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Chapter Text

It starts, as most things do between them, with a taunt.

“Tired already?” Mu Qing nudges Feng Xin’s leg with his foot, peering down at him. “You’re getting slow in your old age.”

When did Feng Xin say he was tired? He might still be laying in the dirt since the last time Mu Qing pinned him, but he’s not tired. Just catching his breath. He could fight with Mu Qing all day. Has been fighting with him all day—sparring, to be exact.

Their daily sparring matches are a post-Tonglu development. They alternate on who’s hosting; today they’re at the private training grounds of Feng Xin’s own palace since he won last time, but he has a sinking feeling they’ll be at Mu Qing’s place for the next one.

Sparring with Mu Qing is nice. Well, as nice as anything involving Mu Qing ever is. It’s a friendlier, more civilized version of their fights—but with 80% less property damage, 30% less taunts, and almost no hard feelings at the end.

Emphasis on almost.

Feng Xin scowls. “Who’s old? We’re the same fucking age, shithead.”

“You’re three months older than me,” Mu Qing reminds him, haughty as all hell. He smirks, extending a hand to pull Feng Xin up. “You’d remember that if you weren’t senile.”

Feng Xin smacks his hand aside and gets up himself. “Where’s your respect for your elders, then? You should be calling me gege.”

He drawls out the word, grinning at the way it makes Mu Qing’s mouth twist up in disgust.

“You should be shutting up.”

Mu Qing takes a half-hearted swing at Feng Xin which he returns with one of his own.

Their official match is over but they keep swatting at each other, too playful to be called fighting but too artless to be sparring, either. Just roughhousing, which is another new and exciting thing for them. It’s harmless. Fun, even.

It’s just bad luck that Mu Qing sweeps Feng Xin’s feet out from under him at the same exact moment that Feng Xin shoves him over.

Everything after that feels like it happens in slow motion. Mu Qing tries to catch himself by grabbing onto Feng Xin’s arm—a perilous mistake that just winds up sending them both careening to the floor.

There are a series of collisions.

First, Mu Qing hits the ground, flat on his back. Next, Feng Xin falls (read: Mu Qing pulls him) right on top of him. Their foreheads knock against each other with a too-loud, dizzying clunk. And then—

Their mouths smash together, hard enough to hurt.

Feng Xin would like to clarify that this is absolutely not a kiss, not in any logical sense of the word. It certainly didn’t feel like one. More like a punch, really—and Feng Xin’s been punched in the face enough by Mu Qing to know exactly what that feels like. It’s brief and unpleasant and Feng Xin thinks he might be bleeding.

If he was actually going to kiss Mu Qing, it wouldn’t be anything like this. Not that he thinks about kissing Mu Qing! He doesn’t. Not all the time.

The not-kiss is over in an instant, anyway.

Feng Xin scrambles up onto his hands and knees, cursing and wincing at the ache in his head. Mu Qing, on the other hand, stays right where he is—sprawled underneath Feng Xin. His forehead is red from where they bonked skulls, but the rest of his face is pretty red too, so that’s not saying much.

“Hey!” Feng Xin shouts, even though they’re only inches apart. As soon as the word leaves his mouth, he realizes that he has no idea what to say next. After a moment, he tries again (still shouting), “Be more careful!”

Now, this is the part where Mu Qing snaps back at him—that Feng Xin is the one who ought to be more careful, that he’s a big oaf, that this is all his fault anyway. Except Mu Qing doesn’t do that. He just keeps staring up at Feng Xin with eyes like saucers, frozen completely still.

There’s a little blood on his lip, from where someone’s teeth must have snagged it. Ah, so he’s the one who’s bleeding. Without thinking, Feng Xin reaches over to wipe it away with the pad of his thumb.

His lips are soft, if a little bruised, which is a really stupid thing for Feng Xin to be noticing right now. He doesn’t know why he’s doing this, or why Mu Qing is letting him. Frankly, he’s starting to get worried.

“You just—um. Your lip. Is bleeding. Was bleeding. I fixed it.” Feng Xin says intelligently, though he hasn’t really fixed anything. This is a disaster. “Can you just fucking say something?”

Mu Qing does not say something. He does, however, suddenly spring to his senses and shove Feng Xin off of him.

Actually, he shoves him halfway across the room. Feng Xin is briefly airborne and then he’s crumpled in a heap on the floor (again), head spinning.

“What the fuck was that for?” he yells, pushing himself up onto his elbows just in time to catch sight of Mu Qing back on his feet, practically sprinting towards the exit.

“Where the hell are you going?”

It’s another question that goes unanswered as Mu Qing leaves without a word. Okay, now Feng Xin is definitely worried.

It’s not that Mu Qing storming out of conversations with him is that unusual—it’s pretty par for the course, actually—but he always has to get one extra jab in. That’s who Mu Qing is, who he’s always been. He’s a petty little fucker who’s obsessed with having the last word.

They just accidentally… touched mouths. Mu Qing should have an absolute diatribe he’s ready to unleash. He should be in the process of rupturing Feng Xin’s ear drums right now. And yet he couldn’t even manage to get out one little barb? Hm. This is maybe kind of very bad.

Or maybe not!

Lately, Feng Xin has been trying this new thing where he doesn’t immediately jump to the worst possible conclusions about Mu Qing and all his constant weirdness.

Mu Qing is notoriously thin-skinned—quick to blush, easy to embarrass. And Feng Xin can admit that their little not-kiss was certainly embarrassing. He’s probably just flustered. Hell, Feng Xin is too. (Though his reasons have less to do with wounded pride and more to do with the way that his thumb still feels warm and tingly from when he brushed it against Mu Qing’s lips.)

Maybe Mu Qing just stormed out because needs some time alone to cool off and collect himself.

Feng Xin sighs, finally picking himself off the floor. That’s probably it. Mu Qing needs some space. And Feng Xin will gladly give it to him, if it means they never have to talk about today’s catastrophe. They’ll leave this Incident behind them and things will go back to normal.

It’ll be fine.

__________

It’s not fine. Feng Xin realizes this when they hit week two of Mu Qing avoiding him at all costs.

One week? Fine. Mu Qing has done that for everything from actual fights to simple funny looks—hell, he once refused to speak to Feng Xin for a week just because he wore a guan he thought was “gaudy.”

One week is normal, but two? He hasn’t done that since before his confession at Mount Tonglu, before they were actually friends.

His sudden absence makes Feng Xin realize how much time they’ve been spending together since then. In just a few short years, he’s come to expect and enjoy Mu Qing’s presence—his constant snarky commentary, his light, graceful footsteps, even his eyerolls.

It’s embarrassing, how much Feng Xin misses him.

More embarrassing is how much Feng Xin has been thinking about their terrible, horrible not-kiss—which really was a kiss, at the end of the day.

It’s ridiculous. After centuries of vaguely imagining what it might be like to kiss Mu Qing, it finally happens—and it’s an accident? Not just an accident—a humiliating little slapstick comedy routine? The memory haunts Feng Xin’s every waking hour, even bleeding into his dreams. Every time he closes his eyes he sees the blank, shocked look on Mu Qing’s face, feels the sharp phantom press of his lips against his own. He replays Mu Qing’s scrambling exit over and over in his mind, cringing at his own inaction.

The dreams go a little differently. In his dreams, he chases after Mu Qing and kisses him properly, healing his bloody lip with a gentle stream of spiritual energy. Sometimes, in his dreams, the nasty part of their collision never happens at all—his brain just skips to frantic kissing in a heap on the training grounds floor.

Feng Xin’s dreams are wildly unrealistic and he really ought to stop sleeping.

Still, he wonders if Mu Qing has been thinking about the kiss as well.

Is that what he’s been upset about? Was that fleeting little kiss, as clumsy and unpleasant as it was, really so abhorrent to him? Does he still hate Feng Xin so much?

The only way to find out is to ask—though Feng Xin doubts he’ll get a straight answer. Regardless, he swallows his pride and barges into Mu Qing’s palace to confront him, storming past his frazzled deputies and heading straight for Mu Qing’s private quarters.

In the end, he doesn’t need to go all the way there. They nearly run straight into each other when he reaches the hallway that leads to Mu Qing’s personal room, both stopping short before they collide.

They stand silently, blinking at each other in surprise.

“You’re mad at me,” Feng Xin announces, by way of greeting.

Mu Qing is already walking away. “I’m always mad at you.”

“Okay, asshole. Madder than usual, then.” Feng Xin falls into step beside him, nearly tripping over his own feet as he tries to get Mu Qing to make some damn eye contact. “Why are you avoiding me? What did I do?”

Mu Qing doesn’t even deign that worthy of a verbal response, just rolls his eyes so hard it looks like it must hurt. Good fucking grief, he’s infuriating.

“Is this about the kiss?”

Mu Qing stops dead in his tracks, dangerously rigid. Okay, so it is about the kiss.

“Come on, it was an accident! I didn’t do it on purpose.”

Mu Qing whirls on him, outraged and faintly pink. “Stop it! Stop talking about it.”

Feng Xin can’t figure out why Mu Qing is so worked up about this. “Did it mess with your cultivation, or something?”

“Of course not.”

“Then what? What’s the big fucking deal about an accidental kiss?” Feng Xin throws up his hands. “Look, I’m sure it’s been a few centuries since the last time you kissed anybody, but it couldn’t have been that bad, right? It only lasted for a couple seconds anyway, so I don’t—wait.”

Wait a minute. Feng Xin has been talking uninterrupted for way too long.

He narrows his eyes at Mu Qing, whose flush has zoomed straight past pink and gone vibrant red. His hands are twisting nervously in his sleeves, eyes locked on the ground. He’s furious as Feng Xin’s ever seen him, but more than that, he looks… embarrassed. Almost as if—

No way. “That was your first kiss?”

“Oh sure, go ahead, scream it for everyone to hear.”

“You—how? How have you never kissed anyone before?”

“What part of ‘abstinent cultivation path’ do you not understand?” Mu Qing hisses.

“But—before that. When we were human, when we were teenagers. You really never kissed anybody? You were so—”

Beautiful, is the way he’d end that sentence. Beautiful then, beautiful now, anyone would want to kiss him—bad attitude and all. Personally, the bad attitude makes Feng Xin want to kiss him even more, just to shut him up every once and a while.

Fortunately, Mu Qing cuts him off. “I had better things to do than throw myself at anyone who looked at me twice.”

“Shut the fuck up.” Feng Xin pauses, frowning. “That was really your first kiss?”

Mu Qing groans. “How many times do I have to—”

“I’m sorry.”

Mu Qing’s mouth falls open in shock, blinking owlishly at him. Normally, that kind of wide-eyed expression on Mu Qing’s face would probably make Feng Xin laugh, but seeing him so genuinely stunned at an apology just ends up making Feng Xin feel worse.

He seriously never kissed anybody? In 800 years?

Guilt washes over Feng Xin like a tidal wave.

“Fuck, that’s a terrible first kiss. Our foreheads knocked together and—oh shit, I made your lip bleed? That’s—”

“I was there too. You don’t need to walk me through it.”

Feng Xin winces. “I really am sorry.”

“Stop apologizing,” Mu Qing snaps. For some reason, the apologies are only making him more upset. He shakes his head, turning away. “There’s nothing we can do about it now.”

Feng Xin wants to do something about it, though. This new friendship budding between them is a fragile thing, but it’s good. There’s a startling rightness to it—to sparring instead of fighting, bantering instead of bickering, hearing Mu Qing laugh with him instead of at him. Things are far from perfect, but he can’t let them go back to the way they were, especially not over something as stupid as this.

Not for the first time, Feng Xin’s mouth moves faster than his brain and he suddenly finds himself saying: “What if—what if we did a redo?”

For a moment, everything is silent. Somewhere in the back of his mind, Feng Xin is thankful that Mu Qing’s deputies know to give them a wide berth whenever he bursts into the palace, so at least no one else can bear witness to this humiliation.

“A… redo,” Mu Qing says—slowly, carefully, like he’s testing out the shape of the word in his mouth. He still doesn’t turn to look at Feng Xin.

There’s an opportunity here, to take it back. For Feng Xin to bluster and say he misspoke, to turn this conversation into an argument, something comfortable and safe.

It’s an opportunity Feng Xin doesn’t take.

“We could try it again,” he says more confidently, even though he’s acutely aware that this is an absolutely batshit crazy thing to suggest. “Do it over. Give you a new first kiss. As long as it’s still with me, it’s all the same, right?”

That makes Mu Qing turn, eyes burning with incredulity. For a long moment, he just stares darkly, like he’s waiting for Feng Xin to break, to make fun of him, to say it’s just a bad joke. Feng Xin holds his gaze, even though his heart is racing like he’s got a blade against his throat.

Just when Feng Xin is starting to worry that Mu Qing will never speak to him again, he finally says, “Congratulations. I think that might be the stupidest idea you’ve ever had.” He sounds… pissed off, yeah, but not as pissed off as Feng Xin thought he would be. Mostly, he sounds wary. “You want to—to kiss me again?”

Yes. More than anything.

