Work Text:
“Great job,” Feng Xin said, glowering. “You’ve got us fucking lost again.”
“We aren’t lost,” Mu Qing argued. “These are the exact coordinates Ling Wen gave us.”
“These coordinates are clearly a bust,” Feng Xin said. “We’re much too far from the center of the demonic activity, and we passed through the last town three shichen ago.”
“This is the last site she listed,” Mu Qing said. “A group of travelers encountered this beast. They tried to fight it off, but were all killed in the process, either by the creature’s claws, or the poisonous spikes along its back and arms.”
“Are you sure it was here? It’s just some fucking trees.”
“It’s all trees,” Mu Qing muttered. “It’s a forest. Did you expect a sign saying ‘Demon lives here’?”
Feng Xin scoffed. “You’re fucking impossible, you know that? Honestly it’s a wonder we get anything don—”
He stopped abruptly, eyes widening.
“What do—” Mu Qing started, but Feng Xin pressed one finger to his lips.
“Did you hear that?”
“No,” Mu Qing said, annoyed. “It’s just the wind, it’s not—”
But he stopped short, because this time, Mu Qing heard the sound too. A rustle in the trees, the crackle of branches under huge, heavy feet. His hand instantly went to zhanmadao. Feng Xin, similarly, drew Fengshen and nocked an arrow.
They stood back to back, looking out into the dark forest, listening as the footsteps faded, and became silent. Too silent.
The beast was on them in seconds. It was huge, taller than Mu Qing would be, even standing on Feng Xin’s shoulders. It was almost miraculous that the thing was able to conceal itself so well in the trees. It was uncannily reptilian, but had horns and long, sharp claws, as well as spikes up and down the ridge of its spine and the sides of its arms that Mu Qing knew from Ling Wen’s report were coated in poison.
Mu Qing hacked and parried, keeping the beast pinned in one place, hoping to make it an easy target for Feng Xin, who fired arrow after arrow, blasts of glowing spiritual energy through the night.
What the beast had in size, Mu Qing made up for in agility, dancing around its legs, keeping it on its toes at all times. Still, it’s not like the beast wasn’t fast. It could nearly match Mu Qing’s speed, and while it had no sword, its claws slashed furiously towards Mu Qing, met at each turn with the cool metal of Mu Qing’s zhanmadao.
The beast pushed Mu Qing further and further back, pressing him into where the clearing ended and the brush began, where the trees grew thicker and it would be much more difficult to wield a long cavalry sword.
“Feng Xin!” Mu Qing called, hoping Feng Xin could do something to momentarily distract the thing so he could redirect the fight.
Feng Xin, seemingly having read his mind, immediately unleashed a torrent of arrows, firing much faster and harder than what a normal mortal could do. Suddenly, the beast noticed that it had maybe twenty arrows sticking out of the back of its head, and turned, rearing towards Feng Xin.
Mu Qing pressed his hand against the tree trunk, brushing hair out of his eyes as he momentarily caught his breath. The fight hadn’t felt long when he was in the moment of it, but now that he’d gotten a pause, his body cried out in complaint. Mu Qing pulled his hand away from his forehead. He hadn’t realized he’d been bleeding.
Feng Xin cursed, loudly, from across the clearing. The beast was bearing down on him, claws raised. Mu Qing ran. Still he was too late to stop, but not too late to see, the way the creature’s claws slashed down Feng Xin’s side.
However, he barely had a second to think about it before the creature turned back to him, snarling. Mu Qing lifted his saber and forced it off, but only for a second—only until he saw the way Feng Xin staggered, one arm pressed against his chest.
Mu Qing barrelled down on the demon with twice the fury, the corners of his vision blurring. Zhanmadao, a cavalry sword, was meant to keep an opponent at a wide radius, but as Mu Qing pressed up against the demon, his sword was flicked away. Zhanmadao went hurtling away into the trees.
Mu Qing resorted to barraging the demon with blasts of spiritual power. Across the clearing, Feng Xin tried to draw his bow again, but it was clear his arms were too weak.
Mu Qing cursed under his breath, sending blasts with double the strength, hoping it would do something—anything. Instead, the creature just seemed to get more and more relentless.
“Mu Qing,” Feng Xin called from the other side of the demon, “We have to get out of here.” His voice was punctuated by sharp, ragged, breaths, which Mu Qing could hear even from what felt like so far away.
But he was not going to give up that easily. The creature’s claws nicked his shoulder, and Feng Xin called out his name again.
