Work Text:
Mu Qing does not believe in worship.
He believes in work.
In discipline.
In the cold arithmetic of effort and result: if you bleed enough, you rise. If you rise enough, no one can drag you back down.
He has built a palace on that math.
He has built a life.
He has built walls.
And then Feng Xin started treating him like a shrine.
⸻
Mu Qing wakes to the sensation of being watched.
This is not new.
Feng Xin has been looking at him like that for years—like Mu Qing is a painting someone hung too high, and Feng Xin is determined to stand on a ladder until he can see every brushstroke.
Mu Qing keeps his eyes closed.
He listens.
Footsteps, careful and light.
The rustle of fabric.
The soft shift of air as someone leans over him.
He knows the exact moment Feng Xin decides to pull the blanket higher.
Mu Qing’s hand moves before his mind does.
He catches Feng Xin’s wrist.
“Who—”
“It’s me.”
Mu Qing blinks up at him.
Moonlight cuts across Feng Xin’s face, all sharp lines and soft eyes.
Mu Qing’s grip loosens.
“Oh.”
“Yeah. Oh.”
“What are you doing here?”
“Checking on you.”
“I don’t need checking on.”
“You were asleep at your desk.”
Mu Qing frowns.
“I was resting my eyes.”
“You were drooling.”
“I was not.”
“You absolutely were.”
Mu Qing sits up, irritation flaring on instinct.
His hair is a mess.
His eyes feel gritty.
He knows he looks terrible.
Feng Xin is looking at him like he’s a sunrise.
Mu Qing notices.
He always notices.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“You’re staring.”
“I like looking at you.”
The words land like a stone in water.
Mu Qing freezes.
So does Feng Xin, as if he only just realized he said it out loud.
Heat crawls up Mu Qing’s ears.
“Idiot,” he says, because it’s easier than anything else.
Feng Xin smiles.
“Probably.”
Mu Qing turns away so he doesn’t have to look at that smile.
He tells himself it’s annoyance.
It isn’t.
⸻
Mu Qing does not like being praised.
This is not a secret.
Compliments feel like traps.
Say he fought well and someone will expect him to fight better next time.
Call his palace beautiful and someone will notice the crack in the tile.
Call him handsome and they’ll be waiting for the moment he proves them wrong.
Feng Xin knows this.
Feng Xin does not care.
“You look good.”
“Your swordsmanship was incredible.”
“You handled that prayer beautifully.”
“Your hair looks nice.”
“You’re brilliant.”
“You’re beautiful.”
“You’re the best general in Heaven.”
It never stops.
At first, Mu Qing deflects.
Then he glares.
Then he snaps.
“Will you stop?”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because it’s true.”
“You’re insufferable.”
“And you’re beautiful.”
Mu Qing wants to argue.
He wants to list every flaw, every mistake, every time he wasn’t enough.
Instead, he turns away.
He feels the shape of a smile trying to form.
He hides it.
Feng Xin sees anyway.
Of course he does.
⸻
There are things Feng Xin does that Mu Qing pretends not to notice.
He keeps Mu Qing’s favorite tea in his own palace, even though Mu Qing has never asked.
He remembers which dishes Mu Qing pushes to the side and quietly steers them away next time.
He notices when Mu Qing hasn’t slept and finds reasons to linger until Mu Qing’s shoulders drop.
He notices when Mu Qing is hungry and “happens” to have extra food.
He notices when Mu Qing is uncomfortable at a gathering and creates an excuse to pull him aside.
He notices when someone insults him.
Especially that.
One afternoon, an official makes a careless remark.
“General Xuan Zhen is rather fortunate to have risen so far considering his background.”
The room goes quiet.
Mu Qing’s expression does not change.
He has heard worse.
He has heard it all his life.
He keeps his face smooth.
He keeps his hands still.
He does not let them see it land.
Feng Xin stands.
“Say that again.”
Mu Qing’s fingers tighten on Feng Xin’s sleeve before he thinks better of it.
“Leave it,” he says, low.
“He insulted you.”
“I don’t care.”
“I care.”
Mu Qing looks at him.
Feng Xin’s voice softens.
“You shouldn’t have to pretend you don’t.”
Something in Mu Qing’s chest cracks.
He hates that it does.
He hates that Feng Xin sees it.
He hates that, for once, he doesn’t want to push him away.
The official lowers his head.
“General Nan Yang, I meant no offense.”
“Good.”
Feng Xin sits.
Mu Qing does not let go of his sleeve.
Neither of them mentions it.
⸻
At night, Mu Qing asks,
“Why do you do that?”
Feng Xin looks over.
“Do what?”
“Defend me.”
“Because someone has to.”
“I can defend myself.”
“I know.”
“Then why?”
Feng Xin thinks about it.
“Because I love you.”
The words are simple.
They hit like a blow.