Out loud, Feng Xin says, “I just don’t want you holding a bad kiss over my head for the rest of eternity. Are you gonna let me make this up to you or are you gonna be a little bitch about it?”

“You’re an idiot.” Mu Qing crosses his arms, raising one eyebrow imperiously. “Well. What are you waiting for? Make it up to me.”

Huh. Feng Xin offered, but he didn’t really expect Mu Qing to say yes. His stomach somersaults, victorious and in disbelief.

“Oh,” he starts, very smoothly. “Yeah. Let me just—okay.”

Feng Xin takes a step forward and Mu Qing inhales sharply, freezing in place. Off to a great start. He’s impossibly tense, arms still crossed tightly over his chest, eyeing Feng Xin like he’s waiting for some kind of ambush. Whether that’s a result of Mu Qing’s inexperience or his naturally combative disposition, Feng Xin couldn’t tell you.

“Close your eyes,” Feng Xin huffs, trying (and failing) to be patient.

“Why? Trying to trick me?”

“People usually close their eyes when they kiss, stupid.”

“I know that!” Mu Qing snaps. He shuts his eyes and scowls. “This is going terribly, by the way. I don’t know how you expect to make things up to me when you—you—”

His voice goes strangled and quiet when Feng Xin’s fingers touch his face, tracing his cheekbone with unprecedented gentleness. Bet you didn’t see that coming, fucker, Feng Xin thinks smugly, like his own mouth hasn’t gone dry at the touch of skin against skin, like his hands aren’t trembling.

Feng Xin tucks Mu Qing’s hair behind his ear—an impulse he’s been fighting for years—and trails his hand down to cup his jaw. By some miracle, Mu Qing allows it.

It’s strange—ever since they first met, Mu Qing has felt so close and yet so far away. Unknowable, but still the person Feng Xin knows best. Untouchable, unless somebody’s started throwing punches.

But in the end, it’s startlingly easy for Feng Xin to close that distance, leaning forward and slotting their lips together like it’s the simplest thing in the world.

At first, he tries to focus on keeping it sweet and chaste, all the things a first kiss ought to be. But then Mu Qing makes a noise, a little sound in the back of his throat, and Feng Xin can’t focus on anything at all. His mind goes blank, all coherent thought lost in the soft press of their mouths.

It’s only when he pulls away that he realizes this is probably the only time in his life that he’ll ever be able to properly kiss Mu Qing. At least he made it count.

“How was that?” he asks. His voice comes out quieter than he wanted but somehow remarkably even, so he takes that as a win.

Mu Qing’s eyes are still closed, long lashes fanned darkly against his flushed cheeks. After a long moment, they flutter open and Mu Qing looks at him like—Feng Xin doesn’t know. Mu Qing hasn’t ever looked at him like this before. Feng Xin’s never seen Mu Qing look at anyone like this before.

Then he smirks and says, “Terrible.”

“What?” Feng Xin gapes. “You’re full of shit. That was a good kiss!”

Mu Qing rolls his eyes. “For an amateur, maybe,” he sneers, which is rich, considering he’s the only amateur here. “Kissing me like I’m some fragile maiden.”

Oh, that sets Feng Xin’s blood alight. Mu Qing doesn’t want him to be gentle? He can work with that. He advances forward, moving with purpose, but slow enough that Mu Qing has ample time to tell him to fuck off or shove him away.

He doesn’t.

As always, they’re in sync, walking together until Mu Qing’s back hits the wall.

“What are you doing?” he asks, eyes wide and bright and focused on Feng Xin’s mouth.

“Trying again.”

“Who said you could try again?” Mu Qing says, but he’s gripping the front of Feng Xin’s tunic, dragging him in closer.

“What?” His hands find Mu Qing’s waist. “Scared?”

“Never,” Mu Qing snarls, warm breath ghosting across Feng Xin’s lips. “Do your worst, you—”

Feng Xin kisses him again. Harder this time, greedily swallowing down the outraged string of insults Mu Qing was undoubtably about to throw at him.

Where the first kiss was unexpectedly sweet, this one is desperate, dizzying. Maybe he’s never understood Mu Qing very well, but Feng Xin knows his body like his own—centuries of brawling has taught them how to move together, how to give as good as they get. What Mu Qing lacks in experience, he makes up for in determination and sheer spite, kissing back with bruising force.

It suddenly strikes Feng Xin, as he’s dragging his teeth over Mu Qing’s plush lower lip, that they might be getting a bit carried away. This is a little obscene for a first kiss! But then Mu Qing makes another noise—something choked off and needy that Feng Xin wants to burn into his memory forever—and again, no thinking. Just heat and closeness and the slick warmth of Mu Qing’s tongue.

The kiss goes on too long. Long enough to hollow Feng Xin out until he’s nothing but a deep chasm of hunger, burning with a desire for more. He wants to trail kisses down the sharp edge of Mu Qing’s jaw. He wants to suck a dark, claiming bruise on the pale expanse of his neck, something he couldn’t cover with those stupid high collars he always wears. They’re so close already but Feng Xin wants them closer, he wants—

He wants too much. And this has already been far more than he ever dared to hope for.  

He somehow manages to wrench himself away from the kiss, breathing heavily. Mu Qing leans forward, chasing after him just a little bit, just enough to make Feng Xin’s stomach flip.

“Well?” he asks. This time, his voice definitely doesn’t come out even.

Mu Qing blinks at him, dazed, like Feng Xin’s just presented him with a particularly difficult math problem instead of a one word question. He opens his mouth to speak, but no sound comes out. Feng Xin allows himself a brief moment of gleeful satisfaction at finally managing to render Mu Qing completely speechless.

Of course, the moment is too brief. All at once, Mu Qing seems to process the question, going rigid in Feng Xin’s arms. He quickly turns his head to the side, as though that will hide how red his face is.

“Your technique is sloppy.”

Feng Xin squawks in indignation. This is the thanks he gets for kissing Mu Qing stupid? His technique is not fucking sloppy.

Mu Qing clearly disagrees. “Slobbering all over me like—like an animal. Disgusting.”

“Fuck you, let me try again—”

Mu Qing puts a hand over Feng Xin’s mouth, pushing him back. “Not—not now.”

Feng Xin is about to try and lick Mu Qing’s hand, or maybe bite him, when the words sink in and he goes very still.

Not now? He couldn’t possibly mean—does Mu Qing want to do this again? Feng Xin fights the urge to pinch himself, to check and make sure this isn’t some strange, elaborate dream.

“Later?” he asks, just to confirm. His voice is slightly muffled by the hand over his mouth.

Mu Qing’s eyes rake over Feng Xin’s face, searching. Who knows what he’s looking for, but whatever he finds makes him step back, uncovering Feng Xin’s mouth and tucking his hands back into his sleeves.

He gives a short, sharp nod. “Later.”

Holy shit. He really does want to do it again.

This whole time, Feng Xin has been waiting for the other shoe to drop. For Mu Qing to tell him this was a one-time mistake that never should have happened, for this to become just another thing they never talk about. He can hardly believe that Mu Qing agreed to let Feng Xin kiss him once, never mind that he actually wants Feng Xin to do it more.

Damn, Mu Qing must be pretty upset about how bad that accidental first kiss was. That’s the only explanation Feng Xin can think of as to why he’d be willing to keep this going.

“When is later?” Feng Xin can’t help but ask. He’s aiming for nonchalant but probably misses it by a li.

He hopes later is very, very soon.

“You figure it out,” Mu Qing says, turning on his heel and starting down the hallway. “You’re the one who’s supposed to be making things up to me.”

“I will,” Feng Xin calls after him. Mu Qing’s back is turned, so he doesn’t bother trying to hide his grin. “You’d better get ready, I’m gonna blow your fucking mind!”

“Get off my property, Feng Xin.”

__________

Later ends up coming the very next week, while they’re finishing up an investigation together in the South.

Feng Xin had wanted it to happen sooner, but for some reason he kept losing his nerve. Perhaps he’s still struggling to wrap his head around the impossibility of it—that kissing Mu Qing could be something he’s allowed to do, even under circumstances as ludicrous as this.

Now, though—now Feng Xin is ready.

The timing is perfect. They’re alone, walking together out of a forest they’ve just successfully rid of any and all evil presence. The sun has started its descent from the sky, painting the horizon a rich amber. That’s good for kissing, right? Sunsets are romantic. Mu Qing has a little bit of blood in his hair from killing the demon they were hunting but the warm light of golden hour catches him just right, practically makes him glow.

(Technically, Mu Qing is in his Fu Yao form, but he still looks like himself. He always looks like himself—too vain to let go of that that same elegant bone-structure, no matter what form he takes. It would bother Feng Xin more if he didn’t like looking at the bastard’s face so much.)

Mu Qing is never not beautiful (it’s one of the most irritating things about him) but he’s especially stunning like this—at ease, just the two of them, with no one to perform for. He looks softer than usual, even as he complains about the mountain of paperwork they’ll inevitably have to handle when they finally return to the heavens.

Feng Xin should just go for it, shouldn’t he? No time like the present.

“Hey, fucker,” he says, catching Mu Qing by the edge of one of his long ass sleeves, bringing them both to a halt. The glare he receives is only mildly mutinous, so Feng Xin takes that as a good sign. “Let me try again?”

“Try again?” Mu Qing’s eyes narrow before widening in understanding. “You mean—”

“Yeah.”

“Now? That’s—” He clears his throat. “Sure. Fine. Whatever.” He squares his shoulders like he’s getting ready to take a punch. “Do it, then.”

“Eager?”

“You are.”

They both glare at each other. No one does anything. It looks more like they’re preparing for a brawl than a kiss.

This… is not going the way Feng Xin planned it would.

He clears his throat too, which somehow fails to make the situation any less awkward. “You look… nice.”

“What?” Mu Qing blinks at him like he’s just grown a second head. “What the hell are you talking about?”

“It’s a fucking compliment! I’m setting the mood!”

“Well, you’re bad at it! Just! Just kiss me already.” Mu Qing crosses his arms and squeezes his eyes shut, as though this will effectively end their conversation.

Feng Xin can’t help it—he bursts out laughing, some of the tension bleeding out of his body.

“Bossy,” he murmurs, finally pressing in close. There’s more fondness in his voice than he’d like to admit.

He smooths his hands down Mu Qing’s shoulders, which have practically risen to his ears in embarrassment. At first brush, he goes even more stiff, before slowly relaxing with a long exhale.

As a god, Feng Xin has done all sorts of fantastic, impossible things, but even his most exhilarating feats couldn’t hold a candle to this—the simple, heady feeling of Mu Qing unspooling under his touch.

“Just, y’know, confirming,” Feng Xin pauses just a few inches from Mu Qing’s face, “you’re sure this isn’t going to fuck with your cultivation?”

Mu Qing opens his eyes just to roll them. “I think I know how my cultivation works better than you do. It’s fine, we just can’t—” he flushes suddenly and shakes his head, frowning. “Never mind. It’s only kissing. Like I said, it’s fine.”

“Okay,” Feng Xin says, trying very hard not to think about whatever images popped into Mu Qing’s mind to make him blush like that. “Then let’s fucking do this.”

Despite all that bravado, the kiss itself is a tender, quiet thing. Nothing fancy, just the gentle pressure of Mu Qing’s soft lips, tentative and warm. Feng Xin’s fingers tangle in the strands of Mu Qing’s ponytail, shorter than usual in this form, but still silky smooth.

It’s funny—they look so much like their younger, human selves when they’re wearing their Nan Feng and Fu Yao disguises. Feng Xin’s mind can’t help but drift to the way things were back then, the way things might have been if they’d done this properly, all those years ago.

It’s a stupid daydream. At the time, Feng Xin hadn’t even realized that kissing Mu Qing was something he wanted; the desire buried so deep underneath layers of resentment and misunderstanding. And Mu Qing, of course, has never really wanted him, even back then. Still, he can’t help but feel wistful imagining it—who they could have been, what they could have meant to each other if they’d reached out instead of constantly pushing away.

Feng Xin barely remembers his own first kiss, other than the fact that it was clumsy and brief, shared at a festival with a girl whose face he can no longer picture clearly. He wouldn’t mind replacing those few fleeting memories with this moment.

When Feng Xin eventually draws back, he takes the opportunity to savor the glazed, hungry expression on Mu Qing’s face. Might as well memorize it while he can, since this was probably his last chance to see it. This was a good kiss—surely it was enough, right?

“So?” he asks, resignation collecting in his stomach like sediment. “How was that?”

Feng Xin steels himself, waiting for Mu Qing to drop the hammer.

Which he does, but not in the way Feng Xin expected.

“Boring,” Mu Qing tells him, smiling sweetly.

That is just. Objectively untrue. “What? You’re fucking with me, that was not boring.”

“Hmm, what was that?” Mu Qing yawns. “Your kiss nearly put me to sleep.”

Feng Xin is going to throttle him. “You little—”

“Not good enough,” he intones, smirking. “Try again later.”

Another later.

“You really want me to keep trying?”

