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Ming Fan is not jealous.
He’s not watching Luo Binghe out of the corner of his eye as his shidi laughs with Yang Yixuan. He’s not staring as Yang Yixuan puts a hand on Luo Binghe’s knee. He’s not.
Except it becomes harder to deny that Ming Fan is terribly, awfully, decidedly jealous when Luo Binghe slings an arm around Yang Yixuan’s shoulders and tugs him in for a one-armed hug. Look, Luo Binghe is Ming Fan’s martial brother! Not Yang Yixuan’s! Ming Fan conveniently ignores the fact that technically, Cang Qiong is a singular sect, so therefore Luo Binghe is, in actuality, Yang Yixuan’s martial brother.
The box of scrolls in Ming Fan’s arms crashes to the ground when Yang Yixuan leans in to bump his head against Luo Binghe’s own. The two men look up at the noise, Luo Binghe’s gaze immediately zeroing in on Ming Fan’s blushing cheeks. “Shixiong?” Luo Binghe calls out, but Ming Fan is already turning tail and fleeing.
Coward, he spits at himself, roughly wiping his eyes. When did I start crying? Ming Fan’s feet take him to an abandoned pavilion at the back of Qing Jing Peak. Barely anyone knows about the building; it’s his favourite place to go when he’s feeling upset. After all, he first discovered it with… Luo Binghe.
Maybe coming here was a bad idea, Ming Fan thinks, slumping down on one of the padded benches that line the circumference of the pavilion. He kicks off his boots, uncaring of where they land—no one is here to see his improper dress—and tucks his head between his knees. There, in the privacy of the pavilion, Ming Fan allows himself to feel small.
Luo Binghe had been training with Yang Yixuan more and more often as of late. Likely due to Liu-shishu and Shizun’s new-founded relationship, Ming Fan thinks, sighing quietly. His lower lip wobbles at the thought of Yang Yixuan, and he fights valiantly to keep himself from bursting into tears all over again.
The footsteps that approach the pavilion are wholly unexpected.
Ming Fan snaps his head up, eyes blowing wide when he sees who is walking toward the building he sits inside of. “Ming-shixiong?” Luo Binghe’s eyes look soft with concern as he enters the pavilion, Zheng Yang strapped to his waist.
“How did you find me?” Ming Fan asks, and is surprised when his voice comes out hoarse. This seems to surprise Luo Binghe as well, whose expression crumples at the sound.
“Ming-shixiong, were you crying?”
“No,” Ming Fan says, unconvincingly. Luo Binghe quickly moves to sit down next to him and peers at Ming Fan. It is a battle in and of itself to avoid Luo Binghe’s intense gaze. “No,” Ming Fan repeats, his voice wavering.
“Then why are your eyes red?” Luo Binghe asks softly.
“Why do you care?” Ming Fan huffs, crossing his arms. “It’s not like that’s important, anyway. Did you pick up my scrolls?” Maybe he didn’t and I can get him to go find them, then escape when he’s—
Luo Binghe jerks a thumb toward the entrance to the pavilion. Outside is Ming Fan’s box of scrolls, set neatly at the foot of the steps leading up to the building. Darn, Ming Fan thinks with passion. “What—what about Yang Yixuan?” The name hurts to say. Ming Fan can’t allow himself to think about the other man for too long, lest he lose his composure all over again.
“What about him?” Luo Binghe says easily, grabbing Ming Fan’s hand. Ming Fan is helpless to prevent the gasp that falls from his lips, and goes bright red at the sound. What are you, a virginal young maiden?! Furious at himself, Ming Fan stares down at his lap, his hand stiff in Luo Binghe’s own.
“Ming-shixiong,” Luo Binghe says softly, tugging at Ming Fan’s hand. “Please, look at me, Ming-shixiong.” Ming Fan does not. Luo Binghe tugs at his hand again. When Ming Fan still refuses to look at him, Luo Binghe lets out a small breath. “Forgive this one for his presumptuousness,” Luo Binghe says, and then Ming Fan is being lifted onto Luo Binghe’s lap.
“L-Luo Binghe?! Put this one down right now!” Ming Fan screeches, the ferocity of his demand only slightly dampened by how high-pitched his voice has gone.
“There,” Luo Binghe laughs, “you’re looking at me now, Ming-shixiong!” Ming Fan splutters, utterly lost for words in the face of Luo Binghe’s brazenness. After a moment of gazing at Ming Fan’s face, Luo Binghe sighs loudly. “It’s as this one thought—Ming-shixiong is incredibly cute when he’s jealous.”
Cute? Jealous—cute?!
“Luo Binghe—you—!”
“Me,” Luo Binghe agrees, cuddling Ming Fan closer. His arms, wrapped around Ming Fan’s waist, suddenly feel so much larger than Ming Fan remembers. He flushes burgundy, hiding his face in Luo Binghe’s shoulder as his shidi laughs loudly. “Mm,” Luo Binghe grins, burying his nose against Ming Fan’s neck and inhaling deeply, “it’s as this one thought. Ming-shixiong is incredibly cute!”
When Ming Fan pulls back this time, it’s so he can kiss Luo Binghe.