Work Text:
For quite a weeks now, their now shared apartment had been the stage for a very specific—and much to Feng Xin’s dismay—slightly humiliating performance. It was here amidst Mu Qing’s minimalist décor that Feng Xin was engaged in an extremely one-sided campaign for feline approval.
It had started so promisingly. Feng Xin’s husky, Nan Feng, had adored Mu Qing from their very first hike years ago. Now, in this new, tender landscape of their dating life, Nan Feng would routinely shove his great, wolfish head into Mu Qing’s lap during movie nights, whining softly until Mu Qing’s fingers found the sweet spot behind his ears.
“He’s a traitor,” Mu Qing would laugh, his smile doing things to Feng Xin’s stomach.
Meanwhile, Feng Xin’s obstacle was Fu Yao, Mu Qing’s sleek black tabby, who viewed Feng Xin not as a potential friend, but as a baffling, persistent stain on his universe. He met Feng Xin’s overtures with eloquent eyerolls, disdainful flicks of his tail, and the occasional hiss that sounded suspiciously like sarcasm. Their friend group found it hilarious.
“You won the man, but the cat remains unconvinced!” Pei Ming had toasted, which only made Feng Xin more determined.
He tried everything. Gourmet tuna. Feather wands that made him look like a derailed orchestra conductor. A ridiculously plush cat bed that Fu Yao ignored in favour of Mu Qing’s discarded sweaters. Nothing worked.
One Friday evening, after Fu Yao deliberately walked between Feng Xin’s offering hand and the couch, pausing only to sneeze dismissively, Feng Xin slumped onto the sofa.
“He hates me,” he mumbled, genuine defeat in his voice.
Mu Qing, who had been watching the weekly ritual with amused affection, set down his cup of coffee.
His smile softened in a way only Feng Xin could tell. “You’re trying too hard. You’re a big, loud, eager thing in his territory.”
“So I should just… give up?” Feng Xin was honestly ready for it.
“No,” Mu Qing said, a conspiratorial glint in his eye. “You should do nothing at all. Come here.”
Puzzled, Feng Xin followed him to the open space of the living room rug.
“Lie down,” Mu Qing instructed.
“What?”
“On your back. Just… lie there. And don’t move. No matter what.”
Feeling utterly absurd, Feng Xin lowered himself to the floor and stared at the ceiling. Mu Qing retreated to the armchair, a silent sentinel. Nan Feng, after a confused sniff, lay down nearby with a huff, respecting the strange human ritual. Feng Xin wondered if this was a joke from his boyfriend.
For five minutes, nothing happened. Feng Xin heard the faint traffic outside and the hum of the refrigerator. He felt silly. Then, there was a whisper of movement. A shadow detached itself from under the bookshelf and Fu Yao emerged as a sliver of liquid obsidian.
Feng Xin held his breath since Mu Qing had told him not to move. Fu Yao paused, ears forward, analysing this new, horizontal version of the intruder who had claimed his owner. He took a cautious step, then another, circling Feng Xin’s perimeter like a tiny, critical shark. Feng Xin was sure he was red from holding his breath but his muscles screamed to stay still.
Fu Yao sniffed his socked foot, then gave an experimental nibble on his big toe through the fabric. Feng Xin stifled a jerk. The cat moved up, sniffing his jeans, his sweater, and his outstretched arm. Each investigation was thorough and clinical.
Then, with a grace that defied physics, Fu Yao stepped onto Feng Xin’s stomach. Feng Xin’s heart hammered against his ribs. The cat paced a small, precise circle on his chest, kneaded briefly with paws that held tiny, sharp promises, and then, with a final, judging look at Feng Xin’s frozen face, settled. He curled into a perfect, warm loaf, his purr erupting like a distant motor, a vibration that sank straight into Feng Xin’s bones.
Shock rendered the already stationary Feng Xin statue still. His eyes, wide as saucers, found Mu Qing’s across the room.
Mu Qing was beaming, a proud, radiant smile that crinkled the corners of his eyes. He brought a finger to his lips in a shush, his gaze overflowing with a tenderness that had nothing to do with the cat. He pointed subtly at his own chest, then at Feng Xin, and mouthed, See? Patience.
The cat had adopted Feng Xin as a carpet.
And Feng Xin saw. He saw the trust in the weight on his chest, a trust earned not by bribery, but by quiet vulnerability. He saw the love in Mu Qing’s eyes, a love that had patiently waited for both man and cat to find their footing. In the quiet apartment, under the weight of a purring, conquered fortress, Feng Xin simply lay there, smiling up at the ceiling, his heart fuller than he’d ever thought possible.