and heading into the backrooms. There’s something strange about the whole thing.
“It’s the courtship,” Mu Qing surmises, voice a little too detached, too pinched.
“After the marriage…” Feng Xin echoes. “She’s the only one that went missing after!”
“Not so thick-headed after all.”
Mu Qing smiles at him, a glittering rarity these days – Feng Xin almost forgets the insult.
7.
“Do you believe in true love?” Mu Qing asked him, bold-faced.
(He’s still Fu Yao here, which might explain his unabashed tone. The normal Mu Qing would have turned his nose up at the question.)
Feng Xin’s sitting at the base of an old banyan tree, peeling at the leftover tangerines that Mu Qing bought for the slum’s children. He hands half of it to Mu Qing, having removed the pith already.
“Yeah, why not?” Feng Xin shrugged.
Mu Qing bites into the fruit, his other hand still drawing arrays on the ground. “Figures.”
“Hey!”
“What.”
“You really… how do you make believing in true love sound like an insult.”
Mu Qing hummed. “All are fools in love. Just look at Xie Lian and Crimson Rain.”
Feng Xin leaned back against the thick trunk of the tree, jutting his chin out at Mu Qing – even if his back is turned, Feng Xin never makes the mistake of compromising on the full extent of his emotions with Mu Qing. “Do you believe in true love?”
“Not really.”
Feng Xin snorted.
“But I do think,” Mu Qing’s voice fell quieter here. “I do think love can be true, if you make it so.”
“Sure thing, f-f-f-friend.”
Mu Qing slung a fistful of dried leaves at him.
8.
It turns out that the ghost bride they were searching for had been ill-treated by her in-laws after the collapse of her family, none of her wealth her own, and her husband’s fleeting affections had never vested in her. No courtship gifts, no petty jewellery she could pawn off. So it was her turn to pass judgment on those who were eager to squander their wealth, to play at love with cold abundance.
Mu Qing laid her to rest with the barest hint of sadness on his cool, porcelain face. He let Feng Xin pull him close for a few seconds as the desperate howl of the ghost bride’s curse echoed around them hollowly.
And then Mu Qing pulled away, transformed back into his godly form, and vanished back to the heavens without another word.
Feng Xin stares at his report. He’s written “courtship” and “dowry” and “betrothal” so many times they don’t even look like words. Courtship, dowry, betrothal. Courtship, dowry, betrothal. Courtship-
Of course. Of fucking course. Leave it to Mu Qing to complicate things like this.
If his deputies hear the thunderous smack of wood cracking, well, it’s not all that strange in the Palace of Nan Yang.
9.
Mu Qing’s deputies are all, really, really tall. Even their shortest squirt, Zhang Yi, at this angle, looks menacing with her gleeful grin distorted by the shadows of the light orb (shining right in Feng Xin’s face like an interrogation).
“SO! DECLARE YOUR NAME AND-” Zhang Yi says, her pitchy voice booming in the room. “Oops, I didn’t mean- so loud-”
“Uh, can you get the light out of my face first?”
“Oh, oh, yeah, sure.”
The light mercifully retreats. Feng Xin loosens himself from the makeshift rope they’ve layered across his body.
“How’d he get out of-”
“Idiot, we didn’t use immortal binding-”
“Should I go and ask for some from Ke-”
Feng Xin clears his throat, and immediately the deputies stand stock still. With some measure of humour, he clears his throat again. They stand straighter. Mu Qing’s really trained them well.
“I, uh,” Feng Xin rubs at the back of his neck. “I think I’ve figured out what this is all about.”
“Really,” Tao Yue says, appearing from behind the crowd. They part for her, and Feng Xin genuinely feels a shudder run down his back as she stalks forward. “Apologies for our lukewarm hospitality, General Nan Yang.”
Feng Xin rises to meet her stare with an even look. Tao Yue smiles.
Momentarily he wonders how much of this is Mu Qing, and how much of this is orchestrated by Mu Qing’s overly protective, overly excited deputies.
(“-an entourage,” Hua Cheng said plainly.
Feng Xin blinked at him, his eyes sore from poring over countless faded scrolls for the past hours. “Huh.”
Some of them have been reproduced in Crimson Rain’s infamous handwriting. Feng Xin wondered if he might be looking at ink blots instead of characters.
“All in good fun,” Hua Cheng continued carelessly, speeding up his translation of the scroll. “Otherwise known as chaperones. Usually surrounding the unwed individual in question, preservation of reputation, morality, this, that, yes, yes, to act as a first screening of any potential suitor, to filter out undesirable characters… blah, blah, blah. Are we done?”
Hua Cheng threw the scroll behind him; it’s probably why his library is so badly organised and preserved.
“Uh…”
Hua Cheng sighed deeply. “Ge-ge surrounds himself with idiots.”)
“You see, our younger deputies aren’t quite accustomed to strangers whose intentions aren’t immediately, expressly obvious. Especially when our general is in question,” Tao Yue continues. “Forgive them for their impertinence.”
Feng Xin wants to roll his eyes so badly. He resists the urge. “No offence taken.”
“Good,” Tao Yue says, inclining her hand and inviting him to sit again.
He does, as does she.
“So, General Nan Yang,” Tao Yue says, her obsidian eyes dark and dangerous. “What exactly are your intentions with our general?”
10.
In hindsight, Quan Yizhen was probably the worst person for the job. It hadn’t seemed like such a bad idea though. Not at first, not when he met all the conditions – someone willing to go head to head with Feng Xin in combat, someone who wasn’t interested in Mu Qing, someone… well, that was it, really.