In typical Mu Qing fashion, he bristles at the mere idea of wanting anything from Feng Xin. The smirk drops from his face, replaced by a glare. “I don’t care what you do. But if you meant what you said about the redo—”

“Of course I fucking meant it. I said I’d give you a better first kiss, so I’m gonna give you a better first kiss. I don’t go back on my word.”

Mu Qing gives him a long look, before turning with a scoff. “How noble.”

Oh, if only nobility had anything to do with this.

Mu Qing has already started walking away, so Feng Xin races to catch up with him.

“Should we make, I don’t know, rules or something?” Feng Xin asks. At Mu Qing’s sidelong glance, he adds, “If we’re going to keep doing this?”

Mu Qing’s expression shifts from questioning to suspicious at the drop of a hat. “Why would we need rules?”

Is he being dense on purpose, or does he really need Feng Xin to spell it out? The answer feels obvious to him—but then again, Mu Qing can’t seem to understand lots of things that are obvious to Feng Xin.  

“So I don’t make you uncomfortable.” Feng Xin sighs, face heating. “I don’t want to do something you don’t like.”

He half expects Mu Qing to snap back with something snarky and flippant, a “Since when have you cared about what I like?” or something similarly infuriating, but it doesn’t come. Instead, there’s a pause, followed by a surprisingly quiet, “Fine.”

Huh.

“Okay,” Feng Xin says, nodding to himself. “How many times can I try per day?”

Mu Qing turns to look at him so quickly, it’s surprising he doesn’t give himself whiplash. “You want to kiss me multiple times a day?”

Yes. “No! Obviously I don’t, it’s just—efficient.” Feng Xin gestures vaguely. “So we can be done with this sooner.”

For some reason, that makes Mu Qing’s expression sour. He starts walking faster. “Too bad. You get one a day.”

Feng Xin picks up his pace to keep in step with him. “Can I kiss you in front of other people?”

“No.” Mu Qing makes a face like he’s bitten an unripe fruit. “Why would you want to kiss me in front of other people? Does Ju Yang need an audience? Are you some kind of pervert?”

“I’m not a fucking pervert! I just—”

Their conversation devolves from there, but somehow Feng Xin manages to get all of the most important boundary information out of Mu Qing, even as they argue.

One attempt a day, nothing more than kissing, never in front of anyone, and no one—especially Xie Lian—can know about it.

The only rule that goes unspoken is the one holding this whole thing together: that this arrangement is temporary, lasting only until Feng Xin gives Mu Qing a kiss good enough to make up for the one he accidentally stole from him. They aren’t doing this because Mu Qing likes kissing Feng Xin. They’re doing it to settle a debt—because they’re friends now, because it’s the right and proper thing to do.

Feng Xin will continue to remind himself of that simple fact over and over again, as many times as he needs to.

Can’t get too comfortable when he knows it’s just going to end.

Chapter Text

Feng Xin keeps trying.

He kisses Mu Qing in the heavens—over paperwork, between meetings, in the private corners of each other’s palaces. He kisses Mu Qing during their missions on earth, in and out of their various disguises. He kisses Mu Qing on the way to and from Puqi Shrine, though never inside, because there’s already too much kissing going on in there and he doesn’t need to add to it. He kisses Mu Qing before fights, after fights, and once right in the middle of one—though he gets a bloody lip for his troubles. Sometimes they kiss to exchange spiritual energy, but mostly they just kiss for the sake of kissing.

Now, Feng Xin is no Pei Ming, but he knows he’s a good kisser. He’s attentive. Passionate. He’s got moves! Techniques!

None of which are making Mu Qing happy.

He always finds something new to complain about. Location, timing, where Feng Xin puts his hands, too much tongue, not enough tongue—you name it, he’s got shit to say about it. Half the time, Feng Xin doesn’t even have to ask if the kiss was good enough anymore. As soon as they’re done, Mu Qing is already bitching at him.

You’d think that all the kissing criticism would make Feng Xin self-conscious about his abilities, but it’s actually having the far worse psychological effect of giving his body an automatic horny response every time Mu Qing insults him. Which… was already happening, to a degree, but now it’s worse.

Worse still is the realization that he’s spending even more time with Mu Qing now than he already was. Since they made their deal, they’ve practically been attached at the hip. It can’t be helped, of course—Feng Xin has to see Mu Qing every day, so he can kiss him every day. He has to! For debt settling purposes!

(And also because he likes to. But Mu Qing doesn’t need to know that.)

In Feng Xin’s weaker, more delusional moments, he can’t help but think that it almost feels like they’re courting.

They aren’t, obviously. Mu Qing would never want to, not if they were the last two beings in the universe.

Still, the longing persists.

Feng Xin can admit it, at least to himself: things have gotten a bit out of hand.

That doesn’t mean he can’t manage it. He may need to… regroup. Restrategize, maybe. But everything is going to be fine!

As long as Feng Xin keeps reminding himself that the kissing deal is temporary and completely meaningless, he won’t get too attached—even as the months stretch on and their arrangement shows no signs of ending. Even though it might be nice to imagine this going on forever, he knows better. He just has to keep his eyes wide open and remember to see their deal for what it is.

It’s fine. It’s not like he’s in over his head.

__________

On second thought, there’s a slight possibility that Feng Xin might be getting a little in over his head. Of course, he doesn’t realize until it’s entirely too late.

The night that everything starts to fall apart begins just like any other.

Mu Qing is over at Feng Xin’s palace to unwind after a mission in the mortal realm—another routine they’ve developed, like sparring. (And kissing.) It started under the guise of writing up reports together, but that’s a charade they quickly left behind. Most nights, any paperwork gets finished early on, leaving the rest of the evening for tea and bickering.

It’s… relaxing, which feels like a bizarre thing to think about anything in regards to Mu Qing. Feng Xin can’t help but wonder in amazement at how far they’ve come—Mu Qing once threw an antique vase at him in this very room (it’s fine, Feng Xin threw a chair at him right after) but now he’s nestled comfortably on Feng Xin’s favorite cushion like a big, spoiled cat.

When did he grow to be so at home in Feng Xin’s space? And perhaps more importantly: why does that make Feng Xin so happy?

In lieu of answering either of those questions, Feng Xin opts to switch over from tea to wine.

He refills Mu Qing’s tea cup with the last of their pot before getting up to fetch a jug of wine and a new cup for himself, settling back down at the low sitting room table with a soft hum that makes Mu Qing roll his eyes.

As he begins to fill his cup with wine, he anticipates a bitchy remark of some kind—something about how his tastes in alcohol are “cheap and trashy,” as though Mu “Abstinence” Qing is some fucking expert on booze.

The comment he gets instead is far more unusual.

“You get wine for yourself but none for your guest?” Mu Qing drawls, tapping his fingers on the table. “Some host you are.”

Feng Xin stops short mid-pour, eyes narrowing at him. Is this some kind of test?

“You can’t drink,” he tells him.  

It’s not a refusal or a dismissal, just a statement of fact. Feng Xin may not fully understand the intricacies of Mu Qing and Xie Lian’s cultivation method, but he knows the basics. No drinking, no sex. That’s how it’s always been.

Leave it to Mu Qing to disregard 800 years of routine with an eye roll. “I can do whatever I want.”

“What the fuck,” Feng Xin says—rather calmly, he thinks, considering the sheer magnitude of this massive fucking revelation. “Are you suddenly switching up your cultivation path?”

Mu Qing looks away, shrugging. His nonchalance is so easy that it has to be fake.

“And if I am?”

If he is? If Mu Qing is suddenly opening himself up to earthly pleasures? That’s—well. Feng Xin certainly doesn’t have any complaints about that.

He does, however, have questions.

Questions like “Since when?” and “Why?” and “For who?”—all of which would probably make Mu Qing attack him like a wild animal if he even attempted to ask them, so Feng Xin isn’t going to bother. But there must be a reason.

Mu Qing is careful. Calculated. He wouldn’t change his life like this on a whim. What could get Mu Qing—rigid, unyielding, disciplined Mu Qing—to make a decision like this?

Feng Xin knows it isn’t for him. No matter how much he wishes it was, that would be impossible. Sure, they’ve kissed more in the past few months than Feng Xin has kissed anyone else in his long life, but that doesn’t mean anything. Or at least it doesn’t mean anything to Mu Qing.

But if not him, then who?

There’s a lot that Feng Xin wants to ask, but he knows Mu Qing won’t take kindly to it. He’ll mistake curiosity and concern for condemnation. He’s already chafing uncomfortably under Feng Xin’s silence, jaw setting tighter and tighter with every passing breath.

Without another word, Feng Xin gets up and retrieves another cup for Mu Qing. When he returns to the table, he fills it for him and then finishes filling his own.  

Raising his cup in a toast, Feng Xin finally agrees: “You can do whatever you want.”

There’s a ghost of a smile on Mu Qing’s lips when he lets their cups clink.

They drink. Feng Xin laughs at the way Mu Qing’s face twists up when the wine hits his tongue. Hours pass, one bottle turns into two.

At some point, Mu Qing decides to join Feng Xin on his side of the table—presumably to have him in hitting distance. But surprisingly enough, aside from the occasional playful smack, there hasn’t been much hitting going on. Just Mu Qing’s long legs draped across Feng Xin’s lap, comfortable and easy, like this kind of casual touching is normal for them.

(When did it become normal for them?)

“Hey,” Mu Qing says, lightly swatting at Feng Xin’s arm. “Hey, stupid.”

“You’re stupid.” Boom. Got him.

“Shut uuuuuuuup,” Mu Qing whines, swatting at him again. “You should—” He inches forward, further into Feng Xin’s lap. His face, already flushed from the alcohol, goes slightly pinker. “You should try again.”

“Try again,” meaning: you should kiss me.

This cipher isn’t exactly new for them, but the dynamic is—usually Feng Xin is the one asking permission for a kiss. This time, though. This time Mu Qing is asking—no, telling Feng Xin to kiss him.

“Right now?” Feng Xin’s mouth suddenly feels very dry. “I already tried once today, though.”

He did. Kissed him right after they finished off that monstrous tortoise they’d been sent down to the South to get rid of, both of them still buzzing with victory, grinning bright and wild. Afterwards, Mu Qing complained that Feng Xin was “gross” because he was “covered in evil turtle blood”—as though he wasn’t also coated with the stuff. Another kiss tried, another kiss failed.

Mu Qing’s face falls. “If you don’t want to—”

He starts to slide off of Feng Xin’s lap, which is just unacceptable. Cruel. Horrible. It’s the worst thing he could possibly do.

“No, I want to,” Feng Xin says, scrambling to grab his waist and hold him in place. “I want to.”

He doesn’t bother aiming for indifference, couldn’t mask his eagerness if he tried. The desperation in his voice is so thick that the words stick on his tongue, tumbling out all together in one too fast clump.

He waits for Mu Qing to mock him for it, but apparently Mu Qing has other things in mind. Namely: dragging Feng Xin forward by the front of his robes, mashing their mouths together in a sloppy kiss.

It’s absolutely artless, nothing like Mu Qing’s usual practiced poise—but fuck, it’s perfect. Feng Xin has never cared much for the extravagant splendor of heaven or the various ‘perks’ of godhood, but this? He could spend forever getting lost in Mu Qing’s lips and his hands and the staggering intensity of his desire.

For the rest of eternity, Feng Xin wants nothing but this—Mu Qing warm and solid in his lap, licking languidly into his mouth like he needs to, like he wants to, like he just can’t help himself.

His arms move from gripping the front of Feng Xin’s robes to wrapping tightly around his neck, pulling him impossibly closer. The movement knocks them both off balance, sending them to the floor in a tangle of limbs much like the one they wound up in all those months ago.

Except this time isn’t really an accident. This time there’s no blood or bruises or awkward silence, just Mu Qing breaking the kiss with a peal of breathless laughter.

If the sound of it didn’t hit Feng Xin like a kick in the teeth, the sight of it certainly does. He can’t remember the last time he saw Mu Qing laughing like this, completely unrestrained—if it’s ever happened at all.

To think, they’ve known each other for 800 years and joy is so unfamiliar on Mu Qing’s face.

Fuck, he’s so pretty. What the hell is he so pretty for? Feng Xin can’t stop staring, grinning helplessly down at him.

As Mu Qing’s laughter slowly fades into subdued little giggles that make Feng Xin want to scream or cry or run laps around the perimeter of his palace, he eventually notices he’s being looked at. Thankfully, Mu Qing seems to think Feng Xin’s just waiting for a judgement on the kiss—instead of, y’know, goggling at him like an awestruck fool.

He shakes his head, which only serves to make him dizzy, judging by the way he scrunches up his nose in discomfort. Good thing he’s already on the floor.

“No,” Mu Qing says, answering the unspoken question. He’s still smiling, just a little bit, and his eyelids are growing heavier every second. “No, no, no.” His arms loosen their hold around Feng Xin’s neck, hands descending to cup his face. “You’ll have to keep trying.”

It's just because he’s drunk, Feng Xin reminds himself, that Mu Qing seems content with that idea.

With a sigh, Feng Xin gently disentangles himself from Mu Qing’s grasp, moving off of him and kneeling at his side. “You should get some sleep.”

