Work Text:
Mu Qing does not understand the god before him.
Though Tonglu forged a new and steady understanding between Mu Qing and Xie Lian’s fractured past, Feng Xin remained a frayed thread, untouched by the same clarity. It was clear that he was not afforded such grace.
But Feng Xin, ever self-assured, accepted Mu Qing’s olive branch on his own terms — claiming for himself that same fragile sympathy, despite the heavy, lingering resentment between them.
Feng Xin was bullheaded in his belief that he deserved Mu Qing’s friendship, clinging to idiotic concepts like nostalgia as if their ancient history was worthy of being fondly reminisced. Does he not know that he has inflicted Mu Qing so much hurt?
Mu Qing only remembers the viciousness of Feng Xin’s mouth — ruthless accusations and intentioned mockeries — from the Central Plains they’d known as gangly children to the Heavenly Capital they’d memorized as mighty warriors. Mu Qing does not want his sudden change of heart; it is a poor substitute for an apology.
It cut Mu Qing right to the bone to see Feng Xin treat him like a situation to be handled. No, Mu Qing had no desire to pretend they hadn’t hurled brutalities at each other for centuries. No, he didn’t want to grow accustomed to the soft lilt of Feng Xin’s voice. No, he refused to turn away from the persistent ache of each other’s glaring bruises.
What Mu Qing wanted was simple: to be understood. And yet, despite Feng Xin’s sincerity, he could not bring himself to offer Mu Qing that understanding.
Feng Xin stands before him, a tray balanced in his hands, two cups set neatly upon it. There’s a question in his eyes — soft, earnest, achingly familiar. It’s the same look he’s always given Xie Lian, the same one he now offers Cuo Cuo and Jian Lan. It makes something in Mu Qing burn.
Feng Xin, Mu Qing thinks, have you ever tried to figure me out? Not as a problem to be solved, not as a mere remnant of Xianle, but as a person of the same footing. Your equal.
Mu Qing almost moves to begin the long-overdue rapprochement, even with resentment simmering beneath his skin — if only to understand how Feng Xin can wear this ruse so easily.
Feng Xin starts speaking.
“Dianxia mentioned that you like pu-erh tea.”
And then it dissipates as quickly as it appeared.
Right.
Feng Xin’s loyalty — it had never been his. It had never belonged to him.
It was Xie Lian’s, Cuo Cuo’s, and Jian Lan’s. It threaded through every attempt Feng Xin made to understand them — why Xie Lian did what he had to, why Jian Lan and Cuo Cuo kept their distance, and why, even then, Feng Xin still chose to reach for them, to care for them, to love them. It seeps through the cracks of Feng Xin’s every mundane gesture, and even then this fleeting pretense of care is not truly for Mu Qing. It is only ever the byproduct of a loyalty that belongs to someone else.
Now Mu Qing understood.
Mu Qing reaches for a cup, takes note of its warmth, but makes no move to say something back.
Instead, he thinks yet again: Feng Xin, do you have no modicum of guilt spared for me in your bones?