Work Text:
Mu Qing does not kneel.
He has knelt before altars, before ceremonies, before the formal weight of Heaven’s rituals. He has knelt because protocol demanded it, because tradition required it, because there were eyes watching and expectations to meet.
He has never knelt because he wanted to.
Until now.
⸻
It starts with Feng Xin injured.
This is not unusual. Feng Xin makes a habit of placing himself between danger and other people. Mu Qing has lost count of how many times he has watched Feng Xin take an arrow, a blade, a blow that should have landed on someone else.
What is unusual is how badly this one lands.
A demon, desperate and cornered, drives a spear through Feng Xin’s side before Mu Qing can cut it down. The sound is wrong. Too deep. Too final.
Feng Xin grunts, stumbles, but does not fall.
“Don’t be stupid,” Mu Qing snaps, already moving. “Sit down.”
“I’m fine,” Feng Xin says, which is obviously a lie.
Mu Qing does not argue. He grabs Feng Xin’s arm, half-drags him back to their palace, and forces him onto a couch before he can collapse.
“You are not fine,” Mu Qing says, pressing a hand to the wound. Blood seeps between his fingers. “You are an idiot.”
Feng Xin smiles weakly. “Your idiot.”
Mu Qing’s throat tightens.
He does not answer. He fetches bandages, medicine, water. He works quickly, efficiently, the way he has always worked.
He does not let his hands shake. He does not let himself think about what would happen if this time, Feng Xin does not get back up.
He binds the wound. He cleans the blood. He sits back when he is done and finally allows himself to breathe.
Feng Xin is pale but awake. He is looking at Mu Qing like he always does—like Mu Qing is something worth seeing.
“Thank you,” Feng Xin says softly.
Mu Qing looks away. “You would have done the same.”
“I would have done worse. I would have died for you.”
“Don’t say that.”
“Why not? It’s true.”
Mu Qing stands abruptly. He paces to the window, then back, then stops in front of Feng Xin.
“Why do you keep doing this?” he asks. “Throwing yourself at danger. Taking hits. Acting like your life is worth less than everyone else’s.”
Feng Xin tilts his head. “Because it’s not.”
Mu Qing freezes. “What?”
“My life.” Feng Xin’s voice is calm. “It’s not worth more. Not more than yours. Not more than anyone’s. If I can trade a piece of myself to keep you safe, that is not a loss. That is a gain.”
Mu Qing stares at him.
He has heard Feng Xin say many ridiculous things. This is not the most ridiculous.
It is the most terrifying.
Because Mu Qing understands, suddenly, what it means to be loved like this.
It means someone is willing to break themselves to keep you whole.
It means someone looks at you and sees something so precious that their own body becomes secondary.
It means someone would kneel, not because you demand it, but because they cannot imagine any other response.
Mu Qing’s hands shake.
He does not let them.
He clenches them into fists, then forces them open again.
“Sit down,” he says, voice rough.
“I am sitting.”
“Stay sitting.”
Feng Xin watches him. “Mu Qing?”
Mu Qing does not answer.
He moves in front of Feng Xin.
He lowers himself.
One knee, then the other, until he is kneeling on the floor in front of the couch, at Feng Xin’s level.
Feng Xin goes completely still.
“Mu Qing,” he says again, quieter. “What are you doing?”
Mu Qing looks up at him.
He has never been good at words. He has spent his life building walls out of silence, out of deflection, out of pride.
But Feng Xin has spent years breaking through those walls with nothing but stubborn love.
So Mu Qing tries.
“I do not know how to do this,” he says. “I do not know how to be… what you think I am.”
“You do not have to be anything.”
“I know.” Mu Qing takes a breath. “But you keep kneeling. Metaphorically. Literally. You keep putting me above you. And I do not know how to give that back. But I want to try.”
Feng Xin’s eyes shine.
“Mu Qing…”
“So.” Mu Qing gestures vaguely at his own kneeling position. “This. For you. Not because I think I am a god. But because you think I am. And because…”
He stops.
He does not know how to finish.
Feng Xin reaches down.
He takes Mu Qing’s hands.
“You do not have to explain,” he says. “I understand.”
Mu Qing exhales, something tight in his chest loosening.
“Good,” he says. “Because I am not doing it again.”
Feng Xin laughs, soft and bright. “We will see.”
Mu Qing squeezes his hands.
He does not pull away.
⸻
Later, when Feng Xin is asleep, Mu Qing sits beside him and watches.
He thinks about kneeling.
He thinks about how it felt to lower himself, not because he had to, but because he wanted to.
He thinks about Feng Xin’s hands in his, warm and steady.
He thinks about how, for the first time, he does not feel like he is paying for something.
He feels like he is giving.
And maybe, Mu Qing thinks, that is what worship really is.
Not being worshipped.
But learning how to worship back.