(“Fight?” Quan Yizhen’s eyes lit up. “With you?”
Feng Xin nodded dumbly while Xie Lian and Tao Yue stifled a laugh.
“Okay. I’m ready-” and then Quan Yizhen was stripping, and Feng Xin had to stop him before anything bad could happen, which resulted in a spontaneous spar when Quan Yizhen mistook his pacifying palms as an invitation.)
They forgot to factor in just one thing: Quan Yizhen was, is, and will always be a martial art fanatic.
It’s their six hundred and eighty-ninth round. The spectators who had gathered to watch their ‘duel’ had long scattered, tired of watching Quan Yizhen demand yet another round regardless of who it was being pummelled into the ground. He’d gotten the better of Feng Xin, and he was too ready to get back up on his feet, eyes alight with the challenge of a god in his prime.
Feng Xin heaves, more mentally exhausted than anything. He scans the stands of the training ground for a moment, and barely dodges yet another swing. Mu Qing’s still there, watching him calmly. Even in the low lights of dusk, he hasn’t moved, eyes trained on the scuffle between the two gods.
He’s got to dedicate his win to Mu Qing. He wonders if Mu Qing will nag at him for taking so long.
Oh well.
Feng Xin plants his foot down, intercepts Quan Yizhen’s methodical strikes, and delivers a measured hook to his already bruised side. It’s the side he’s been favouring since their four hundred and twenty third round. But Quan Yizhen doesn’t falter, even if it’s clear they’re both running low on spiritual energy. Feng Xin blocks a kick, jumps to the side, and barely misses Quan Yizhen’s feint. He’s good.
Feng Xin briefly wonders if he should invite Quan Yizhen to spar with his deputies. It might render the entire Palace of Nan Yang useless for a day or two, but it’ll be good training for them.
Feng Xin takes a hit to his solar plexus (it doesn’t hurt as much as it did, or maybe Feng Xin’s receptors for pain are just dulled from an excess of stimulation). He falls low to the ground and sweeps Quan Yizhen off his feet. The younger god trips and falls on his back.
A second passes. Another passes.
“Uh, are you-” Feng Xin wobbles over with some dignity. “Are you out?”
Quan Yizhen’s eyes are still wide open. He’s breathing through his mouth, and he looks the happiest he’s ever been.
“Quan Yizhen,” Feng Xin calls, reaching down to shake his shoulder.
The younger god doesn’t move.
Feng Xin turns around, looks at where Mu Qing is. He’s not quite sure where he’s facing until there’s a tap on his shoulder, and then Mu Qing is a respectable distance in front of him. Zhang Yi clears her throat, having swapped out with Tao Yue earlier, and declares Feng Xin the winner.
Immediately, the weight of all of Quan Yizhen’s ceaseless punches fall onto Feng Xin. He sighs, and feels his muscles collectively giving up.
“So?” Mu Qing has the audacity to quirk one eyebrow at him, looking all too smug, not a single hair out of place – pretty, composed, draped in his richest silks.
This same Mu Qing, who spent the entire heavenly day watching him tussle like a dog with Quan Yizhen.
Feng Xin wants to kiss him silly. Fuck. He gets on one knee, and gapes at Mu Qing stupidly as his (probably) concussed brain tries remembering whatever long spiel Hua Cheng translated for him.
“Uh, I.”
Mu Qing flushes at him as he stares blankly. “What!”
“Your hair. It’s different today,” is what Feng Xin’s mouth manages to conjure instead.
(Zhang Yi sighs her longest sigh yet.)
Mu Qing flushes a brighter shade of red. It’s true. He’s done his hair differently – there are more braids crowning the sides of his head. Feng Xin wants to know if he did it himself, that exacting bastard, or if he employed the help of his entourage. If he was dressed from head to toe, dolled up carefully for this.
Mu Qing persistently refuses to say a word.
Zhang Yi clears her throat. “General Nan Yang, you’ve won, and…?”
“All yours,” Feng Xin says quickly, tongue scalded by the heat rising in his chest. “Mu Qing, yours- whatever, uh, everything.”
Mu Qing stares back down at him, inscrutably stunning. He doesn’t know what he’s thinking, but Feng Xin’s well past that.
“F-fine,” Mu Qing allows, and then he’s swishing his gorgeous, embroidered skirts and strutting off.
…
Zhang Yi offers him an encouraging smile. “Congratulations, General Nan Yang!! Now you can begin writing letters to him! I’ll pass your Huang Zhongren a bunch of templates for love poems!”
Zhang Yi scuttles away after her general.
…
Feng Xin falls onto the ground with a heavy thump. He should be mad. Somehow he can’t find it in himself to be; he thinks of Mu Qing’s braids, of his pink cheeks, of the silver trim of his robes. Feng Xin slaps a hand over his head.
There’s rustling to his left.
“Is it over?” Quan Yizhen asks sadly.
Feng Xin squeezes his eyes close. “Yeah.”
“Oh.”
“You can fight all my deputies next time.”
“At once?”
“Sure.”
epilogue
Fu Yao is waiting for him in his chambers. He rolls his eyes at Feng Xin’s hulking, bruised figure, and nags at him for being too confident, for underestimating his opponent. His hands are gentle and firm and they prod at his bruises harshly when Feng Xin snorts at his critiques.
Feng Xin catches his retreating hands when he’s done bandaging him up, ignores his protests, and brings Fu Yao’s small hands up to his cheek. It smells like herbs: bitter and grassy and warm.