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Feng Xin burst into Mu Qing's palace like he was allowed there, which he absolutely wasn't. If Mu Qing hadn't had his hands full, he would have thrown him out immediately. As it was, he looked at him with his most poisonous glare and demanded, "What are you doing here?"
Feng Xin, idiot that he was, just looked blankly at Mu Qing. "Why are you punching dough?"
"It's not punching, it's kneading," Mu Qing corrected irritably, "and you didn't answer my question. What are you doing here, in my palace?"
"I wanted to talk," Feng Xin said. "It looks like you're punching it."
"Have you never seen anyone make mantou before?"
"Is that what you're doing?" Feng Xin asked curiously. He stepped up to Mu Qing for a better look. For a moment, he seemed dangerously close to looking directly over Mu Qing's shoulder, but luckily, he backed off before he got that close. If he'd tried, Mu Qing would have had to stab him, and then he would have gotten blood on the dough and had to start over.
"Yes," Mu Qing said sharply. "Back off."
"I didn't realize you cooked your own food."
It was an innocuous enough statement, but it still send Mu Qing's hackles up. "I don't. What, do you think I can't afford to pay someone else to do it?"
"But you're making mantou right now."
Mu Qing looked down at the dough he was kneading - a bit violently, actually; maybe it did look a little like punching, although he'd never admit it - and scowled. "It's for Xie Lian."
Feng Xin's eyes widened. "Oh."
"You can buy mantou anywhere, but it's not quite the same as it was back in Xianle," Mu Qing added, not sure if he was defending himself or digging the hole deeper. "This is following the palace's old recipe. He always liked it, and I don't think he's eating much."
Mu Qing was fairly certain he'd just dug the hole deeper. He braced himself against one of Feng Xin's pointed jokes about f-f-friendship, reminding himself that he didn't want to ruin the dough. He still hated the very thought of wasting food, even though ruining one batch didn't mean risking going hungry anymore.
To his surprise, though, Feng Xin didn't make a joke. "Oh," he repeated, something soft in his tone. "I don't- That's good. That you're making it for him. I don't think he's eating enough either."
It had been almost six months since they'd defeated Jun Wu. Almost six months since Crimson Rain Sought Flower had poured every bit of himself into breaking Xie Lian's shackles and then dissolved into a flood of butterflies. Almost six months since Xie Lian had just knelt there, gutted in a way Mu Qing hadn't seen for centuries, and stared at the spot where Crimson Rain had been, not even seeming to notice the tears streaming down his face as he clutched something hanging from a chain around his neck. Feng Xin had been the one to gently urge him to his feet and carefully guide him to one of the tents set up by the other gods in their sorry little camp. With some urging, Xie Lian had slept, and when he'd woken, he'd been… Shuttered. He offered everyone smiles that didn't reach his eyes, and he waved off all the congratulations over his victory, and he assured everyone who would listen that Crimson Rain would be back once he had a little time to rest.
There had been no signs yet of Crimson Rain coming back. Mu Qing had some doubts as to whether or not he would at all, but he would never say as much to Xie Lian. If this was how Xie Lian was acting while still thinking Crimson Rain would return - hardly eating, hardly sleeping, puttering around that little cottage and only seeming to remember he could do more when prompted - Mu Qing didn't want to see how he'd act if he lost all hope.
"You never answered what you were doing here," Mu Qing said, turning away from Feng Xin and focusing on the dough. "Or why you thought you were allowed to burst into my palace like that."
"I wanted to talk about His Highness," Feng Xin said. He'd gotten the same offer as Mu Qing to call Xie Lian by name, but he didn't seem likely to take him up on it any time soon. "I'm worried about him, and I'm planning to go down to visit. I was going to ask if you wanted to come with me. But you're clearly already also planning that, so we can go down together with the mantou."
"What's this we?" Mu Qing retorted. "I'll take the mantou down and share them with Xie Lian. You don't need to be there."
"Can't we all share?"
"The recipe only makes four. Two for him, two for me."
Feng Xin frowned a little. Mu Qing could only see him out of the corner of his eye, but he wasn't about to turn towards him properly. "Couldn't you make six that are a little smaller? Then we could split them evenly."
"Oh, you're an expert on baking now?" Mu Qing asked waspishly, deliberately ignoring the fact that it was a perfectly viable solution to the problem. That would mean admitting there was a problem, and Mu Qing didn't see any issue in not making enough mantou for Feng Xin.
"Whatever! I'm still going down to visit him too, though."
Mu Qing rolled his eyes. "As if it matters to me."
He was expecting Feng Xin to snap something back, but to his surprise, he didn't. He didn't say a word, but he didn't leave either, and although Mu Qing would have thought the silence would be preferable to hearing Feng Xin's voice, it strangely… wasn't. It would have been best, of course, if he just left, but if he was going to stay, he could at least say something to indicate why.
