Work Text:
Mu Qing was on the brink .
Not in a dramatic, poetic way. Not in a main character staring out the window of a moving train way. No, he was on the kind of brink where a single minor inconvenience would have him flipping his entire desk and possibly committing a federal crime.
It was finals week . The week of suffering. The week where God Himself turned a blind eye and let every college student fend for themselves in a post-apocalyptic academic wasteland.
Mu Qing had been surviving on sheer determination, caffeine, and the occasional existential crisis. His desk was an absolute war zone —papers crumpled like broken dreams, highlighters with their caps missing ( who kept stealing them ), a coffee cup that had been refilled so many times it was practically a biohazard, and—most disturbingly—an entire can of Red Bull that he had no memory of drinking.
The signs were there . He was losing it.
Then, as if the universe wanted him to snap, his dorm door exploded open.
“Mu Qing, what the actual fuck is this?”
Feng Xin. Of course it was Feng Xin. Who else would have the audacity to kick down his door like an FBI raid at this godforsaken hour?
Mu Qing exhaled, slowly, through his nose. He didn’t even look up. “Close the door. Get out.”
Feng Xin ignored him and stepped further in, his eyes scanning the disaster that was Mu Qing’s living space. He looked like a man who had just discovered a crime scene . “What the fuck happened here? Were you robbed?”
Mu Qing finally glanced up, dark circles so deep they had their own gravitational pull. “No, Feng Xin. This is finals season .”
Feng Xin looked personally offended . “Okay, but why does your desk look like a raccoon broke in and started filing taxes?”
Mu Qing simply went back to staring blankly at his laptop screen, which, by the way, had crashed mid-essay three hours ago and still wasn’t responding. “I don’t have time for this.”
“You don’t have time for basic human survival either, apparently.” Feng Xin gestured wildly at the empty cup of coffee and the sad, neglected granola bar on the desk. “Have you eaten?”
Mu Qing, ever the genius , lifted the coffee cup. “Liquid sustenance.”
Feng Xin’s soul left his body. “That is not food , you absolute dumbass.”
“It has calories ,” Mu Qing argued.
“Oh my god ,” Feng Xin muttered, rubbing his temples like he was already regretting all his life choices that had led him to this moment . Then, in one fluid motion, he reached into his bag and threw a takeout container at Mu Qing’s head.
Mu Qing barely caught it in time. “Excuse me?”
“Shut up and eat.”
Mu Qing hesitated. His brain was telling him to argue, to fight back on principle alone, but then the smell hit him.
Fried chicken.
Crispy, greasy, life-saving fried chicken.
His stomach immediately betrayed him by growling so loud it might have been classified as a cry for help.
Feng Xin smirked. “See? Even your stomach knows I’m right.”
Mu Qing scowled but opened the container anyway. “You’re an idiot .”
“And yet,” Feng Xin said, stealing a fry from the box, “I’m the one keeping your dumb ass alive.”
Mu Qing took a massive, aggressive bite of chicken just to prove a point. “You’re still annoying.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Feng Xin waved him off, stealing another fry.
For a moment, there was silence—well, as much silence as could exist when one of them was crunching down fried food like a gremlin . Feng Xin leaned back on Mu Qing’s bed, scrolling on his phone like he had nothing better to do . Mu Qing let himself chew, let himself relax for just a second .
Then, as expected, Feng Xin ruined everything.
“Oh, by the way,” he said, far too casually.
Mu Qing, already tired, didn’t even look up. “What.”
“I, uh…” Feng Xin scratched the back of his head. “Might have told your professor that you’d be giving an extra credit presentation tomorrow.”
Mu Qing froze . Mid-chew. Mid- breath .
“…You.” His voice was deathly calm. “Did what.”
Feng Xin, sensing imminent danger , immediately tried to backpedal. “Okay, in my defense —”
“ DEFENSE? ” Mu Qing slammed his chopsticks down. “YOU SIGNED ME UP TO SPEAK? IN FRONT OF PEOPLE ?”
Feng Xin visibly regretted his life choices. “I mean… it’s just five minutes?”
Mu Qing was already cracking his knuckles . “Start running .”
