Work Text:
Let it be known: Mu Qing hated Xie Lian.
Hating Xie Lian was, against the popular opinion, something that came easy. It was a sensible thing, even.
It was as easy as it was to wash the red stains off his palms. He did not eat the crushed cherries, but he could imagine the sour tinge they would leave on his tongue; much as he could imagine yanking at Hua Cheng’s hair to retrieve the long-lost coral pearl. Better yet; as he could fantasise about grabbing that dirty child to steal it back out of the greedy hands back there and then, after the procession, way before Xie Lian’s serene voice announced: “The earring is gone.” And then, oddly sultry, although almost distracted: “If it’s lost, it’s lost.”
If it’s lost, it’s lost , Xie Lian would say, but Mu Qing knew he’d not notice most things gone; even the missing gold foil went undetected by him, the case brought to light only by Mei Nianqing. And then, that tone again:
“Ah, but Guoshi, it’s just a toy…”
Mu Qing has seen his little golden palaces later, but back then – he had no idea what he was talking about. A toy! With the foil under his mattress, he could not sleep for weeks, wondering how many months – if not years! of rice it was worth. His mother would not go hungry for a decade.
There were times, when Xie Lian would be eating a dessert, and notice no one else was, which did not trouble him at first– and then he’d look to his side, at Mu Qing, and ask: “Don’t you want some, Mu Qing?” The disciples around stared like hyenas. “I’m not hungry,” Mu Qing would assure. To that, Xie Lian would announce, suddenly, in retort: “Well, I’m not hungry either. And anyway, it’s too sweet.” Then he’d abandon it half-eaten, grasping his attendant’s hand and leaving the hall.
The other disciples sometimes trailed after. Xie Lian standing between them and Mu Qing became almost a habit; Mu Qing came to hate the sight of his back. He also hated when Xie Lian turned to him – another habit, one of directing words meant for others at his face instead: “I know, Guoshi, but isn’t it unfair?”
You are a god. Two walk the desert, about to die from thirst, and there is only one cup of water. Whom do you give it to?
It was easy to hate Xie Lian, when he schooled his expression solemnly and said: “Give another cup.”
In the evening after the trip back to the palace, with the plans to attend the next-day solstice, it was Mu Qing who brought a whole tea set to the table. Xie Lian was walking around in circles, feet already bare, tired after the journey and trying to untie his over-garments. Mu Qing helped him out and got to putting them away. He would have to bring them out to get washed later.
It was easy, too, to hate Xie Lian, when walking the corridor alone. When Feng Xin gave him a look as he freely left and entered. And most of all, when tucked away in another wing, ironing and mending the robes in silence.
“Drink with me. And oh!” Xie Lian’s voice was suddenly loud, energised again, as he called for another servant, who was just passing behind the door. “Xiu Lao! Can we have some tangyuan? Has the kitchen started preparing them yet?”
Mu Qing drank the tea and ate tangyuan. Because he would not do so the next day. Because the prince was being unbearable. Because it was just the two of them, and it was sweet, and suddenly hard to hate.
Then, they got to planning his dress for the next day.
Xie Lian sat at the vanity, looking at the jewellery set in front of him with little interest and said, offhandedly: “You know, if you had your ears pierced, I’d give you any of my earrings.”
It would be sensible to hate him for that, too, perhaps– Perhaps if not for how he took a pair of the amber ones and put them to Mu Qing’s ears, in consideration. “Yes, that is your colour. Won’t you agree? You taught me these matters well!”
It was Mu Qing’s colour, indeed. But it could be no more than a lucky guess – Mu Qing did not teach him anything at all. Without Mu Qing, Xie Lian would put his robes outside-out. His belts would be contorted, and his updos would be crooked, hair tangling into knots.
There were times when loving Xie Lian was the easiest thing in the world.
Mu Qing could ruin him so easily, if he wanted.
Without getting coated in floral-scented oils, the princely hands would grow appropriately rough for a martial artist. As it was, they were smooth and unblemished, his touch delicate as he tendered the earring in Mu Qing’s hand. Mu Qing put it right back into the silk-covered box. Xie Lian did not press, especially when distracted by idle gossip offered. He did grow fatigued, after a while, and stretched out, already on the way to the bed.
His words became uncoordinated and slurred, making him sound slightly childish, unfit for a teenager. But that did not matter; the parents and teachers would not enter his private chambers.
Sometimes, Mu Qing entertained the request and stayed until Xie Lian fell asleep.
The bedside became crowded only after the banishment.
At the Mid Autumn Festival Banquet, the first one since the defeat of Jun Wu, Xie Lian tries to keep to the back, but finally gives in and sits next to Mu Qing when called over. The prince – or prince-no-longer, nevermind that the title gets thrown around as often as ever, is wearing his staple simple taoist robes, though now they are of slightly better quality. Mu Qing can appreciate the stitching at the hems, but averts his gaze when Xie Lian looks at him questioningly.
The officials around them converse in light voices, alcohol passed around. Even Feng Xin seems to be occupied with another tête-à-tête.
One of the servants brings fresh mooncakes to the table.
Xie Lian reaches for one, before he realises that no one else has.
“Just eat it,” Mu Qing chastises.
“Oh. Won’t you have some?” Xie Lian asks, bashful.
Mu Qing sighs. “Alright.”
Xie Lian beams; he puts it in Mu Qing's hand, royal manners forgotten now even at the heavenly table. Mu Qing notes the rawness of his skin. Yet the touch is soft.
It’s not too sweet, and there’s a tinge of cherry to it too. Mu Qing might even indulge in another one.