“Gods don’t need to sleep,” Mu Qing says, because of course he can still somehow work up the energy to be contrary even when he’s clearly struggling to keep his eyes open.

“Drunk ones do. Or else they get really nasty hangovers.” Feng Xin laughs in spite of himself, dragging a hand over his face. “Fuck, you’re gonna be a nightmare tomorrow. Worse than usual.”

“M’not—” a yawn interrupts his protests, “M’not a nightmare.”

For once, Feng Xin is hard pressed to disagree with him. Mu Qing is anything but nightmarish spread out on the floor like this—face flushed, dark eyes half-lidded, midnight hair come loose and spilling all around him like ink. He looks like a dream: beautiful and out of reach.

Feng Xin loves him terribly.

He—

Oh. Oh, fuck.

The room spins. Feng Xin can feel his own hangover kicking in already, as if all the fun of drunkenness got knocked right out of him with a single thought. His head is pounding like his heart and his brain decided to switch places, just to fuck with him a bit.

He loves Mu Qing. He loves him.

Feng Xin already knew that, to a degree. Or at least—he knew he liked him underneath it all, knew he wanted him desperately, knew he couldn’t live without him. Knew that kissing Mu Qing made his body sing and thrum with energy the same way it does when he draws back the bowstring on Fengshen.

Logically, all of this adds up to love, when you put it together. He simply never put it together before.  

But now that he’s thought it, it’s inescapable. A death sentence. Mu Qing—who has now fallen asleep on the floor and started to snore—is the great love of his life.

What the fuck.

Feng Xin is numb, almost somber, as he gathers Mu Qing up into his arms and carries him to a guest room. It’s not a long journey but Mu Qing only stirs once, just to mumble something unintelligible and nuzzle his face into Feng Xin’s chest. It’s a good thing he’s sleeping so soundly—that way, he can’t hear how Feng Xin’s heart skips and stutters when he presses in close.

He’d probably be furious if he was awake to see the careful way that Feng Xin lays him down on the guest bed and tucks him in. Feng Xin can practically hear the accusations Mu Qing would throw at him; that Feng Xin must think he’s weak, that Feng Xin is mocking him, and how dare Feng Xin treat him like he’s fragile? What an idiot. Absolutely insufferable. He’s the worst.

Even so, Feng Xin pauses for a moment to sweep a few stray strands of hair off of Mu Qing’s stupid, lovely face, before leaving the room and closing the door quietly behind him.

Once it’s shut, he leans back against it and slowly slides down to the floor. 800 years of godhood be damned, he curls up like a kid and presses his face into his knees, breathing in deeply.

It’s official: Feng Xin is in over his head. He is completely and totally fucked.

__________

Feng Xin doesn’t fall asleep outside the guest room, though the idea of staying curled up on the floor like that forever is certainly appealing. He makes it back to his own room in a haze, falling into a fitful sleep as soon as his head hits the pillow.

When he wakes in the morning, it’s with a start—mostly because someone is poking him in the cheek. That someone turns out to be Mu Qing, gazing down at him with an undecipherable expression that almost looks fond. Must be a trick of the light.

For a moment, Feng Xin is convinced he’s still dreaming.

“Mu Qing?” he asks. He gets another poke in response. Not dreaming, then.

Mu Qing looks better than Feng Xin expected him to after his first night of drinking—shockingly well put together, actually. A bit paler than usual, but honestly, the only real giveaways for his hangover are the dark circles under his eyes. Typical Mu Qing. He can’t ever not look good, can he? Can’t ever give Feng Xin a fucking break.

“Did you know you drool in your sleep?” Mu Qing asks, poking Feng Xin’s cheek again. The serious tone in his voice is undercut by his smirk. “Like a dog.”

“Fuck you.” Feng Xin swats his hand away and rubs at his eyes, still groggy. “Why are you watching me sleep? Creepy.”

That makes Mu Qing flush. “I wasn’t watching you, I just—I’m about to leave, and I wanted to say—” He stops short, letting out a sharp huff. With gritted teeth and averted eyes, he goes on, “The wine. Was… fine. So. Th-thank you. I guess. For sharing it with me.”

Okay, really: is Feng Xin still asleep? He must be dreaming. Mu Qing never says thank you, especially not to him. His jaw drops, opening and closing soundlessly like a dying fish.

While Feng Xin is stuck trying to determine whether he’s awake, Mu Qing suddenly turns away.

“Well. I’m leaving,” he says stiffly, and then proceeds to start drawing a distance shortening array right on Feng Xin’s bedroom wall, because gods forbid Mu Qing ever act like a regular fucking person.

Feng Xin sits up quickly, blinking at him in disbelief. “Why are you drawing an array on my fucking wall?”

“You can erase it if it bothers you so much.”

“That’s not—your palace is literally right next door.” Feng Xin sighs. He’s only half-dressed but he still drags himself out of bed so he can argue with Mu Qing properly. “Too hungover to walk there?”

Mu Qing pauses his drawing to give Feng Xin a certified Look, then pauses that Look to glare down at his loose sleeping robes as though they’ve personally offended him. Fuck Feng Xin for being comfortable when he sleeps, apparently!

“Idiot,” he says, mostly to the robes, “if people see me leaving your palace in the morning like this, they’ll… talk.”

Feng Xin’s eyebrows furrow. “About?”

“How dense are you?” Mu Qing pokes him in the chest—what is with the poking today?—right in the same spot he was glaring at. “The heavenly court is full of gossip hounds. Give them one thing to extrapolate on and they’ll run with it until their legs give out. They’ll think—” He suddenly rips his hand away from Feng Xin like he’s been burned. Ears glowing pink, he shakes his head and turns to study the unfinished array on the wall. “They’ll think there’s s-something going on. Between us.”

Would that be so bad? Feng Xin wants to ask, like an absolute fool. But he doesn’t. He already knows the answer, anyway.

Feng Xin has been willfully ignoring it for a while—the way that so many of the rules they established at the beginning of this arrangement are all about secrecy. No one can know, nothing in public. That’s fine, in theory. Mu Qing is a private person; of course he wouldn’t like public displays of affection, especially when their current situation is so ridiculous to explain.

But it isn’t just about the kissing. Mu Qing gets… weird, whenever anyone seems to notice that their heated rivalry has cooled into something gentler. Just last week, he got flustered and stormed out of a meeting when Pei Ming teased him for agreeing with Feng Xin more than he argued with him. Later, when Xie Lian offhandedly told them that he’s happy they’ve been getting along so well lately, Mu Qing went red with anger and glared at the ground.

Feng Xin had thought that after everything, they’d at least become friends. Is Mu Qing really so embarrassed of him? So ashamed to be seen by his side?

The truth of it all sinks into Feng Xin’s chest like a blade—sharp, painful, immediate. Feng Xin loves Mu Qing, and Mu Qing only tolerates him. Feng Xin loves Mu Qing, and Mu Qing is disgusted by the mere idea of some of heaven’s biggest idiots mistaking them for a couple.

Feng Xin is suddenly very, very tired.

“There is something going on between us.”

Feng Xin feels Mu Qing turn sharply towards him but he doesn’t bother to look and take in his expression—doesn’t want to see the mix of anger and revulsion that he knows will be there. Just imagining it makes his defenses rise. He snaps, “We’d be done with it by now if you weren’t so hard to please.”

Mu Qing goes quiet.

Feng Xin expects a cutting retort, a “Well, if you were a better kisser—” or something else along those lines.

He does not expect to look up and see Mu Qing reeling back like he’s been struck, a whirlwind of emotions flitting briefly across his features before he schools his expression into icy indifference. 

“Ah," he starts, so soft that Feng Xin barely hears him. "So that's how you feel."

Dread curls in Feng Xin's stomach like a slowly coiling viper, preparing to strike. After eight centuries of fighting, he knows what Mu Qing looks like when he's winding up for a truly devastating blow. All he can do now is brace for impact.

"We can stop,” Mu Qing says, voice cold, eyes colder. “If it’s so repulsive to you.”

And there it is. Feng Xin’s heart leaps into his throat, panic gripping him so tight he’s almost nauseous with it.

It’s not like he didn’t know their arrangement is temporary. Of course he knew—he’s been reminding himself of that fact every day, like a mantra, just to make sure he keeps both feet on the ground. Any day this could end. Any kiss could be the last one. He thought understanding that would keep him safe, make him immune to the inevitable ending.

Evidently, he thought wrong. Now that he's faced with the reality of it all falling to pieces at his feet, Feng Xin cannot fathom why he ever thought he'd get out of their deal unscathed.

He'll never not know how it feels to kiss Mu Qing. How is he supposed to walk away from that? How can they ever be normal again?

“What?" Feng Xin starts, choked and wild, too loud for the room. "Fuck you, don’t put words in my mouth.” He wonders if Mu Qing can hear the fear and desolation in his voice underneath his usual mask of frustration. Probably not. Mu Qing has always been good at mistaking all of Feng Xin’s softer emotions for his anger. “I didn’t say I wanted to stop.”

He can’t imagine what kind of face he’s making, but whatever it is makes Mu Qing pause, melting some of the ice of his own expression. That’s something, at least. He’s said something right.

Feng Xin tries to smile. “We made a deal, right? I can’t let you win, can I?”

The little bit of light that crept into Mu Qing’s eyes is snuffed out once again.

“Right,” he says, looking at the floor.

Shit. Shit. Feng Xin has somehow completely fucked this up, but he doesn’t know what he did wrong. Why is Mu Qing standing there looking like he just got kicked in the stomach? He's not the one who's desperate for their arrangement to go on forever. He’s not the one getting his heart broken.

“Look, are you—feeling alright?” As usual, Feng Xin’s concern comes out rough and clumsy, but he has to say something. Maybe Mu Qing is more hungover than he looks. Or worse—maybe his power took a hit from breaking his vows with the alcohol. “Do you want spiritual energy or something? Tea, maybe?”

Please stay, Feng Xin wants to add, but he doesn’t. Just imagining the words slipping through his lips makes his jaw clench tight like a vice. He can’t bring himself to beg for even a scrap Mu Qing’s time, never mind his regard.

Not because Feng Xin is so terribly prideful—no, he’s just worried that one small plea could open the floodgates. If says those two words, what else might he say?

Stay for tea. Stay for breakfast. Stay for the day, stay for a week, stay for forever. Stay with me, please. Stay. Stay. Stay.

It’s pathetic. When is Feng Xin finally going to learn his lesson? He loves like an anchor. Stable, safe, protective—but he holds on too tight. Starts to weigh people down. Eventually everyone cuts him loose.

The more he clings to the people he loves, the faster they leave. Better not to say anything at all.

Mu Qing’s fists clench at his sides. “Why do you care how I’m feeling?”

Oddly enough, as testily as he says it, it still seems like a genuine question.

But fuck, what is Feng Xin supposed to tell him? I care about how you feel because I care about you, because I’m in love with you, you insufferable ass. How could he say that, knowing his feelings are unwanted? As much as he’s screwed up this interaction already, telling Mu Qing how he feels would only make things worse.

“I don’t care,” Feng Xin snaps, not quite meeting his eyes. He’s always been a bad liar, but he lies more to Mu Qing than anyone else. “Just don’t want you to say I’m being a bad host.”

It’s the wrong thing to say. He knows that, knows it as the words leave his mouth, but this is what Feng Xin does. He snarls and blusters and says things he doesn’t mean, and then he pays the price for them.

“I don’t need your charity, Nan Yang,” Mu Qing tells him, voice quiet but hard.

And just like that, he’s gone, finishing the array with a few quick strokes and disappearing in a flash of bright light. Silence roars in his wake, a mocking reminder that Feng Xin is alone.

He scrubs a hand through his already messy hair, tugging at the roots until his scalp stings. What the hell just happened?

It’s not unusual for them to fight. Of course it isn’t—they’ve been fighting since the day they met. And objectively, this wasn’t even a particularly bad fight for them. No property damage, no blood or broken bones, not a single punch was thrown. Hell, Feng Xin barely even raised his voice.

But this felt… bad. Really bad. Like something has shifted irreparably, in the complete wrong direction. Feng Xin hasn’t felt this hollowed out and hurt by an argument with Mu Qing since some of their worst fights about Xie Lian—back when they’d sling their guilt at each other like mud until it came to blows, until they were both filthy with shame.

They’ve been doing so well for so long, why does it feel like all of their progress has been undone by one conversation?

Deep down, Feng Xin knows why. Before, he didn’t realize the depth of his affection for Mu Qing. Now he’s cursed with the knowledge that he loves him, and as usual, Feng Xin is ruining everything by feeling too much.

With a long sigh, he fetches one of the cloth rags he uses to clean his bows and sets about erasing the array drawn on the wall. It’s not like he has any use for it. He’s sure it leads to Mu Qing’s palace—maybe even his private quarters.

That’s probably the last place Mu Qing wants Feng Xin to show up any time soon.

Chapter Text

Six days after their strange fight, Feng Xin can safely say that he’s on Mu Qing’s shit list.

Or, well—it’s not the shit list. See, Feng Xin wouldn’t mind the shit list as much. At least then they’d be talking. (Read: screaming at each other.)