“Mu Qing! We need reinforcements!”
Mu Qing’s head pounded. Everything felt blood-red.
Suddenly, Feng Xin was grabbing him by the arm and pulling him away—running faster than it should have been possible for anyone to run, practically dragging Mu Qing along with him.
Feng Xin brought them to the edge of the forest, just before where the houses and farms of the village began. He stopped, holding himself upright against a tree, one arm still pressed against his side.
“I had it,” Mu Qing snapped. “You didn’t have to pull me away, I had it.”
Feng Xin didn’t respond. His brow was furrowed, and drenched in sweat. A cold realization washed over Mu Qing. It felt like dread.
“You’re hurt,” Mu Qing said, immediately regretting saying it. Of course he was hurt. Feng Xin’s robes were soaked with blood all along the side, and his face was pale and sweaty. “You idiot! Why did you run all that way if you were hurt?”
“You had to get out,” Feng Xin said, like the words took quite a bit of effort.
“You know I had it sorted,” Mu Qing said.
“Bullshit you had it sorted,” Feng Xin replied. “We need to call for reinforcements, and soon—the townspeople can’t know that thing is still on the loose.”
“You won’t be calling for anyone in your condition,” Mu Qing said. “Come on. You need to bandage that before you do anything else.”
Feng Xin stepped forward, towards him, then stumbled. Mu Qing reached out, bracing both of his shoulders before he could fall any further.
It was then that he realized just how pale Feng Xin looked, and just how much blood was soaking his side. He was in no condition to even be walking, much less running the way they just had.
Feng Xin slumped against Mu Qing. Mu Qing ignored the way Feng Xin’s chest pressed up against Mu Qing’s shoulder, uncomfortably hot and close, and shifted Feng Xin’s weight against him to better support him as they walked.
“That was really stupid of you, you know,” Mu Qing said as they walked. The town felt so far away.
“You’re calling me stupid? You didn’t know when to pull out of the fight,” Feng Xin protested faintly.
“You’re an archer. You shouldn’t be in close combat,” Mu Qing replied.
“And you’d rather have me far away from battle, like some helpless maiden?”
“Stop putting words in my mouth. Focus on walking.”
Feng Xin’s breaths were coming more and more ragged, and his weight against Mu Qing seemed to grow with every moment. He wasn’t only bleeding from his side, too—he’d been struck on the head at some point, and rivulets were running down the sides of his face. Some of them had already dried in his hair. He didn’t look like a helpless maiden, but he did look like a mess.
Feng Xin’s head lolled forwards, and he stumbled again. Mu Qing tightened his grip around his waist, clicking his tongue. “At this rate, it’d be faster if I carried you.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Feng Xin muttered. The words were slurred. “You couldn’t—”
He fell forwards again, skin paled by blood loss and the wild moonlight. This time, Mu Qing caught him fully, and Feng Xin’s unconscious form slumped into his chest.
“You really are a mess,” Mu Qing murmured, hauling Feng Xin up into his arms. A helpless maiden indeed.
-
Feng Xin woke to a searing pain in his chest, and a figure leaning over him.
The world was blurry, and his head spun. The pain ripped through him, causing him to writhe under the steady hands of whoever it was leaning over him.
“Hold still,” Mu Qing said. Of course it was Mu Qing. It always was. “I can’t work if you’re wiggling around like a child.”
“Fuck you,” was the only thing Feng Xin could think to say, as his vision came into focus.
Mu Qing was indeed bent over him, a needle in hand. Feng Xin did not want to think about where its thread was coming out of. From what he could tell, the bed they were on was already soaked in enough of his blood. The knees of Mu Qing’s robes, and the hems at his wrists, too, had become sticky with it as he worked.
“Don’t be so crass,” Mu Qing was saying. “I’m doing you a favor. I won’t always be around to stitch you up when you get injured doing stupid things.”
“I was being stupid? I literally had to pull you away from that thing,” Feng Xin argues, but the argument was lost when Mu Qing’s needle dipped back inside him.
His chest heaved. The corners of his vision darkened. He didn’t realize he was thrashing until Mu Qing said, forcefully, “Stop moving.”
Mu Qing pulled the needle out again. Feng Xin pushed a forced breath out of his chest. “It fucking hu—”
“Of course it hurts. If you stopped throwing yourself into danger like this, you wouldn’t end up injured. Now, keep still.”
Feng Xin did. Or, at least, he tried. As Mu Qing continued with his row of stitches, he bit down on his tongue until he could taste iron.
