Work Text:
Part 1: THE DAY IS BAD.
This is officially the worst day of Feng Xin's year – not the worst day of his life, no, he's not one with the flair for the dramatics, that's Mu Qing's job. But it comes so, so close: he mixed up his shampoo with his cleanser, stung his eye so bad he tripped and jammed his toe against the washing machine, and the damn thing began wailing, and then Mu Qing woke up to the sight of their sink overflowing as Feng Xin hopped between saving himself from semi-permanent blindness and salvaging their washing machine from turning into a full-time music box... then Mu Qing got mad, because Mu Qing had been working night shifts the entire month, and Mu Qing was not in the mood for symphonic wailing and making expensive purchases (because really, this washing machine was practically an antique from their college days, and Feng Xin has been strategically bringing up its long overdue replacement since, well, forever).
So then one thing led to another – namely, Mu Qing's jab led to Feng Xin's retort, and in return Mu Qing made more passive-aggressive comments about Feng Xin’s butter fingers, and Feng Xin parried by brutishly ignoring Mu Qing’s instructions to do everything he cautioned against, and in the background, their fluffy little cat also decided to yowl and shriek in solidarity.
(Mu Qing huffed, mid-sentence, and stalked off to pacify their ragdoll overlord. Feng Xin rolled his eyes, in part because that just proved the point that Mu Qing was arguing for the sake of arguing, and also because he couldn't help noticing the way hair was sticking out of Mu Qing's braid, which was cute, and he couldn't do anything about it because they were technically still in a fight.)
Then, at noon, Mu Qing silently bought takeout for both of them, and proceeded to hide in their room in the afternoon. So that was good, because it meant Feng Xin had more time to deal with the cacophony of howling from their battered appliances.
Until Mu Qing emerged from the room, hair carefully in a half-updo, the rest of it wavy and glimmering in the warm embrace of the afternoon sun.
He peeks his head around the corner, trying to catch Feng Xin's attention (which is objectively very, very cute and should be regulated for Feng Xin’s sake) – and Feng Xin looks over by some Pavlovian instinct, because this usually means that Mu Qing wants to show something off.
"Here," Mu Qing says, turning his nose up, acting all nonchalant and standoffish.
(Mu Qing glances down at him from the corner of his eyes, fingers tapping erratically against his elbow. Ugh. Cute.)
It's not just the braided pieces in Mu Qing's hair, or the pearls in his hair matching his earrings. No. It's also the snug mesh turtleneck that Feng Xin can't peel his eyes off. It's also the long navy satin skirt that reaches right before Mu Qing's ankles. And the pearls strung along Mu Qing's waist to emphasise his slender form.
Feng Xin must be drooling. He pats his dirty, sweaty cheek – Mu Qing grimaces at the motion, but stands still in anticipation.
Um. Ok, so, maybe this is also another kind of torture in and of itself: Mu Qing, looking like an absolute snack, dolled-up pretty, while Feng Xin won't be allowed to touch him without going through their decontamination chamber (better known as their shared bathroom). That, and the fact that they're both stubborn with pride; they've not called truce on their fight that morning.
"You look good," Feng Xin grumbles, because he really wants to shower Mu Qing in compliments and walk over to tuck Mu Qing's hair over his ear and breathe in the fresh lavender of his shampoo.
Mu Qing raises a brow, which in hindsight, should have been a blaring warning sign. "And?"
Feng Xin clears his throat, looking away at his wrench. "Going somewhere?"
Now that, dear reader, is when Feng Xin knew he royally messed up.
Mu Qing's silence is statement enough, so loud it pierces through the clumsy fog of Feng Xin's vague irritation. Feng Xin turns back to meet Mu Qing's wide, hurt eyes.
"Uh," Feng Xin says.
Mu Qing's face turns white, before burning red - the knot between his furrowed brows digging deep into skin. His hands are balled up into fists, the line of his jaw set and tight.
"Oh, yes, I'm going somewhere indeed," Mu Qing sneers, "to be specific, I'm going to Bella Vita at 6.30pm sharp, because I made a reservation, and I made sure they prepared a tiramisu without espresso since I'm such a heavy coffee drinker."
With that, Mu Qing struts off, his quiet feet pattering into the – BANG, and that's the door.
Feng Xin stares at where Mu Qing was. Feng Xin stares, and stares, and then he's bolting to his phone, because if he's right, and he prays he's wrong in this specific, isolated instance:
4.00pm Flora & Fauna - pick up Qing'er's bouquet 💐 ♥️
you dismissed this alarm
4.30pm Shiseido - restock Qing'er's favourite moisturiser (cica)
you dismissed this alarm
6.30pm Bella Vita - anniversary dinner with Qing'er 💖 💗
is in 20 minutes
snooze | dismiss
Part 2: THE DAY GETS WORSE.