"When was the last time you saw His Highness?" Feng Xin asked after a few tense minutes.
"About a week ago," Mu Qing replied. "He was the same as he's been for months. He's acting more like a ghost than Crimson Rain ever did."
Again, Mu Qing expected Feng Xin to snap. Again, he didn't. "He's so sad," he said instead, the words simple and somewhat mournful themselves. "He's so sad, and I don't know how to help."
Mu Qing could have said something cutting. He was fairly certain both he and Feng Xin were expecting it. He could have said something about how that was unsurprising, given Feng Xin's intelligence, or he could have said something about how Feng Xin had never been able to help in any situation, or, if he really wanted to be cruel, he could have said something about Xie Lian and how even princes just had to deal with being sad sometimes. Instead, he kept his mouth shut and kept kneading the dough.
"I'm not good at this," Feng Xin continued. Why he felt the need to unburden himself to Mu Qing of all people, Mu Qing had no idea, and he almost wanted to tell him to shut the hell up and go the hell away, but something stilled his tongue. "I- I just…" Feng Xin sighed. "I can protect him from physical dangers. That was my job. I was his bodyguard. And… I wasn't perfect, but I was pretty good at it. But this? Helping him with…" Feng Xin gestured vaguely. "Taking care of himself? I don't know how to do that. I've never been good at it when I try. I'm not like you."
"Like me?" Mu Qing repeated sharply. So help him, if Feng Xin said something about how Mu Qing being a servant or his old role in Xianle…
"You can comfort people," Feng Xin said, which floored Mu Qing so much he almost froze. He carefully didn't let his motions even so much as stutter, but only through sheer force of will.
Feng Xin thought he was good at comforting people? Was he blind and deaf?
"You don't usually do it," Feng Xin continued, "and you don't always say the right thing, but you know what to do. You're making His Highness a food he likes. You fixed his silk band. I just go down there and try to talk to him, and he just smiles that awful empty smile, and then I leave and I know I haven't helped anything at all."
Mu Qing kept kneading his dough. He didn't look up. There were so many things he could say, all crowding his mind. He could be cruel; he could brag about how much more helpful he was than Feng Xin, even though he wasn't sure how much his mantou and other treats were actually helping. He could be dismissive; he could act as if he didn't really matter to him either way how Xie Lian was, even though he'd gone out of his way to find the now-rare ingredients to make Xianle-style mantou. Or he could be honest; he could tell Feng Xin that he was doubtful how much he was helping either, and that he only brought little gifts like the mantou when he visited Xie Lian because he was all too aware of how useless he was when it came to comforting words. Feng Xin's attempts at comfort weren't always perfect either, but he was so sincere that you couldn't help but feel at least somewhat comforted, even if it was against your own will and better judgment. Mu Qing knew that uncomfortably well.
Feng Xin could say the things that would make Xie Lian feel better, and Mu Qing could give him things that would make sure he took at least the bare minimum of care of himself. As little as either of them liked it, Mu Qing was aware that he and Feng Xin had always complemented each other very well.
"In the cabinet behind me," he said, his voice even and just barely not through gritted teeth, "you'll find the bamboo steamer. Get it out."
For a moment, Feng Xin was very still. If he said one thing about not being a servant, Mu Qing would eviscerate him, but he didn't; he just silently went to the cabinet, rummaged around a bit, and pulled out the bamboo steamer.
"In the drawer below the cabinet," Mu Qing said, continuing to knead the dough with careful precision, "there are round pieces of baking paper. Put one in the bottom of each level of the steamer."
Behind him, he heard Feng Xin do as he was told.
"Get that wooden cutting board," he told Feng Xin once he went quiet. "Cover it with a thin layer of flour. Just a sprinkling. Put it down next to me on the counter."
Feng Xin hesitated for a bare moment, then he stepped up to Mu Qing's side, holding the cutting board and the bag of flour. Mu Qing watched as he sprinkled it out in a careful layer, then he looked resolutely down at the dough when Feng Xin's hopeful gaze turned to him.
"This needs to rest for a few minutes before I divide it," Mu Qing said, setting the dough down on the board. "Put a towel on top of it while I wash my hands. Then the buns will need to rise for an hour, but… they can do that down in Xie Lian's temple, and I can steam them down there as long as you agree to help me keep him away from the stove if necessary."
He fled to wash his hands in another room before Feng Xin could reply, ignoring the perfectly good sink in the kitchen. He took a bit longer than was strictly necessary making sure that he'd gotten every bit of dough out from under his fingernails, then he strode back to the kitchen, keeping his chin up and making sure he didn't look like a slinking cat that was hoping to remain unnoticed. Feng Xin, thankfully, didn't say a word, but he couldn't quite keep the smile from his face.
Mu Qing, when he divided the dough into separate buns, made six.