Focusing on the world around, outside of the bubble of him and Mu Qing and the needle, helped. It appeared that Mu Qing had brought them to one of the little inns on the edge of the town. The room was carefully but sparsely decorated. A chair and a bed, a screen in the corner that presumably hid a bathtub.
Feng Xin pitied whoever would have to wash the bedsheets after they left. He was propped against a few pillows, all of which were stained a rusty brown, to speak nothing of the sheets below them. Feng Xin tried not to look at the wound. He knew how bad it was already.
He was a martial god, for fuck’s sake. Mu Qing was right, in that he shouldn’t have gotten this badly injured. At least he hadn’t been poisoned by the creature’s bite.
Still, being so close to Mu Qing, in this dingy room, brought memories trickling back to him.
Mu Qing stitching him up after sparring went too far, back when they were teenagers. He’d pushed Feng Xin down onto the bed in the servants’ quarters and scolded him for being careless. Later, they replayed the same routine, only in a war tent, and wounds had not been from sparring. Feng Xin had bit down on a dusty scrap of cloth, which tasted sour in his mouth, while Mu Qing plucked shrapnel from his arm.
Now, Mu Qing snipped the end of the thread and tied off the end, sending one last sharp spark of pain through Feng Xin’s abdomen. He leaned back, clearly admiring his work. Feng Xin felt the pain recede to a dull throb. Still there, but less biting.
“You’ll need to rest here so the wound can heal,” Mu Qing said.
Feng Xin could do nothing but just look ashamed. He didn’t respond.
“Aren’t you going to thank me? I should have left you to bleed out.”
“Mu Qing, you—”
But Mu Qing was already standing, and making his way across the room. “You should sleep.”
The command was irresistible to Feng Xin’s worn out body. Despite all of his mind’s urges to get back up and shove Mu Qing to the floor for all of his stubbornness, what his body did was the opposite. He rolled onto his uninjured side, curling in upon himself.
As Feng Xin slipped away, he faintly heard the sound of boots being laced, and the closing of a door.
-
Mu Qing knew what he was doing was foolish. His boots kicked up dust into the hems of his robes as he made his way out of town. But he couldn’t tell Feng Xin why he was going, or even that he was going at all.
First of all, he badly wanted a second round. A beast that had torn down his fellow martial god so easily was a welcome challenge, suicidal as it may have sounded.
Also, there was the small matter of having left zhanmadao in the woods.
It hadn’t entirely been his fault! The beast had kicked it out of his hands, and sent it flying away into the forest, and Feng Xin had picked Mu Qing up and taken him away before he even realized he’d forgotten his sword.
If it was any old sword, he wouldn’t have cared, but zhanmadao was the thing painted beside him on temple walls. Zhanmadao was a sacred, powerful sword, not something to be left behind like a piece of trash.
And Mu Qing kind of did want a second round.
The forest enveloped Mu Qing soundlessly. It didn’t take him long to find the coordinates of where they last were. The Palace of Ling Wen had been accurate, for once.
Vaguely, he thought of the way Feng Xin had looked while Mu Qing was stitching him up. Soaked in his own blood, all the grandeur of General Nan Yang stripped away by pain and blood loss. He looked much more like the boy Mu Qing had once stitched up in a war tent.
The demon deserved everything that was coming to it, for rendering Feng Xin helpless like that. And Mu Qing would be the one to make it pay.
Lost in his own thoughts, Mu Qing completely missed the roar that echoed from within the trees behind him—and he paid for it. By the time he had spotted the beast, it was already three steps ahead of him and less than five feet away.
Fuck. Fuck.
(Xie Lian was right, he really was picking up Feng Xin’s language.)
Mu Qing scrambled in the direction of where he recalled zhanmadao was thrown, hoping he’d be able to find it in the trees before the beast reached him. He saw a flash of silver, from the ground, just feet away from him, but it was much too late.
As Mu Qing’s fingers curled around the hilt of his saber, something slammed into him, and a white, hot pain pierced through his shoulder.
Mu Qing cried out as he was thrown forwards into the underbrush, pain shooting through his body as he struggled to keep a hold on his sword.
Too late did he realize not only had he been impaled, but by one of the beast’s poison-coated spikes, at that.
“Feng Xin,” he said weakly, before the world went black.
-
Feng Xin paced back and forth across the inn room, ignoring the throbbing in his side.
Mu Qing had left. Of course he had. He’d only stitched Feng Xin up so well so he could leave faster, and as soon as Feng Xin was unconscious, he’d picked up his things and left.