The car ride is haunted by silence so deafening, Feng Xin thinks he can feel his brain leak out his ears.
Mu Qing had waited for him stonily in the bedroom, sitting ominously in the armchair while Feng Xin's attire for their anniversary dinner – already carefully ironed and pressed – was laid out on their bed. When Feng Xin walked in, looked at the suit sheepishly, his best apology on the tip of his tongue, Mu Qing immediately walked out. Like he physically couldn't stand to be in the same room.
(And that continued as Feng Xin went to the living room to pick up his keys and wallet from the tray, and Mu Qing efficiently migrated from the couch to the door. Even at the car, Mu Qing swiftly deposited himself in the passenger seat, clicking his seat belt into place and then folding his arms around himself – completely forgoing their unspoken ritual where Feng Xin would nag at Mu Qing to put his seatbelt on, Mu Qing would roll his eyes until Feng Xin snapped, reached over, secured Mu Qing in place, and bit his lip when they kissed. So, yeah, it's not looking good.)
At a stop, Feng Xin's ignorant hand lifts from the gearshift and rests itself on Mu Qing's thigh. Mu Qing glares at him like he's the devil reincarnate. And even then, he thinks Mu Qing's softer on Hua Cheng these days.
"Um," Feng Xin says, reluctantly and awkwardly moving his hand off Mu Qing's thigh. "Qing'er..."
"Not your Qing'er," comes Mu Qing's breezy snap.
"Baby..."
"Not your baby."
"Oh, come on-"
"Not coming on."
"..."
Mu Qing unlocks his phone and begins typing furiously - likely curating a list of Feng Xin's faults today.
The light turns green. With a deep, unsatisfactory sigh, Feng Xin shifts his attention back to the road.
(He tries to reach for the in-car radio. Mu Qing's glare scalds his fingers before he can turn the knob. The aux cord is firmly on Mu Qing's side of the seat. Silence it is.)
Part 3: HOW MUCH WORSE CAN IT GET, REALLY?
Because Mu Qing is a man of expensive tastes, and because Bella Vita is a Michelin-star Italian restaurant with four dollar signs on Google reviews, their restaurant happens to be on the topmost floor of a skyscraper in the central business district. Mu Qing is polite to the receptionist of the building, polite to the security uncle who guides them to the right lifts, but as soon as the lift doors shut, and it's just the two of them, Mu Qing's smile vanishes.
“Qing-” Feng Xin tries, when Mu Qing invades his personal space to jam the button to the topmost floor, the calming scent of lavenders spilling from his hair, the tantalising warmth of his body just out of reach-
Mu Qing immediately turns on his heels, standing on the opposite corner of the lift in a big stride. Feng Xin wilts, and braces himself for another silent ride. He fiddles with the pearl cufflinks on his sleeves, torn with guilt over the knowledge that Mu Qing had carefully selected these matching pearls – a beautiful selection of Akoya pearls that Mu Qing had personally picked out at the pearl farm in Halong Bay while Feng Xin hung back with a stomach recuperating from food poisoning. It was kind of magical (read: hot), watching Mu Qing incisively question the sales associate about the quality of pearls despite the language barrier. Now, he stares glumly at the dainty string of pearls adorning Mu Qing’s waist, and wishes he could be holding Mu Qing instead.
He knows he has to apologise, because it would be a real shame to let dinner go by in the same stunted silence. And also because he knows that’d just make Mu Qing even more upset, to have spent an anniversary nursing a grudge. Mu Qing had been looking forward to Bella Vita for months, had researched its menu extensively (it’s a two-page document, but still).
Thankfully, the florist at Flora and Fauna was willing to help deliver the bouquet to Bella Vita directly when he called, but he'll have to make another trip to the Bund for Mu Qing's moisturiser.
He sneaks a look at Mu Qing, the tempting line of his back under glittering mesh, the shine of his wavy hair just begging for Feng Xin to twirl a finger around. He misses the luxury of resting his hand on Mu Qing's hip, and his fussy little cat would lean into him, would allow Feng Xin to press a kiss to his temple, and maybe he'd get to make Mu Qing flush a peachy pink in the short interval of the lift ride...
A jolt.
Feng Xin reaches for Mu Qing to anchor him as the ground beneath them lurches. The jazzy music from the speakers cuts out first. Then goes the dimmed lights of the elevator.
“Qing’er, Qing’er, you alright?” are the first words out of Feng Xin’s mouth as his eyes flit around frantically, adjusting to the darkness.