Just like their first kiss that wasn’t really a kiss, their argument that was barely an argument has made Mu Qing start pretending Feng Xin doesn’t exist.

He won’t talk to him. Won’t snark at him or argue with him in meetings, no matter how dumb Feng Xin is being—and Feng Xin has tried to be very dumb. He won’t even spare him a glare or an eye roll! Every time they’re in the same room together, Mu Qing finds some kind of excuse to leave early, ducking out before Feng Xin can get within six chi of him. And it’s not like Feng Xin has been able to get a hold of him outside of meetings either! How could he, when Mu Qing’s snotty little deputies chase him away whenever he tries to visit (read: barge into) the other god’s palace?

It’s terrible. Just a few months ago, Feng Xin thought was going through Mu Qing Withdrawals after two weeks of silence—now, he can barely withstand a few days.

All he wants is to see him. To apologize, even if Feng Xin is still a bit confused about where their conversation went so wrong. At the very least, he knows it was a mistake to lie and claim he didn’t care about how Mu Qing was feeling. Sure, they’ve said things like that (and far worse) in the past, but they weren’t friends before. Even if that friendship is as one-sided as Feng Xin is starting to worry it is, he wants Mu Qing to know how much he means to him.

Well. Maybe not exactly how much.

Speaking of the unrequited feelings that are maybe possibly probably going to kill Feng Xin: their redo deal isn’t off, technically speaking, but it’s hard to kiss Mu Qing when he’s avoiding Feng Xin like the plague.

The arrangement has to end. Feng Xin knows that, no matter how much it aches. But he wants to end it on a high note, if he can—wants to make good on what he promised Mu Qing in the first place. The question is: how?

Feng Xin has run out of moves and techniques. He may need… a second opinion.

__________

It takes a few days, but Feng Xin finally gets a moment alone with Xie Lian.

Of course, they aren’t completely alone—Xie Lian’s terrible husband is gardening outside and unsubtly eavesdropping with one of his creepy little butterflies, but Feng Xin elects to ignore that for now.

He usually prefers to visit Xie Lian when Hua Cheng is off in Ghost City (or wherever the hell he goes when he isn’t glued to his husband’s side), but desperate times call for desperate measures. And in this case, those desperate measures involve tolerating your best friend’s evil spouse and his endless shitty commentary.

After Feng Xin politely but firmly turns down Xie Lian’s repeated offer of a ‘little snack’—a lump of something that is somehow both charred and wet—the two of them settle down for a cup of tea that probably isn’t lethal.  

A guilty pit is forming in Feng Xin’s stomach at the prospect of breaking Mu Qing’s rules and telling Xie Lian about the kissing deal, but again. The times. Are fucking desperate. He also doesn’t quite know how he’s going to even attempt to broach the subject. What the hell is he supposed to say? You know Mu Qing? The guy I’ve been getting into fistfights with for the past eight centuries? Well, you’ll never guess what ELSE we’ve been doing lately—

“Do you not like the teacup?”

Feng Xin is startled out of his thoughts. “Huh?”

“You’ve been glaring at it.” Xie Lian makes an attempt at mimicking Feng Xin’s perpetually furrowed brow—it’s almost insultingly accurate. “It kind of looks like you’re trying to blow it up with your mind.”

“Sorry,” Feng Xin says, averting his eyes. Whether the apology is directed at Xie Lian or the poor innocent cup is anyone’s guess.

He takes a deep breath, pinching the bridge of his nose. Fuck, this is going to be terrible.

“Dianxia,” Feng Xin begins haltingly, “I need—um.  Some advice.”

Fuck!!! Just as Feng Xin suspected: terrible already!

It’s not that he’s so vehemently opposed to asking for advice in general, but about something like this? Feelings? Love? This is way outside his comfort zone.

He managed to go 800 years without ever telling anyone about Jian Lan—which was definitely a normal and emotionally healthy thing to do. In theory, he could do the same with his Thing with Mu Qing; keep it all to himself until it inevitably blows up.

He could, but he won’t. Things have already gone sideways, and something tells him that if this blows up the wrong way, they might not ever recover from it. Feng Xin can’t let that happen. Losing Mu Qing for good would be more than he could bear.

The smile Xie Lian offers Feng Xin is endlessly patient and understanding, which kind of makes the whole thing worse, honestly. “Ah, of course! Ask away.”

“It’s about,” Feng Xin gestures vaguely, ears reddening, “romance.”

Xie Lian’s eyebrows shoot up in surprise. “Oh. Ohhh. Well.” He lets out an awkward little laugh. “I don’t know if I’m the best person to ask. San Lang is much better at being romantic than I am.”

Feng Xin shudders at the mere thought of asking Crimson fucking Rain for romantic advice. “I’d rather ask you.”

“Then I’ll do my best! What’s on your mind?”

“This—this isn’t for me, by the way, this is. For my friend.” Feng Xin clears his throat. “Let’s just say my friend accidentally stole someone’s first kiss. And I—my friend has been trying to make it up to him, by giving him a redo, y’know? A lot of redos, actually.”

From outside the shrine, Feng Xin hears a sharp laugh burst out of Hua Cheng.

Xie Lian blinks. “A…redo?”

Feng Xin barrels on, growing more frustrated as he goes. “But he’s so fucking picky! Nothing is good enough for him! No matter how many times I kiss him, he’s still not happy.”

More blinks from Xie Lian. Three of them, to be exact, each more befuddled than the last. Hua Cheng’s muffled laughter grows louder, almost hysterical, like he’s nearly choking on it.

“Let me be sure I understand,” Xie Lian begins, very slowly. “You’ve been kissing this person, a lot it seems, ever since that first little mishap?”

“My friend. Not me.”

“Which friend?”

“Dianxia!” Feng Xin’s face feels entirely too warm. He crosses his arms, scowling down at the table between them. “I just—I need to know how to give him the perfect first kiss, so I can make it up to him and be done with it.”

Xie Lian gives him a long look, expression unreadable. “I have a question. When this person tells you they’re satisfied, that you’ve given them the perfect first kiss—will you stop kissing them for good?”

The thought of it makes Feng Xin’s heart squeeze painfully in his chest. Still, he nods his head and says, “Yes.”

“Have you considered that maybe this person knows that and doesn’t want you to stop?” Xie Lian taps his lip, thoughtful. “Maybe that’s why nothing’s good enough. He doesn’t want it to end.”

If only. It’s a nice thought, but there’s no sense in false hope.

Feng Xin shakes his head. “No, that’s—no. I’m sure he can’t wait for this to be over.”

“What about you?”

“That’s not important.”

“I think it is,” Xie Lian says, reaching out to pat Feng Xin on the arm. “What do you want?”

Hell of a question.

At the end of the day, Feng Xin isn’t very good at wanting things for himself, is he? For so much of his long life, when he wasn’t being tossed around by fate and circumstance, he was dedicating himself to the wants and needs of other people. Even godhood was more something that happened to him than something he purposefully pursued.

What does Feng Xin want? Underneath it all, he’s still a bodyguard through and through—all he’s ever really wanted is to protect and take care of the people he loves. But no matter how hard he tries, he keeps letting them down. He failed Xie Lian, he failed Jian Lan and Cuo Cuo, and Mu Qing—

Mu Qing didn’t even try to ask Feng Xin for help when he was facing certain death in Mount Tonglu. After everything, 800 years at each other’s side, he was still convinced that Feng Xin hated him enough to just let him die.

Feng Xin loves Mu Qing, but he isn’t a fool. He knows that any chance he had to be with him (if he ever had a chance at all) is long gone, buried under years of mistrust and resentment.

Still, he thinks of the way that Mu Qing blooms under his touch, melting into every kiss like he’s starving for it—even though he’d probably much rather be kissing anyone other than Feng Xin. Why did it take him so long to realize that Mu Qing is lonely?

Well, Feng Xin might have always known that. It just used to be easier to ignore back when he thought Mu Qing was too cold and haughty to want anyone’s company.

Maybe Feng Xin won’t ever be the person Mu Qing loves, but he can try his damndest to make him feel wanted and held and happy, for as long as Mu Qing will let him. He can give him one good kiss, one bright memory. It’s the least he can do.

“Him,” Feng Xin says, finally. “I want him. But he doesn’t want me. So I just want to—to do right by him, for once. I feel like I owe him that.”

Xie Lian sighs.

“You know… Mu Qing has seemed very—light, lately.” Ah, so they’ve officially given up on pretending this conversation isn’t about Mu Qing. Great. Excellent. Feng Xin’s dignity is very much intact. “These past few months, it’s been like a weight has fallen off of his shoulders. I think he’s happy.”

Feng Xin wants to believe that’s true, but he isn’t sure it is. Even so: “I don’t see what that has to do with me.”

Hua Cheng (who has suddenly appeared in the doorway like the fucking phantom that he is) snorts. “No, I don’t suppose you do.” He enters the shrine, settling down next to Xie Lian and fixing Feng Xin with a look that’s somehow incredibly bored and insufferably smug all at once. “You’re focused on the wrong thing, you know.”

Feng Xin tries to unclench his jaw and modulate his breathing. Not for the first time, he reminds himself that Hua Cheng is the love of Xie Lian’s life—which means Feng Xin isn’t allowed to punch him, no matter how annoying he’s being.  

“And what exactly should I be focused on then, romance expert?” Feng Xin asks, attempting to sound civil. It comes out as a sneer.

Hua Cheng gives him a flat stare, his single eye boring into Feng Xin with the cold precision of a surgeon’s knife. Whether he’s assessing him or simply trying to intimidate him is anyone’s guess—either way, it’s creepy as fuck.

After a long moment, he shrugs. “If you’re too stupid to see what’s right in front of you, then there’s no helping you.”

“I think what San Lang means is that, um—I don’t know if there’s such a thing as an objectively ‘perfect’ first kiss?” Somehow, Feng Xin isn’t convinced that that’s what ‘San Lang’ meant, but it’s a welcome subject change anyway. Xie Lian thinks for a moment, then lights up, looking excited and a bit pink. “Oh! Wait! Do you want to know how my first kiss with San Lang went?”

This is a significantly less welcome subject change. Feng Xin grimaces. “Not particularly.”

Hua Cheng rests his head on his husband’s shoulder, nuzzling into his neck. “He doesn’t deserve to hear it, gege.”

Xie Lian giggles, a little flustered. Feng Xin fights back a gag.

“I’ll spare you the details, but it certainly wasn’t perfect. Not because of anything San Lang did!” Xie Lian rushes to assure his husband when Hua Cheng starts to pout, lacing their fingers together. “I was just very awkward. Also, I almost drowned.”

Hm. There’s a bit to unpack there and Feng Xin doesn’t know how to start. He settles for: “That… doesn’t sound very good.”

Hua Cheng’s pout deepens into a scowl, but Xie Lian only laughs. “It might not sound like it! But it was with San Lang. And that’s what matters.” He brings their joined hands up to his mouth, brushing the ghost king’s knuckles with a light kiss. “He makes me happy. Anything with him is good.”

Feng Xin averts his eyes—sometimes, looking at those two feels like looking directly at the sun. Still, he means it when he says, “I’m glad you’re happy, Dianxia.”

“I want you to be happy too,” Xie Lian says, warm and insistent. “I guess what I’m trying to say is—I think if it’s with the right person, anything can be perfect. Especially if that person knows how much you care about them. Just… think about that, okay?”

__________

After spending hours puzzling over Xie Lian’s advice, Feng Xin comes to a realization: he asked the wrong person.

Don’t misunderstand, Xie Lian is one of his closest friends. Feng Xin respects him and values his opinion immensely. But Xie Lian is also a guy who spent most of his life living in abstinence, only to wind up marrying a horrific ghost creature, so. Maybe he’s not the best person to ask about romance.

Of course he would tell Feng Xin that the person you’re kissing matters more than the kiss itself—that’s exactly the kind of thing that lovestruck newlyweds say. The advice might hold true if Mu Qing somehow secretly liked him and wanted to kiss him, but he clearly doesn’t, so Feng Xin decides to seek help elsewhere.

Elsewhere being the archery range of the Ming Guang palace.

Now, before you think all of the things that you’re completely justified in thinking—Feng Xin has recently and begrudgingly discovered that Pei Ming really isn’t that bad! Careless in his personal life, maybe, but so is a lot of heaven. In spite of his bad reputation, Pei Ming has proved to be a good friend, an excellent archery practice partner, and an overall decent guy. He’s just—

“What, do you need me to show you how to…” Pei Ming makes a truly obscene gesture.

… the worst man who’s ever lived, actually. A menace to society.

“No! I don’t need you to show me how to do that!” Even though they’re alone in the archery range, Feng Xin still slaps his hands down, frantically looking around to make sure no one else saw.

“Oh ho, so you already know how to do that?”

“I don’t—that’s not—fuck you.” Feng Xin drags a hand over his face. “Kissing. I need to know about kissing.”

Pei Ming fires off another arrow, pausing to give Feng Xin a knowing look. “You know, for someone with such a filthy mouth, you’re very pure of heart.”