It hurt nearly as much as Feng Xin’s wound, the blood still seeping through the stitches.
But Mu Qing had truly left no trace of ever having been there. He’d even wiped away all the blood Feng Xin had gotten on the floor and the door, though the sheets were still soaked.
Feng Xin had no clue what time it was, or how long it had been since he’d fallen asleep. He didn’t know whether the beast was still on the loose, and more importantly, he didn’t know where Mu Qing was.
He walked over to the one window and flung open the blinds. Instantly, the room was flooded with bright light, the sun bright ahead. Down on the street, the townspeople were out and about, selling wares from the stalls that lined the street below. The stalls had all been shuttered when Feng Xin and Mu Qing had come into town late last night. It must have been midday already.
“Fuck,” Feng Xin muttered, realizing another thing—he didn’t know where the hell his clothes were. He was only in his inner robes, to which blood had dried and hardened. After a momentary, panicked, rummaging around the room, he located them, folded on the side table. The neat creases reeked of Mu Qing’s hands.
He picked them up, and they unfurled in his hands. Thankfully, he’d been wearing black, so the blood didn’t show, but where there should have been a rip in the side from the beast’s clothes, there was only a neat row of stitches, in a black thread that was a near perfect match for the fabric.
“Goddamnit, Mu Qing.”
So Mu Qing had taken the time to stitch up both Feng Xin and his clothes. So what? He’d still left, and was probably already back in the Heaven realm, sending down Xuan Zhen deputies to take care of the beast so his palace could take credit for vanquishing such a powerful creature.
Still, it wasn’t all adding up.
Feng Xin hastily pulled on the rest of his clothes, despite how his body protested the rushed movements. He slung Fengshen, which thankfully Mu Qing hadn’t confiscated in any attempt to keep him confined to this hotel room, over his shoulder, and made his way out of the room, down to the tavern below.
The inn manager waved cheerily at him as he walked by. “Glad you’re doing better, son. You and your companion looked quite the mess last night!”
“Thanks,” Feng Xin said shortly. “Speaking of my—my companion, have you seen him this morning?”
The innkeeper nodded. “He left at first light. Seemed like he was heading for the forest. I told him it was a bad idea, there are bad things on the loose in there. He wouldn’t let me stop him, though.”
“First light…” Feng Xin turned the words over in his mouth. The sun was already high in the center of the sky, and the tavern was full of people eating lunch. It had been too long.
Mu Qing should have been back by now.
Feng Xin thanked the innkeeper once, and hurried out of the inn.
He didn’t have to go far.
Because pulling himself up the front steps of the inn, fingers trembling on zhanmadao and pale as death, was Mu Qing.
“Mu Qing, you—”
“...Feng Xin,” Mu Qing said, breathlessly, and collapsed.
Feng Xin was supporting him in seconds, arms wrapped around him, pressing Mu Qing into his chest as he trembled in Feng Xin’s arms.
“Fuck, Mu Qing, what happened?”
Mu Qing didn’t respond, only pressing his face closer to Feng Xin’s chest. Feng Xin glanced around the street. Several of the vendors had already turned to stare concernedly at them.
“Come on,” Feng Xin muttered, hauling Mu Qing against him. Mu Qing’s hip pressed into Feng Xin’s still-healing wound, and without being able to stop himself, he cried out softly.
“You… shouldn’t be out of bed… already,” Mu Qing mumbled into the side of Feng Xin’s neck.
Feng Xin scoffed. “I’m fine. What the hell were you doing out there? How did you get like this?”
“The… poison,” Mu Qing breathed. His usually-perfect hair was all askew, and there was a leaf resting atop his guan. His bangs clung to the sides of his face, soaked in sweat. “...Got me from behind.”
“You should have waited for me! I could have covered you,” Feng Xin argued.
“I—” Mu Qing’s eyes fluttered, and his legs wobbled again, threatening to give out entirely, and Feng Xin couldn’t admit how much it scared him.
“Come on,” Feng Xin said, lifting him up over his shoulder. “Let’s go back in. I’ll fix this. Whatever the antidote is, I’ll find it, I swear.”
He hurried back inside, past the questioning face of the innkeeper, past all the patrons in the tavern, all the way up to their little rented room, where he placed Mu Qing down on the edge of the bed. Mu Qing let out a soft sigh. He looked completely unlike himself, shivering and undone, a violent flush in his cheeks.
Frantically, Feng Xin pressed the back of his hand to Mu Qing’s forehead, shrinking back at the touch. It was far too hot.