Mu Qing goes completely still.
Feng Xin continues before he can retreat.
“I love you when you’re angry.”
Mu Qing looks away.
“I love you when you’re arrogant.”
“I’m not arrogant.”
“You absolutely are.”
Mu Qing elbows him.
Feng Xin laughs.
“I love you when you’re difficult. When you’re tired. When you won’t admit you’re tired. When you think you’re better than everyone else.”
“I am better than most people.”
“See?”
Mu Qing smiles despite himself.
Feng Xin reaches for his hand.
“And I love you most when you don’t think you’re worth loving.”
The smile dies.
Feng Xin squeezes his fingers.
“I wish you could see yourself the way I see you.”
Mu Qing’s voice is quiet.
“How do you see me?”
Feng Xin looks at him.
For a heartbeat, Mu Qing thinks he will say something grand.
Something divine.
Instead, Feng Xin says,
“Like someone worth kneeling for.”
Mu Qing’s eyes widen.
“Feng Xin.”
“I mean it.”
“You’re ridiculous.”
“Probably.”
“You shouldn’t worship me.”
Feng Xin smiles.
“Too late.”
⸻
It becomes their private joke.
At least, Mu Qing calls it a joke.
Feng Xin doesn’t.
Sometimes Mu Qing walks into a room and Feng Xin bows with exaggerated grace.
“My General.”
Mu Qing rolls his eyes.
“Get up.”
“No.”
“Feng Xin.”
“Your divine presence has blessed my humble existence.”
“You are humiliating yourself.”
“Gladly.”
Mu Qing tries not to smile.
He fails.
Other times Feng Xin takes Mu Qing’s hand and kisses his knuckles.
Mu Qing immediately looks around.
“Someone might see.”
“So?”
“You’ll embarrass me.”
“You’re a heavenly god.”
“And?”
“You’re supposed to be worshipped.”
Mu Qing stares.
Feng Xin smiles.
“I’m just doing my job.”
“You’re impossible.”
“And devoted.”
Mu Qing sighs.
“Unfortunately.”
He does not pull his hand away.
He tells himself it’s because arguing is exhausting.
It isn’t.
⸻
One evening, Feng Xin kneels before him.
Not as a joke.
Not dramatically.
Just quietly.
Mu Qing looks startled.
“What are you doing?”
Feng Xin takes his hand.
“I’ve spent my whole life thinking devotion meant following someone.”
Mu Qing’s expression softens despite himself.
“But that’s not what it is.”
Feng Xin kisses his palm.
“It’s seeing someone clearly.”
He kisses his wrist.
“Knowing their flaws.”
His fingers tighten gently.
“Knowing their fears.”
He looks up.
“And choosing them anyway.”
Mu Qing’s eyes sting.
He hates that, too.
“Feng Xin…”
“You don’t have to be perfect for me.”
“I know.”
“No, you don’t.”
Feng Xin stands.
“You keep thinking you have to earn love.”
Mu Qing looks down.
“You don’t.”
Feng Xin touches his cheek.
“You already have mine.”
Mu Qing closes his eyes.
For once, he doesn’t argue.
He lets the words sit between them.
He lets them sink in.
He lets himself believe, just a little, that maybe love does not always come with a price.
⸻
Years later, Mu Qing still does not believe in worship.
He believes in work.
In discipline.
In the cold arithmetic of effort and result.
But he also believes in Feng Xin.
He believes in the way Feng Xin looks at him when he’s furious, when he’s exhausted, when he’s impossible.
He believes in the way Feng Xin remembers his tea, his food, his tells.
He believes in the way Feng Xin steps in front of insults without being asked.
He believes in the way Feng Xin kneels, not because Mu Qing demands it, but because Feng Xin chooses to.
One night, Mu Qing wakes and finds Feng Xin watching him.
Again.
“You’re staring,” Mu Qing says.
“Yeah.”
“Why?”
Feng Xin smiles.
“Because you’re here.”
Mu Qing blinks.
“That doesn’t answer the question.”
“It does for me.”
Mu Qing sighs.
Then, very quietly, he reaches out.
Feng Xin takes his hand immediately.
Mu Qing pulls him closer.
Their foreheads touch.
“Idiot,” Mu Qing whispers.
Feng Xin smiles.
“Your idiot.”
Mu Qing’s eyes soften.
“My idiot.”
Feng Xin closes his eyes.
Mu Qing thinks about temples.
About incense.
About people bowing their heads and asking the heavens for mercy.
He has never wanted to be a god.
He has never wanted to be worshipped.
But if devotion is worship—
Then he supposes he can allow one believer.
One knee.
One idiot who looks at him like he is something precious.
Mu Qing tightens his grip on Feng Xin’s hand.
He does not say thank you.
He does not say I love you.
Not yet.
But he does not let go.
And for now, that is enough.