Feng Xin bolted.
🎕
The next morning, Feng Xin showed up to class with three new bruises , Mu Qing gave his presentation with the dead, haunted eyes of a man who had seen war, and their professor called it the best speech of the semester .
Mu Qing did not forgive him.
Feng Xin, naturally, stole his fries at lunch as an apology.
But the suffering was not over .
The moment Mu Qing sat down at his usual table, his phone buzzed. He squinted at the message.
[Professor]: Good news, Mu Qing! Your presentation was so well-received that I’ve recommended you for a student panel next week. Looking forward to it!
Mu Qing stared.
Then, slowly, turned to Feng Xin.
Feng Xin, mid-fry-theft, froze. “…What?”
Mu Qing inhaled deeply. “You.”
Feng Xin swallowed. “Me?”
Mu Qing’s eye twitched. “RUN.”
And so, finals week continued. Suffering remained eternal. And Feng Xin, for all his survival instincts, did not survive this one.
🎕
Feng Xin ran like his life depended on it. Which, considering Mu Qing’s current mood, it absolutely fucking did.
“MU QING, PLEASE—”
“GET BACK HERE, YOU ABSOLUTE MENACE—”
Down the hallway they went, past bewildered students, past the vending machine Feng Xin had once lost a battle with, past Pei Ming, who took one look at the scene and wisely chose not to get involved.
Mu Qing was gaining on him. Fast.
Feng Xin had exactly two options:
- Accept his fate and let Mu Qing commit a murder that would go unpunished by any court of law.
- Risk it all.
So, in a moment of pure desperation, Feng Xin yelled, “I’LL BUY YOU DINNER!”
Mu Qing did not stop.
“I’LL—” Feng Xin gasped, sprinting, “I’LL LET YOU INSULT ME FOR A FULL HOUR!”
Mu Qing slowed down.
Feng Xin saw an opportunity.
“I’LL—” he inhaled, heart on the verge of fucking collapse, “I’LL WRITE YOUR NEXT PAPER!”
Mu Qing halted completely.
Feng Xin almost tripped over his own feet, panting, turning around very, very carefully.
Mu Qing stood still as death. Eyes sharp. Breath even. He tilted his head slightly, as if considering.
“…You’ll write my next paper?” he asked, voice calm, too calm.
Feng Xin nodded frantically. “Yes. Absolutely.”
Mu Qing took a step closer. “Proper citations?”
Feng Xin swallowed. “Chicago style.”
Mu Qing narrowed his eyes. “Minimum word count?”
“ One thousand five hundred, ” Feng Xin swore. “ Single spaced. ”
A pause. The world held its breath.
Then, Mu Qing smirked.
Feng Xin barely had time to process the sheer terror before Mu Qing said, “Two thousand words.”
Feng Xin felt his soul leave his body.
“Mu Qing—”
“Take it or die .”
Feng Xin wanted to argue. Wanted to protest. Wanted to scream at the unfairness of this negotiation.
Instead, he thought about his own fragile existence, looked into Mu Qing’s ruthless, unyielding gaze, and muttered:
“…Fine.”
Mu Qing grinned.
It was not a kind grin.
Feng Xin, defeated beyond recognition, groaned, running a hand down his face. “I hate you.”
Mu Qing patted his shoulder, mockingly sympathetic. “Oh? And yet…”
“ Shut the fuck up.”
Mu Qing let out a satisfied exhale, stretching his arms, already looking more at peace than he had all week. “Well,” he said, smiling in the most smug, victorious way possible, “I’m off to enjoy my day. Have fun with that paper.”
And just like that, he left.
Feng Xin stared after him, processing his own downfall.
And then, as if the universe had not already spit in his face enough today, his own phone buzzed.
A text.
From Mu Qing.
[Mu Qing] : Oh, forgot to mention. Paper’s due tomorrow. Enjoy.
Feng Xin, filled with the crushing weight of his own mistakes, collapsed against the wall and whispered, “I am going to fucking die.”
Finals week continued.
Mu Qing slept well for the first time in days.
And Feng Xin, for all his past victories, had never suffered like this before.
But maybe. Just maybe. It was worth it.