“Fuck. Fuck. Fuck,” Feng Xin said, and then finally thought of something better to do than swear, pressing two fingers to his temple. “Ling Wen?”
Her answer came almost immediately. “General Nan Yang. What can I do for you?”
Feng Xin glanced down at Mu Qing again, grimacing at the pale sheen of his forehead. “The poison on the beast General Xuan Zhen and I have been tracking. Is there an antidote?”
“Yes,” Ling Wen said. “Though it’ll be tricky to find. If you locate the beast’s den, there should be fungi growing along the sides of the tunnel. While their hulls are what secrete the poison that coats the beast’s body, their cores contain the antidote. Who was poisoned?”
In a futile attempt to preserve Mu Qing’s dignity, Feng Xin said, “It—it doesn’t matter. Thank you, Ling Wen.”
“No problem. I hope General Xuan Zhen is well soon.” With that, she severed the connection. The Palace of Ling Wen really did know all.
“Okay,” Feng Xin said, mostly reassuring himself. “Okay.” He picked up Fengshen, which was leaning against the wall, and slung it over his shoulder, making to leave the room, then paused.
Feng Xin went back over to the bed, and stripped away the one sheet that was currently covering Mu Qing, which was still soaked in Feng Xin’s blood from the night prior. As he pulled it away, Mu Qing shivered. Quickly, Feng Xin found a clean sheet folded by the tub, and threw it over Mu Qing, tucking it tightly on the sides in hopes it would help him feel warmer.
“Stay here,” Feng Xin said, like it would be physically possible for Mu Qing to escape in this condition. “I’ll be back before you know it.”
Easier said than done.
After two failed attempts with the beast, both with somewhat catastrophic consequences, Feng Xin knew his strategy had to be different this time. It seemed that just stepping into the woods would alert the demon to his whereabouts, so he had to be more careful than that—which meant resorting to techniques other than marching in and confronting the demon head-on.
In the shadow of the inn, Feng Xin drew out a teleportation array in the dirt. Shortly after their conversation, Ling Wen had sent him estimated coordinates of where the beast’s den would be, like she had read his mind. Feng Xin honestly wouldn’t have been surprised if she had. He wouldn’t put trickery like that past her.
Feng Xin’s array was messy. Mu Qing undoubtedly would have mocked him for it, the thought of which sent another spike of guilt into Feng Xin’s heart. Mu Qing wouldn’t have had to face the demon alone if Feng Xin had been there, if he hadn’t been so easily injured, if he’d been stronger.
Feng Xin sent a blast of spiritual energy into the array, setting it alight. He gripped Fengshen harder in his hand, and stepped inside.
Ling Wen’s estimation was spot on. The array took him to a dense part of the forest, directly in front of a large mound, just about the size of the beast with which Feng Xin was becoming uncomfortably familiar. Feng Xin circled the mound, until he found an entrance on one side. As silently as possible, he nocked an arrow on Fengshen, and held it taut.
The entrance led him into a burrow, with walls of dirt. The area near the entrance was far too full of sunshine for the fungus to grow, so Feng Xin ventured further. The den went deeper into the soil than Feng Xin expected, deep enough that he had to put away Fengshen in order to hold up a palm torch in one hand.
Eventually, he found the fungus. It clung to the lower parts of the walls in the deepest bits of the burrow, down where the sun didn’t reach. Feng Xin knelt in the dirt and tugged one of the mushrooms out of the wall. It came off easily.
Would it be enough? Feng Xin wasn’t sure, so he plucked five more out just to be sure.
Just then, the tunnel rumbled.
“Fuck,” Feng Xin said, pocketing the mushrooms quickly.
The burrow echoed with the heavy footsteps of the beast, shaking, as Feng Xin drew another teleportation array as fast as he possibly could. In his panic, the whole thing ended up smudged and horrible, and he had to start again.
A pair of glowing eyes emerged from the darkness on one side of Feng Xin.
Feng Xin slammed his palm into the array, hoping the extra spiritual energy would make up for the messy array.
He overcompensated. The burrow shook, and not just from the footsteps. Dirt rained down on them, Feng Xin and the beast both. Feng Xin kept his hand pressed to the array, Mu Qing’s face in the forefront of his mind.
The beast roared, but it was too late—Feng Xin was already carried away.
-
Shapes blurred around Mu Qing. He felt, vaguely, something being forced down his throat. He coughed as it went down, resisting. Was he being poisoned?