“Shut! The fuck! Up!” Feng Xin regrets every single choice that has landed him in this stupid situation. Nonetheless, he takes a deep breath, steeling himself. “I need to give someone the perfect first kiss.”

He tries to keep things vague, hoping against all odds that Pei Ming won’t pry. Admittedly, he probably won’t get out of this conversation without at least some minor prodding, but Feng Xin takes solace in the fact that Pei Ming could never possibly imagine he’d want to kiss Mu Qing.

“Ah. Finally making a move on our dear General Xuan Zhen, huh?” Oh, what the fuck. Is he that obvious?

“No! What? FUCK NO!” Feng Xin lies, like a liar. “I would never—why would you even think that?”

“Well, there’s not a lot of people in heaven still looking for a first kiss.” Pei Ming taps a finger to his lips, feigning thoughtfulness, until a wicked smirk cuts sharp across his face. “Unless General Ju Yang is out seducing young, impressionable mortals. How beastly!”

“Fuck off, I’m not you.”

Pei Ming laughs. “You’ve also been pretty obviously head over heels for the guy for the past few centuries.” At Feng Xin’s sputtering, he shrugs. “Well, it’s obvious to me, at least—being a Love God and all that. Didn’t think you’d figured it out yet.”

Even though he’s never been as thin-faced as Mu Qing, at this point, Feng Xin is sure he’s red as a cherry. “Fucking hell, are you going to help me or not?”

“Relax, relax. Listen, I can give you as many kissing tips as you want, but honestly? Don’t overthink it.” Pei Ming puts a hand on his shoulder and gives it a reassuring squeeze. “I think he’d be happy with anything, as long as it’s you.”

Feng Xin’s bow clatters to the ground.

“What—what makes you say that?” Has Mu Qing told him something? Does Mu Qing talk to Pei Ming? Mu Qing shouldn’t talk to Pei Ming.

“Remember how I said you were obvious? He is too.” Pei Ming shakes his head, tutting in disapproval. “Really, how many times does that poor man have to recite a poem about your dick for you to realize he’s interested in getting his hands on it?”

That’s—

Okay, Feng Xin doesn’t even know where to start with that.

“You’re wrong,” he coughs out, after he’s finished choking on air.

“I don’t see why else he’d memorize a—”

“NOT ABOUT THE POEM!” Feng Xin bellows, then shoves his head in his hands. “Urgh, yes about the poem. Everything, you’re wrong about everything.” He peeks through his fingers at Pei Ming, just to give him a withering glare. “Nothing is obvious about Mu Qing. And he wouldn’t be happy with anything, especially if it’s coming from me. Trust me, I’ve been trying.”

Pei Ming goggles at him, looking genuinely bewildered. “You—huh?”

Well, here we are again. The Worst Part.

In a rush, Feng Xin blurts, “I accidentally stole his first kiss and it was bad and I’ve been trying to make it up for him by giving him a better one but nothing I do is good enough!” He pauses, panting a little, then adds, “Because he’s an asshole.”

Now it’s Pei Ming’s turn to drop his bow.

His mouth falls open in soundless shock. This might be the first time in hundreds of years that Feng Xin has ever seen him completely speechless, without even a stupid little “Hoho” to offer.

Shutting him up would be far more satisfying if Feng Xin wasn’t already bracing himself for Pei Ming’s inevitable, insufferable response.

“Holy shit,” he says, volume and excitement building with every syllable.

“Shut up,” Feng Xin starts, but it’s like trying to stop a leaking dam with his bare hands.

“Holy shit,” Pei Ming repeats. This time it’s practically a shriek.

Then, just like Hua Cheng, he dissolves into a mess of wild laughter.

This is somehow infinitely worse, because at least Hua Cheng had the decency (ha, imagine that) to do it outside the temple where Feng Xin couldn’t see it. Now, though, Feng Xin has front row seats to see Pei Ming wiping away tears and merrily hopping from foot to foot like an over-excited little kid.

It’s very unbecoming for a martial god—but then again, Feng Xin’s desperate attempts to sink into the floor probably aren’t particularly becoming either.

“I knew there was something different about you two! I’m never wrong about this sort of thing, you know. Oh, wait until Noble Jie hears about this, she’s going to—”

Feng Xin scrambles to clamp a hand over Pei Ming’s mouth, as though the mere mention of Ling Wen will instantly summon her to the spot. Honestly, he wouldn’t be surprised if that’s something she’s capable of.

“You can’t tell her! You can’t tell anyone. Mu Qing doesn’t want anybody to know.” With caution, he removes his hand from Pei Ming’s mouth, only to reveal an obnoxious grin. Bastard. Feng Xin crosses his arms, sulking. “I think he’s embarrassed of me.”

“I’m embarrassed for you both. How long has this been going on, a few weeks?” Pei Ming gasps at Feng Xin’s telling silence. “Months? Nan Yang.” He falls into another fit of laughter, looking torn between horror and giddy amusement. “How often are you kissing him?”

Feng Xin’s face is so warm, it feels like he’s standing in front of a blazing fire. He scratches the back of his neck. “Well, it was every day, but we fought, and now he’s—”

“EVERY DAY?”

“If you’d fucking let me finish! I said it was every day. But we got into an argument last week and he hasn’t spoken to me since.”

Pei Ming presses his palms together, bringing them up to his mouth. He closes his eyes and takes a very deep breath, in and out.

“Let me get this straight,” he starts, slow and patient, like he’s talking to a child. “He’s been letting you kiss him. Every day. For months. And you still don’t think he likes you?”

Well, when Pei Ming puts it like that, it does sound kind of silly.

“Of course not,” Feng Xin insists anyway, even as the doubt starts to creep in. “He’s just—petty. He wants me to settle a debt.”

“No one is that petty.”

“Have you met Mu Qing?”

“Okay, fair.” Pei Ming shrugs. “But come on, do you really think he’d let just anyone kiss him every day? He once threatened to gouge my eyes out because I looked at him too long.”

Feng Xin scowls. “You shouldn’t look at him at all.”

“Oh, for heaven’s sake!” Pei Ming throws up his hands. It seems like he can’t quite decide whether he wants to throttle Feng Xin or just start laughing at him again. In the end, he picks a third option, giving Feng Xin a pat on the back that’s just this side of too hard. “You’re a martial god, have some courage! Surely you can’t be this terrified of talking about your feelings.”

Oh, but Feng Xin really is that terrified of talking about his feelings. Actually, however terrified Pei Ming thinks he is of talking about his feelings—double that. Triple it, maybe.

It’s not like Feng Xin enjoys being like this. He takes no pride in being so afraid to express his feelings—who is he, Mu Qing? But by now, Feng Xin has come to realize that he’s simply… too much, for most people. There’s something wrong with the way he loves. Nobody wants it, whatever he’s offering, and he doesn’t want to scare Mu Qing off now that he’s finally started tolerating him.

Some other friendships might weather one person confessing their unrequited feelings to the other, but their foundation is already so unsteady. What would Mu Qing say if Feng Xin told him he wanted more?

He winces at the thought. “We’ve just become friends. I don’t want to ruin that.”

For the first time since finding out about the kissing thing, Pei Ming’s expression melts into genuine sympathy. “I think that ship’s already sailed, my friend. You’re essentially courting already, you just haven’t said it out loud yet.” He sighs. “Look, I may not know Xuan Zhen as well as you do, but I do know this—that guy doesn’t do anything he doesn’t want to. There’s no way he’d have gotten into this… arrangement with you if he didn’t want to kiss you.”

Hm. As impossible as the idea sounds, Pei Ming does have a point.

Mu Qing doesn’t waste his time or energy on people he doesn’t care about, but they’ve been fixtures in each other’s lives for more than eight centuries. Even at their worst, they still couldn’t leave each other alone. Mu Qing argues with Feng Xin more than he looks at most people in heaven. And now—now he’s let Feng Xin kiss him, over and over. That night, before the morning they fought, he was the one who moved first.

The fact that Feng Xin has been allowed to get so close—it has to mean something. Whether or not it means what Feng Xin hopes it means is another matter entirely.

There must be some foolish hope showing on his face, because the sympathy in Pei Ming’s expression evaporates, replaced by something horribly smug.

“I have a hunch—a Love God Hunch—” stop looking so pleased with yourself, Pei Ming, “that he’s probably worried about the exact same thing you are. I’m afraid that one of you is just going to have to take one for the team and be honest about your feelings.”

Feng Xin shoots him a flat look. “The last time Mu Qing was honest about his feelings, he was on the verge of death.”

Pei Ming grins, picking up his bow and turning back to the targets in front of them. He nocks an arrow, draws it back, and lets it fly.

“Guess it’s up to you, then.”

Bullseye.

__________

Though he’s been firmly ignored in Mu Qing’s private communication array just as much as he has been in person, Feng Xin decides to give it one more try.

It’s probably pointless. Odds are, the only way they’ll actually be able to have a fucking conversation is if Feng Xin breaks down the door to Mu Qing’s palace and picks a fight with him, but hey! He can try to be polite.

That’s a first—with Mu Qing, at least—but he figures he has to. Because Feng Xin is about to make what could possibly be a terrible, earth-shattering mistake.

He is… going to ask Mu Qing out on a date.

So maybe Pei Ming was kind of right! That’s horrible to admit. Even more horrible is the realization that it’s not going to be as simple as just ‘talking about his feelings,’ because since when has Mu Qing ever been simple about anything?

He’s mistrustful by nature; though Feng Xin is ashamed to admit that for most of their lives, he hasn’t given him much of a reason not to be. Mu Qing won’t believe him if Feng Xin just tells him that he loves him out of nowhere. Why would he? Mere words are powerless against a man who can twist even the most straightforward sentiments until their meaning is completely unrecognizable—particularly when they’re coming from someone who, in all honestly, has never been a particularly gifted wordsmith. (Creative vulgarity not included.)

If Feng Xin wants his feelings to be understood and believed, he needs actions to back them up. So naturally, the only solution is to court Mu Qing properly.

(Regardless of what Pei Ming says, secret rendezvous and kissing in dark corners do not count as proper courting.)

Feng Xin is going to do this right—leave no doubt in Mu Qing’s mind that he’s cared for, ease them into things before he goes ahead and blurts out his feelings.

Mustering up all of his courage, Feng Xin presses two fingers to his temple and recites the password to Mu Qing’s private array before he can convince himself not to.

In a shocking turn of events, Mu Qing responds almost immediately.

“What?”

The testiness in his tone, however, isn’t shocking at all.

“Mu Qing?” Feng Xin replies dumbly, surprised and elated that they’re even speaking.

“Who else would it be?” Mu Qing, for his part, seems considerably less elated. “Did you mean to contact me?”

“Fucking obviously—”

“Then what do you want?"

“I want—” you, stupid. Can’t say that. Tentatively, he begins, “There’s, um. There’s a festival in the Southeast tomorrow.”

Feng Xin can perfectly imagine the unimpressed look on Mu Qing’s face. “And?”

“I’m going to go.”

Cue eye roll. “And?”

“You need to go too.” Feng Xin’s nervousness makes his voice come out too gruff, too forceful. He pinches the bridge of his nose and tries again, “Or—well, you should go. With me. We should go together.”

“Why,” Mu Qing says, so flat it’s barely even a question.

It deserves an answer, regardless. A good one, too, if Feng Xin actually expects Mu Qing to come along.

“Because I fucking want to, okay?” Wow, worst possible answer! As soon as the words leave his mouth, Feng Xin senses Mu Qing winding up for an outraged rebuttal, so he quickly amends: “I just—it seems like it would be a good time, and we haven’t seen each other in a little while and I—” I miss you, I love you, “I… want you to go with me.”

There is a long pause.

Feng Xin wishes desperately that he could see Mu Qing’s expression and try to gauge what he’s thinking. Then again, it’s probably better that he can’t see his face—Feng Xin doesn’t want to watch Mu Qing’s nose wrinkle up in distaste at the concept of having a “good time” with him.

He’s about to exit the array and abandon the whole idea when Mu Qing finally speaks up.

“Will there be food?”

Feng Xin barks out a loud, surprised laugh. “It’s a festival, of course there’s fucking food—”

“Good food?” Oh, he’s the worst. Feng Xin loves him so much his chest feels tight.

“Very good, asshole.” Feng Xin tries to keep his mouth a firm line, even as thin threads of hope tug his lips ever upward. He can’t celebrate yet, not when Mu Qing hasn’t officially agreed to go with him. “Way better than whatever shit they serve at festivals in the Southwest.”

Honestly, the food is half of why Feng Xin thought Mu Qing might enjoy the festival in the first place. Gods don’t generally need to eat and Mu Qing usually doesn’t, but he makes exceptions for a few different kinds of dishes—things that remind him of his mother’s cooking, things too fancy for him to have been allowed during his human life, and things that appeal to the sweet tooth he vehemently denies having. There’s a pastry they make every year at the festival that takes Feng Xin right back to the sweets they used to have in Xianle. He has to know what Mu Qing would think about it.

The other half of why Feng Xin wants to take him to this particular festival… well, that’s a surprise.