It’s so dark. The air-conditioning has gone off too.
“…I’m fine,” Mu Qing says, huffing. “You’re squeezing me to death.”
The silence. This silence is ringing in his ears, stifling in a-
Mu Qing clears his throat. Feng Xin lets go, and immediately regrets it. He doesn’t know what to do with his hands, and without the ability to touch, to hold and ascertain where Mu Qing is – he knows he’s right in front of him, but Feng Xin can’t see anything, can’t even hear past the piercing void in his ears –
“Stop breathing down my throat, you oaf,” Mu Qing grumbles, and his hand pushes at Feng Xin’s chest.
Feng Xin should apologise, maybe step back, but he can’t, not when he might lose his footing on the carpeted elevator floor. And that would mean Mu Qing’s further away- his throat’s so dry, is Mu Qing looking up at him or looking away? Okay, okay, um. His head’s starting to spin a little, and he thinks he might see strange stars in greens and purples in this darkness.
“Q-Qing’er,” Feng Xin croaks out, his hands searching for the lift walls to anchor himself.
“…What is it?” comes Mu Qing’s slow, suspicious reply.
Feng Xin squeezes his eyes shut. It’s still dark regardless. “Um. Qing’er, that’s, uh, haha, wow, this is really, it’s really-”
“What.”
“I mean, the, do you, d’ya think they’d get the lift,” Feng Xin swallows. His hands are clammy. The back of his neck is clammy too. He’s going to sweat through the silk shirt Mu Qing picked out for him. “I mean, the lift, when it-”
“Spit it out,” Mu Qing says, and his hand returns to the lapels of Feng Xin’s blazer. The blazer that’s tan. That Mu Qing picked out.
Feng Xin tries breathing.
“Uh,” Feng Xin gulps again. “I, do you, is now a bad time to tell you I’m, uh, claustrophobic?”
Mu Qing is quiet for a moment, and the buzzing returns to Feng Xin’s ears. It’s not as bad now, though, because Mu Qing’s palm is still a warm weight against Feng Xin’s chest.
“Yeah, it’s a bad time,” Mu Qing deadpans finally, with the same grumpy nonchalance that drives Feng Xin insane sometimes.
Right now, though, Feng Xin just barks his laughter because that is so typical of Mu Qing, and the whole thing is so absurdly bad. Mu Qing’s other hand reaches up to rest on his shoulder, and then Feng Xin’s being manhandled into sitting down, which is- it’s such a brilliant idea, and he feels less woozy, less likely to fall because he’s already on the ground. Mu Qing searches for his hand, flips it open and presses his hand into it.
Feng Xin squeezes once, Mu Qing squeezes back.
“Can you, uh, can you talk to me?” Feng Xin chatters, his back against the cool surface of the lift walls.
“Ugh,” Mu Qing says. “You never told me you were claustrophobic.”
“Wow, okay,” Feng Xin laughs, because of course the first thing that comes out of Mu Qing’s mouth is an inquisition. “I mean, it just never came up.”
“Right,” Mu Qing very eloquently says again.
Mu Qing pulls out his phone, the white light of the screen almost blinding. At least Feng Xin can see Mu Qing’s face now – even if it looks a little ghost-like and grimace-y. Oh wait, Mu Qing’s actually grimacing.
“It’s a city-wide blackout,” Mu Qing announces with a sigh. “Well. It’s going to be a while then.”
Feng Xin shifts in his seat, stretching his legs out from under him. Mu Qing’s seated like a mermaid, his skirt carefully arranged to cover most of his legs. Even now, when they’re stuck in an elevator in the middle of some blackout, Mu Qing manages to look composed and unflustered. Feng Xin’s almost jealous – he’s sure he looks like a fish out of water, sticky with sweat and mouth gaping for air.
Then it hits him: Mu Qing’s sitting on the floor with him. And that’s Mu Qing’s right hand, his dominant hand, in Feng Xin’s. He’s scrolling on his phone a little jerkily, keying in a couple of numbers with great effort.
“You can let go of my hand, uh-” Feng Xin valiantly offers, even if he doesn’t want to, even if being able to touch Mu Qing and see Mu Qing (and his face, distorted by shadows) is a lifeline in these very dark and very trying times.
Mu Qing only interlaces their fingers and directs a glare – much less potent in low light – at him. Feng Xin feels like the air’s punched out of his chest, because Mu Qing runs his thumb across the side of Feng Xin’s index finger, and now he can smell the vanilla musk underlying Mu Qing’s lavender shampoo.