“Eat it, you idiot,” the voice said. There was something comforting in its harshness. “Unless you want to die here.”
Mu Qing swallowed. The voice said something else. It sounded deeply relieved.
When Mu Qing woke, he realized the voice had been Feng Xin.
Who else could it have been? The two of them were alone in the inn room. Mu Qing’s face flushed as he realized Feng Xin must have carried him up here after he’d passed out on the inn’s front steps. It was mildly humiliating to recall how weak he’d been, so he tried not to.
Feng Xin, for his part, had passed out, not on the bed, where there was ample space, nor on the chair in the corner of the room, but on the floor. He must have been watching Mu Qing as he slept, but at some point, his own exhaustion would have gotten the better of him, and instead of finding anywhere dignified to sleep, he was now curled in a ball on the floor.
Mu Qing’s lips curled at the sight. While he wasn’t sure he wanted Feng Xin sleeping at the foot of his bed like a six-foot-tall, blood-stained guard dog, there was something satisfying about it.
Mu Qing pushed himself to sit, though his raging headache took offense to it. “Feng Xin.”
Feng Xin stirred slightly, but did not rouse.
Mu Qing sighed. There was a basin of water on the bedside table, and a long-dried cool compress. Mu Qing dipped his fingers in the bowl and flicked the cold water into Feng Xin’s face.
Feng Xin shot upwards, slamming his head into the foot of the bed in the process. Mu Qing snickered, which usually would have been a cue for Feng Xin to punch him in the face. But Feng Xin didn’t.
“Mu Qing! You’re awake!” Feng Xin grabbed onto the edge of the table and stood up.
“Obviously,” Mu Qing said, rolling his eyes.
“Fuck, Mu Qing, I was worried.”
“You were worried? The Palace of Nan Yang should have been rejoicing. You finally could have had all of the South.”
“You could have had all the South,” Feng Xin objected. “But you—you stayed. And you fixed my clothes!”
“Well, I wasn’t going to have you walking around in torn-up robes. It’s disgraceful, and you really shouldn’t—”
“I’m thanking you! Can’t you just listen to me?” Feng Xin sat down on the bed next to Mu Qing, hard enough that Mu Qing jostled around. With a gentleness at odds with the way he’d just slammed down onto the bed, Feng Xin lifted up Mu Qing’s wrist and pressed two fingers to the inside.
Mu Qing pulled his hand away from Feng Xin, throwing off the covers and getting out of the bed. “We should get out of here and finish the job. That thing is still out there.”
“It’s not,” Feng Xin said. “I called Pei Ming and Dianxia to take care of it while you were asleep. It was too dangerous.”
“Wouldn’t they have been in just as much danger as we were?” Mu Qing argued.
Feng Xin shrugged. “It wouldn’t have mattered. It was already dead when they got there.
Mu Qing narrowed his eyes.
“Cave-in,” Feng Xin said casually. “It got crushed.”
“You shouldn’t have gone back out,” Mu Qing said. “Putting yourself in danger when you were already injured—”
“You did the exact same thing! And was I supposed to just let you die?”
“It’s what you would have—”
“Just shut up! I don’t want you to die, for the last fucking time!” Feng Xin’s voice rose, and she stood, coming over to face Mu Qing.
“Don’t tell me to shut up! And quiet down, everyone in the town can probably hear your shouting!” said Mu Qing, who was being just as loud. “Bullshit you didn’t want me to die, you’ve hated me for eight hundred years!”
“No, you’ve hated me! Which is why this doesn’t make any fucking sense, because why the hell did you sew—”
Mu Qing turned away from Feng Xin, something welling up inside him. “Feng Xin—”
“Why did you stitch me up? If you hate me so much, why did you fix my clothes? Why did you go out to fight that thing for me?”
Mu Qing’s voice trembled, despite his best efforts, as he said, “Feng Xin, I didn’t h-hate you. I don’t hate you.”
“But you—”
“Just shut up,” Mu Qing murmured, barely more than a whisper, and turned around.
And shut up Feng Xin did. Because suddenly, Mu Qing was kissing him.
It was terrifying, the way Feng Xin stiffened against him as he did it. For a moment, Mu Qing didn’t know whether it was from shock, or disgust, or actual true hatred, but in seconds, it didn’t matter, because Feng Xin was kissing him back, and that was the only thing that mattered in the world.
When they parted, Feng Xin muttered, “I don’t want you to die. Do you believe me now?”
Mu Qing didn’t respond. Instead, he just kissed him again and again, each better than the last.