Another pause. It could be a second or a century. Then: “Hmph. I’ll be the judge of that.”

The smile Feng Xin has been pushing down finally blooms across his face. “So you’ll go?”

Mu Qing scoffs. “You’re lucky I don’t have anything better to do.”

“Great,” Feng Xin says. His heart is pounding so loud he’s almost worried Mu Qing can hear it through the array, but even the jittery nervousness can’t kill his grin. “Great. I’ll meet you at your palace tomorrow and we can descend together.”

“Fine.” For a moment that seems like the end of the conversation, until Mu Qing suddenly speaks up again, quieter this time. Almost hesitant. “Feng Xin, is this—”

He stops short, cutting off so suddenly that for a moment, Feng Xin thinks he might have disconnected the array.

“Is it what?” Feng Xin prompts, softer too. The quiet is contagious.

“I—Never mind,” Mu Qing says, with a note of finality that Feng Xin knows better than to argue with. “Tomorrow it is, then.”

Chapter Text

What’s the etiquette for going on a first date with a guy you’ve known for eight centuries and been kissing for half a year?

Feng Xin generally isn’t so self-absorbed as to think he’s had any truly unique experiences, but this… this might actually be a one-of-a-kind situation.

What the hell is he supposed to do? Discounting the bizarre circumstances he’s currently stuck in, Feng Xin has, admittedly, not been on a lot of actual dates. As much as he wanted to, he could never court Jian Lan properly. How could he, when he needed to pay just to be allowed in the same room as her? And any other flings he’s had over the past few centuries have been just that—flings. Short-lived and unemotional, just sex and sparring that eventually fizzled out without hard feelings or even a goodbye.

Feng Xin might technically have more dating experience than Mu Qing (ultra-virgin that he is), but that’s really not saying a lot.

He also realizes that he didn’t ever actually call it a date when he asked Mu Qing to come to the festival with him—but surely it’s obvious, right? There’s no way Mu Qing, who has historically never misinterpreted anything ever, could possibly not think this is a date, right? Right?

Shit.

Well, Feng Xin will cross that rickety, precarious bridge when he gets to it.

In the meantime: what should he even wear? What do people wear on dates? Feng Xin has been standing in front of his mirror for the better part of a shíchén, trying on every piece of clothing he owns and frowning at all of them. A few deputies (who were both very brave and very stupid) appeared in his bedroom doorway to offer advice, but he got so embarrassed he sent them away to run laps around the palace perimeter. Not his best moment! But nerves can do that to you.

He’s tentatively decided on some black robes with intricate gold trim that are nicer than his usual fair but not so fancy that Mu Qing will accuse him of being a showboat. Plus, he’s caught Mu Qing staring intently at them when he’s worn them before—which either means that Mu Qing likes them or loathes them, but Feng Xin is very much hoping it’s the former.

He doesn’t know why he’s so worried about his appearance, of all things. It’s not like this is a stranger. It’s Mu Qing. Mu Qing, who’s seen him in finery and armor and rags (and covered in blood a few times)—and told him he looked like an idiot in all of them. Plus, he’s going to change into Nan Feng once they descend anyway, which actually raises of what Nan Feng should wear, and—AH FUCK, HE’S GOTTA GO.

Feng Xin rushes out of his palace, sternly ignoring the shouts of encouragement coming from his deputies as he goes.

Nosy little shits. (They’re the best.)

__________

Though he practically sprints the short walk over to Mu Qing’s palace, Feng Xin takes a moment to collect himself before barging in, straightening his robes and schooling his expression.

He’s gonna be so normal about this. He’s gonna be relaxed and poised as hell, like he picks up Mu Qing for dates every day and is so fucking smooth about it. No big deal.

… Except it is a big deal. It’s maybe the biggest deal ever, actually, and Feng Xin is so nervous that he misjudges his own strength and smashes a hole in Mu Qing’s front door when he tries to knock. Fucking oopsie.

“SORRY!” Feng Xin calls frantically as he opens what remains of Mu Qing’s front door to let himself inside. He finds Mu Qing frozen in the main hall, mouth and eyes wide open with shock—which is better than finding Mu Qing getting ready to murder him, but still not good. “I’m so fucking sorry, I didn’t mean to—”

“Feng Xin,” Mu Qing cuts him off, and for some reason he doesn’t sound mad? Just surprised. Maybe even a little happy.

“Mu Qing,” Feng Xin says, smiling helplessly—at him and at the ridiculous stupidity of the situation, but mostly at him. “Hey.”

Mu Qing blinks at him. “Hey?”

He still doesn’t sound mad. Why isn’t he mad?

“I fucked up your door,” Feng Xin reminds him. Like Mu Qing doesn’t fucking know.

“You fucked up my door,” Mu Qing agrees, not even looking at it. He hasn’t taken his eyes off Feng Xin since he first walked in.

“I’ll, um. Pay for it?”

“Of course you’ll pay for it,” Mu Qing snaps, waving a dismissive hand. That’s more like it. “You—you actually showed up.”

“What the fuck do you mean, I actually showed up? Did you think I—” Feng Xin stops short, eyes catching on the elegant, glittering ornament in Mu Qing’s hair. He points at it. “That’s a new guan.”

“What?” Mu Qing’s hands fly up to touch the guan in question, almost like he’s trying to hide it. “No it’s not.”

Feng Xin frowns. “Yes it is.”

Mu Qing rolls his eyes and scoffs. “Oh, you remember every single guan I’ve ever worn?”

“Of course I do!” Feng Xin is very familiar with all the accessories Mu Qing uses to keep his hair in its usual high ponytail. This is a natural consequence of constantly imagining what it might be like to gently remove one of those accessories and see Mu Qing with his hair loose and spilling over his shoulders. “I always pay attention to your hair!”

It’s only after the words leave his mouth that Feng Xin realizes what he’s said. His face burns.

Lucky for him, Mu Qing doesn’t seem to be faring much better. He flushes pink and his jaw hangs open, making a few wordless sounds of indignation before finally shouting, “I didn’t wear it for you!” Which Feng Xin didn’t even accuse him of, but, y’know. Classic Mu Qing.

“Too bad!” Feng Xin fires back, because if he’s going to be embarrassing then he might as well commit to it. “I like it anyway!”

Mu Qing doesn’t seem to know what to do with that at all, except turn redder. He shoves his hands back into his sleeves and looks away sharply, nearly smacking Feng Xin in the face with his hair as he does it.

“That’s—fine. Okay. Good. I don’t care.” It kind of sounds like he does care, but for once Feng Xin doesn’t argue with him. “Can we just go already?”

Feng Xin suppresses an eyeroll of his own. “Fine, fine. Did I keep you waiting long?”

“Please. I have better things to do with my time than sit around waiting for you.”

Somewhere to their left, someone lets out a snort. Someone who is distinctly not Feng Xin or Mu Qing. It’s then that Feng Xin realizes they’re completely surrounded by Mu Qing’s deputies, hiding throughout the hall (with varying degrees of success) and eavesdropping on their conversation.

Mu Qing’s face goes from pleasantly flushed to deadly pale so quickly, it’s almost concerning. Then he smiles placidly, which is definitely concerning.

“So nice of you all to join us,” Mu Qing says, so cheerful and sweet that Feng Xin is a bit terrified. “I suppose this means that everyone is done with the tasks I assigned? Surely, no subordinates of mine would be wasting their time snooping when they have work to do.”

No one speaks. Some deputies make a last ditch attempt at hiding better, but it’s already far too late.

The fake smile drops from Mu Qing’s face. “You have three seconds to run. Three—”

He barely gets through the word before all his deputies scatter, scurrying away like terrified little mice, shouting Sorry general! and Right away general! (and at least one Good luck general!) as they go.

Against all better judgement (and survival instinct), Feng Xin smirks at Mu Qing.

“So you were waiting, then?”

He just barely dodges the ensuing blow, laughter ringing out clear and light, echoing in the hall even after they descend.

__________

They arrive at the outskirts of the village, far enough away from all the mortals’ festivities that they can transform into their Fu Yao and Nan Feng forms without being spotted.

It’s always kind of funny watching Mu Qing make the change—in the span of a blink, he loses 4 cun of height. Always glares viciously while he does it, too, like he’s just daring Feng Xin to say something about it. (Keeping Nan Feng Feng Xin’s normal height was such a good choice.)

Once he’s transformed, Fu Yao is as cute and forehead-kissable as he always is, but his clothes are nicer than usual. Feng Xin is surprised to see that he’s still wearing the pretty guan that caught his eye before they left.

“Fu Yao looks so fancy,” he murmurs, quietly pleased that Mu Qing deigned to dress up for their outing. He reaches towards the guan, just so Mu Qing will swat his hand away.

“Shut up.” Cue hand swat. Sometimes they really are predictable.

Feng Xin laughs. “Learn to take a compliment.”

“How about you learn to give one?” Mu Qing rolls his eyes, tucking his hands primly into his sleeves. “I was promised food.”

“So demanding,” Feng Xin says, doing a very bad job at sounding mad about it. “Let’s go.”

The festival’s signature treat is a delicate puff pastry molded masterfully into the shape of a peach blossom, filled up inside with red bean paste. It’s sweet and pretty to look at—two traits that Feng Xin knows for a fact Mu Qing appreciates in his desserts, but he’s still kind of anxious about whether or not he’ll like it. As soon as they enter the festival, Feng Xin makes a beeline for a stand that he knows makes them the best, run by a chatty auntie who only makes him a little nervous. He buys the treats quickly, politely dodging her questions about his ‘pretty friend’ and ‘how come I only see you once a year?’—all while firmly ignoring Mu Qing snickering in the background.

Any fears Feng Xin had about Mu Qing not liking them are quickly assuaged by the way his face lights up the moment he unwraps his pastry from it’s neat paper covering and takes a bite.

And another bite.

And another. He’s scarfing it down, really.

“So?” Feng Xin bumps Mu Qing’s shoulder, terribly smug. “What do you think?”

“It’s alright,” Mu Qing says with an affected shrug. Bold words from a man who finished his snack in record time and is now staring longingly at Feng Xin’s own.

Without another word, Feng Xin carefully breaks off one of the ‘petals’ from his pastry and holds it out for Mu Qing to take. For a brief, insane moment, he imagines Mu Qing eating from his hand like they’re a couple of overly-attached newlyweds—a thought he quickly banishes when he imagines, far more vividly and realistically, Mu Qing biting off one of his fingers.

For a moment, Mu Qing doesn’t move, just glares suspiciously at the offered treat like Feng Xin is going to yoink it out of reach the second he tries to grab it. Which—okay, Feng Xin has definitely pulled that joke on him before, but he wouldn’t do it now! Not on a date! (Which Mu Qing knows this is! Probably. Maybe. Hopefully.)

After a sufficient amount of suspicious glaring (which honestly wasn’t even that much suspicious glaring, by Mu Qing standards), he eventually relents and takes the piece from Feng Xin, lips twitching up into something close to a smile. Feng Xin can’t help but beam back at him.

They keep going like that as they leisurely explore the festival’s various stands, until Feng Xin’s pastry runs out of petals for them to share. If he wound up giving most of it away to Mu Qing, well, he’s not complaining. Mu Qing letting Feng Xin be good to him is a rare and lucky thing, even if it’s over something as insignificant as sharing a snack.

Feng Xin can’t believe it’s taken him so long to realize just how much he likes being good to Mu Qing, how much he wants to treat him well.

It used to be easy to fight or ignore the impulse, especially with the skeptical looks Mu Qing always gives whenever anybody tries to be nice to him. Feng Xin grabbed onto that wariness with both hands, tried to use it as proof that Mu Qing wasn’t worth the effort, that any kindness would be wasted on someone who’d never appreciate it.

Now, his heart aches when he sees that apprehension directed his way. Mu Qing might never be a particularly trusting person, but even so, Feng Xin wants to be someone he relies on. It’s been over 800 years, isn’t it about time they learn to really trust each other?

Feng Xin is snapped out of his reverie by the sound of Mu Qing’s voice.

“I’m sensing a theme here,” he says, inspecting a hair comb at the stand they’re currently perusing. It’s a beautiful piece, handmade from a rich dark wood and adorned with flowers finely carved across its surface. At Feng Xin’s inquisitive look, he gestures between the comb and one of the many floral banners hanging overhead. “Peach blossoms.”

“Ah,” Feng Xin says. All at once, his nerves come back in full force. He tries to ignore the variety of complicated knots his stomach is suddenly tying itself into and remain casual. “Yeah. Let me show you something.”

__________

At the center of the festival—and the village itself—stands the biggest peach tree Feng Xin has ever seen in his entire life. (Which is saying a lot, because he’s been around for a while.)

In the summer, the tree’s branches grow heavy with the sweetest and juiciest peaches you can imagine, but for now it’s in full bloom, a vision of soft pink. Petals seem to rain perpetually in the mellow spring breeze, carpeting the ground in their colors, yet the tree never looks any less full. The delicate smell of flowers wafts through the air all around them, rich and heady but somehow not cloying.

Anyway—it’s a nice fucking tree. People like the tree, they made a whole festival about it. And Feng Xin is barely paying it any attention, because he can’t take his eyes off of Mu Qing.