“Hello,” Mu Qing is greeting with the cadence of a practised customer service provider. “This is Mu Qing, I made a reservation for two at your restaurant this evening, yes, yes, 6.30pm. Yes, I understand, in fact, we were on our way up, and- yes, the blackout, so that’s two people in lift B, no, just the two of us. If you could get your building operator- okay, lovely, thank you.”
Feng Xin will never admit it to Mu Qing, but he thinks Mu Qing sounds just like a news anchor when he speaks like that – even if he makes fun of him for acting all posh and demure, the truth is that Mu Qing does have a beautiful lilt to his voice, with a kind of elegance that comes to him so easily it makes Feng Xin weak in the knees. Of course, Feng Xin’s still weak in the knees, still slightly dizzy in the head, but-
“They’ll start up the backup generator,” Mu Qing says to him bluntly, dropping all pretences at the drop of a hat. “It’s gonna take god knows how long-”
“I love you,” Feng Xin blurts.
(See, he does that a lot, and Mu Qing cannot stand it because Feng Xin is earnest and it always seems like it comes out of nowhere, but it’s very true, and Mu Qing cannot wrap his head around why, all of a sudden, so –)
Mu Qing’s face scrunches up. He’s probably blushing. He drops his phone into his lap and reaches over to grab Feng Xin’s biceps through his blazer.
“You- you- you, are you even serious-”
“I’m so serious, I swear to god.”
“You can’t just say shit like that!”
“That’s not shit-”
“You think, just because you can breathe now, I’ll let you off?! YOU THINK I’M THAT EASY?!”
“I DON’T THINK YOU’RE EASY.”
“THEN WHY WOULD YOU SUDDENLY SAY- SAY- SAY THAT.”
“BECAUSE I LOVE YOU-”
“YOU SHUT YOUR MOUTH-”
“WHAT’S WRONG WITH ME SAYING I LOVE-”
“STOP THAT!”
“-YOU? WHAT’S WRONG WITH ME SAYING IT WHEN I REALLY DO LOVE-”
“THERE’S A TIME AND PLACE FOR THIS, YOU BUFFOON! LIKE WHEN WE’RE IN THE MIDDLE OF EATING YOUR STUPID DECAFFEINATED TIRAMISU AND YOU TELL ME TO LOOK OUT THE WINDOW FOR THE CITY SKYLINE, AND THEN YOU REACH OVER TO HOLD MY HAND – THAT’S WHEN YOU TELL ME THAT!”
“-WH- WELL, HOW AM I SUPPOSED TO KNOW YOU’VE GOT AN ENTIRE ITINERARY PLANNED OUT FOR ME TO SAY I LOVE YOU-”
“ AAARGH STOP SAYING-! STOP, STOP, STOP, STOP, STOP!!”
It’s how the restaurant staff find them – Mu Qing practically sitting in Feng Xin’s lap, Feng Xin’s hands restraining his wrists, the two of them out of breath from their screaming match.
Surprisingly, their fights are very good at regulating Feng Xin’s breathing.
Extra: There’s no way but up.
His Qing’er can barely keep it together, unable to look their server in the eyes after being caught in less than flattering circumstances; his speech flows fluently as he orders for the both of them, though. Which is kind of impressive, given how hard Qing’er stutters when he’s embarrassed. In the middle of selecting their wine pairings, Qing’er glances at Feng Xin, at his dazed little smirk, and Qing’er kicks him under the table, hard.
And then the flowers arrive, and Qing’er’s eyes light up at the sight of lavenders and soft pink roses. Feng Xin snaps a photo of Mu Qing sniffing the bouquet, a genuine smile on his lips.
They make it through appetizers, then through the main course, and Qing’er idly comments that the asparagus is cooked pretty well.
“Hey, Qing’er,” Feng Xin says.
Qing’er looks up at him, all hostility drained out of him. He’s chewing carefully on his Iberico pork collar. Feng Xin wants to kiss his puffed-out cheeks.
“I wanted to say I’m sorry, you know, for forgetting,” Feng Xin says, because it’s still on his mind.
Qing’er continues chewing, setting his fork down. When he’s done, he swirls his glass of merlot.
“I mean, you didn’t do it on purpose,” Qing’er mutters, so Feng Xin has to lean in. “I saw the alarms you set on your phone.”
“I know, but still…”
“A-and,” Qing’er continues, the blush on his cheeks rosy under the glow of candlelight. “And, I mean, you had a bad morning, and afternoon. So, you know…”
“Yeah?”
Qing’er bites his lip. Cute. “We’re fine, okay?”
Feng Xin smiles. “Of course, baby.”
Qing’er doesn’t correct him this time, diving back into his seared asparagus. Feng Xin considers it a win.