He’s beautiful, is the problem. Always has been; in his true form and all of his disguises, at every age that Feng Xin’s ever known him. Standing near the tree, Mu Qing is even more striking than usual—brutally gorgeous with his midnight hair and sharp features in such contrast to the blossoms’ gentle beauty.

A small smile plays on his lips when a group of little girls runs past them, stopping briefly to pick up big handfuls of petals and throw them into the air, screeching with delighted laughter.

Feng Xin’s breath catches in his throat at the sight of it. Why the hell has Mu Qing been punching him for all these years? If he really wants to do some damage to Feng Xin’s health, all he has to do is grin.

The smile, tiny and devastating as it is, doesn’t last, slipping from Mu Qing’s face as they walk closer to the tree.

“I thought I recognized this village,” Mu Qing says, narrowing his eyes at the arboreal miracle like its insulted him personally. The realization doesn’t seem to make him happy. 

Feng Xin’s hands start to sweat. This is the part he was most nervous for.

“We came here for a mission together once. Do you remember?” he prompts, even though he’s sure Mu Qing does. “The one with the ghost that kept blighting all the crops.”

“It’s barely been two centuries, of course I remember,” Mu Qing snaps, then pauses to look around, making sure no nosy villagers are listening in. He crosses his arms tightly, voice quiet but sharp. “I’ve always had a better memory than you.”

That might be true, but the mission in question remains crisp in Feng Xin’s mind.

Blighting isn’t exactly the right word for what the ghost was doing to the fruits and vegetables the villagers needed to survive. Blights are sudden, but not like this. This was cruel. Any crops the ghost had touched would look completely fine and then disintegrate into a stinking, putrid goop the second you tried to pick them—or worse, the moment you took a bite. Even food brought in from neighboring towns went rotten the moment it entered the village grounds, decaying from the inside out.

The people were starving.

As soon as the prayers for help started flowing in, Feng Xin immediately descended in disguise to investigate. The situation was dire enough that he didn’t want to send a deputy, but simple enough that he figured he could solve the whole thing on his own—an assumption that proved to be a perilous mistake once he actually found the ghost and realized it was far more powerful than Ling Wen’s initial threat assessment had deemed it.

As a god, Feng Xin’s perception of pain has changed and dulled as he’s grown more powerful, but the feeling that shot up his arm when that ghost touched him… even now, the memory makes his skin crawl.

Healing abilities and spiritual powers be damned, he might have lost use of the arm (or hell, lost it entirely) if Mu Qing hadn’t appeared out of fucking nowhere, finishing the ghost off with a ferocity that Feng Xin hadn’t seen him have in years. As soon as the ghost was dispelled, a healthy peach tree stood in its place. All the blight—in the crops and in Feng Xin’s arm—was gone, as though it had never been there in the first place.

Even so, Mu Qing was almost frantic in the way he fretted over Feng Xin, checking all his wounds and flooding his meridians with spiritual power, too worried to even insult him properly. Back then, Feng Xin didn’t have a word for the strange warmth that would sometimes flood his chest when he looked at Mu Qing, but in that moment, it was overwhelming.

Of course, it didn’t last. The spell was broken as soon as Feng Xin asked Mu Qing why he came to his aid.

Mu Qing took it the wrong way and got defensive, because of course he did. He insisted that Ling Wen had assigned him to descend and give Feng Xin assistance, berating him for his incompetence and goading him into an argument that made any gratitude he had feel like a distant memory. But when Feng Xin tried to thank Ling Wen for sending him backup, she’d simply shrugged and told him she’d done no such thing.

At the time, Feng Xin was willing to dismiss the whole thing as Mu Qing being Mu Qing, shifty and incomprehensible as always. Now, he knows better.

“You saved me,” he says, just as awed as he was back then.

Mu Qing lets out a short, bitter laugh. “That’s not how the villagers remembered it.”

Ah, yes. That’s where things got really ugly.

Though they were both disguised as young cultivators at the time, the story got more exaggerated, as stories were wont to do. Two cultivators sent by Nan Yang and Xuan Zhen quickly became Nan Yang and Xuan Zhen in disguise—which was far more accurate than any of the mortals could have known.

If only the exaggerations ended there.

When the villagers started spinning their tale of the ghost’s defeat—changing Xuan Zhen from a rescuer to a saboteur trying to steal the ‘great and generous’ Nan Yang’s thunder—he hadn’t bothered trying to rectify the misunderstanding. Humans are wrong about things all the time. It’s just one little myth in one tiny town, why should that matter to Mu Qing?

That’s another thing he knows better now.

“I remember,” Feng Xin says, voice firm. “I don’t know what I would have done if you didn’t come for me. I wouldn’t forget something like that.”

Mu Qing doesn’t seem to know what to do with such open gratitude. He stares at Feng Xin, brows slightly furrowed, like he’s waiting for the punchline of a joke.

When it never comes, he shakes his head, letting out a small huff.

“It doesn’t matter,” he mutters, and Feng Xin is about to argue with him until he notices how pink the tips of Mu Qing’s ears have gone. “We’ve both saved each other plenty of times.”

Warmth floods through Feng Xin’s whole being, like he’s just settled into a hot bath after the longest day of his life.

“We have,” he says, because it’s true, even if this is the first time they’ve ever said it out loud. They’ve always been saving each other.

There were the big times, like Tonglu, like Mu Qing bonking him over the head when he was too stupid to escape the burning capital—but there’s been so many little times as well. Too many to count. Always so protective of each other, even at their worst.

Feng Xin isn’t sure what kind of goofy, contented expression he’s got on his face, but whatever it is has Mu Qing mesmerized, staring with the same kind of dazed intensity he always gets right before they’re about to kiss.

Fuck, Feng Xin wants to kiss him.

That’s nothing new—the desire is always there, always thrumming in the back of all his thoughts. Still, as much as he wants to, is now the right time? They never called off the deal, so Feng Xin is assuming they’re still playing by its rules. They might be disguised, but they are still in public. And even if that wasn’t an issue, does Feng Xin really want to use his one kiss of the day so quickly?

While Feng Xin practically has smoke coming out of his ears trying to make the decision, Mu Qing seems about ready to make it for him.

He takes a step closer, reaching over to run his fingers through the loose locks of hair framing Feng Xin’s face, fussing gently with them for a moment before tucking them behind Feng Xin’s ear. Before his hand can retreat, Feng Xin covers it with his own on impulse, keeping it cupping his face. It’s okay if the kiss happens now, isn’t it?  It must be, judging by the way Mu Qing’s gaze keeps catching on Feng Xin’s mouth.

Feng Xin leans in, eyelids fluttering closed, and—

Mu Qing yanks his hand back as though he’s been burned, clutching it to his chest. He’s gone almost alarmingly red.

“I didn’t—um.” Mu Qing clears his throat. “You had—petals.” He opens his palm to reveal two small petals, their soft baby pink gone fuchsia from the way he accidentally crushed them in his closed fist. He frowns down at them, then up at Feng Xin. “I—”

“Mu Qing, listen—” Now’s the time. Just tell him you like him. Like, not love, don’t scare him off. It’s three words, come on, just do it, just say it— “Would you eat one of the peaches from the ghost tree?”

Oh, for fuck’s sake.

“What,” Mu Qing says. As if Feng Xin fucking knows.

He keeps speaking regardless. “Like, the peaches from the tree the ghost turned into.” He shrugs casually, as though this is exactly what he meant to say and his internal monologue hasn’t transformed into a long, anguished wail. “Would you try one, or?”

“I’m not eating a ghost peach.” Mu Qing’s nose scrunches up in disgust, an expression so cute and silly on his elegant face that for a moment, Feng Xin forgets to be angry with himself for his fumble.

“You think you’re too good for ghost peaches?” he prods, giving Mu Qing a light nudge with his elbow.

“It almost turned your arm into goo,” Mu Qing says. He grabs a hold of Feng Xin’s very much un-goo-ified arm and gives it a little shake. “I’m not eating whatever weird fruit it turned itself into.”

“Hm, sounds like something a coward would say.”

“Oh, we’ll see who’s a coward when I shove a ghost peach down your throat—”

Just like that, they’re off; Feng Xin running away and Mu Qing chasing close behind. They circle the perimeter of the tree a few times, laughing and shouting insults all the while, looking a lot more like the little girls who passed them earlier than a couple of powerful martial gods. They get stopped and scolded by a stern, older auntie for it, but that’s alright—just gives them something new to argue about. They’re poking at each other and muttering about ‘who started it’ before she’s even out of earshot.

Feng Xin isn’t avoiding his confession. He’ll say it, he will. Later.

For now, bickering with Mu Qing is as fun as it’s always been.

__________

“A play?”

Feng Xin snorts at Mu Qing’s appalled tone. “Don’t sound too excited about it.”

They’d spent the rest of the day indulging in some (mostly) friendly competition, playing festival games and enjoying the warm spring air, keeping the taunting to a minimum (by their standards, at least). When the sun started to go down, Mu Qing seemed prepared to leave—until Feng Xin caught his sleeve and insisted they stay for the play that would end the evening.

Make no mistake: it’s absolutely vital that they don’t miss the play. Convincing Mu Qing to watch it, however, may prove to be a little tricky.

Mu Qing shoots Feng Xin an unimpressed look, but there’s a faint amusement in his eyes. “Ju Yang, notorious patron of the arts, wants to watch a play. Really? The Mid-Autumn Festival doesn’t have enough of those for you?” Then, a little more seriously, he adds, “You know we can’t use merits to stop this one if it’s terrible, right?”

“It won’t be terrible,” Feng Xin says, then thinks for a moment. “Probably.”

“What’s it even about?”

Feng Xin opens his mouth, then closes it. He gives a loose little shrug that’s far more relaxed than he feels. “It’s a surprise.”

Mu Qing makes a terrible face. “I hate surprises.”

Feng Xin laughs. “You hate everything.” 

That may be true, but Mu Qing still allows himself to be dragged over to the little makeshift stage and audience. They find some seats towards the back—'So we can escape quietly if it’s awful,’ according to Mu Qing—and settle in just in time for the play to start.

A young performer who Feng Xin doubts is any older than twelve takes the stage, practically vibrating with excitement. The crowd cheers at his entrance—though nobody cheers quite as loud as a man and woman in the front row, who applaud so raucously it’s almost disruptive.

“Stage parents,” Mu Qing mutters, rolling his eyes.

Feng Xin tries and fails to stifle a giggle. “Shhh! Let the kid speak!”

“You shhh.”

“Why don’t you—”

Somebody tells them to shut up.

Meanwhile, the kid’s been talking. Feng Xin and Mu Qing tune back in just in time to hear him say: “—for attending our play. Now, we present to you: the story of Nan Yang, Xuan Zhen, and the defeat of the vicious ghost that plagued this village two hundred and twenty five years ago.”

In an instant, all levity from their little shushing match is sucked from the air.

“Seriously?” Mu Qing hisses, whipping towards Feng Xin with betrayal in his eyes.

Ah, here we go. “Mu Qing—”

Mu Qing cuts him off, standing abruptly. “I swear, Feng Xin, if you brought me down here to watch myself get slandered by some mediocre acting troupe—”

Feng Xin grabs Mu Qing’s hand before he can storm away.

“Would you just! Shut the hell up and have some fucking faith in me for once.” He tugs Mu Qing back down into his seat—not exactly gentle, but not hard either. “Pay attention.”

It’s no small miracle that Mu Qing obeys. He’s seething with barely restrained fury and shooting occasional mutinous looks at Feng Xin, yeah, but he is paying attention. It’s obvious from the way his body goes taut like a bowstring when the actor playing himself bursts onto the stage while ‘Nan Yang’ is in peril—then slowly, very slowly, starts to relax as he hears the man speak.

“Vile creature!” the actor shouts, swinging his prop sword around in a way that is simultaneously very cool and very much not how you correctly swing a sword, “Unhand my rival this instant! Nan Yang is mine to defeat, and I will not allow you to kill him!” 

It’s not exactly what Mu Qing said at the time. In the moment, what came out of his mouth was a wild, guttural, “DON’T FUCKING TOUCH HIM,” that has been forever burned into Feng Xin’s memory ever since—but, y’know. It basically means the same thing.

From there, the play shifts.

The actors playing them come to a truce and agree to fight together, spouting off all this stuff about being ‘Partners in Protecting the South’ and how ‘no one is permitted to defeat them except each other.’ There’s intense fight choreography going on through the whole conversation, but neither actor ever misses a beat—which is shockingly true to life, actually.

It’s cheesy and a little embarrassing watching them bicker and wax poetic about each other in equal measures, but Mu Qing is transfixed. Feng Xin watches him watch the play, eyes wide with a kind of open wonder that hasn’t appeared on his face since he was a young servant suddenly thrust into the opulent world of the crown prince.

“They changed the story,” he says slowly, turning that look on Feng Xin. He squeezes Feng Xin’s hand—they never let go of each other’s hands—like he’s trying to prove he’s awake.

“I may have appeared in a few villagers’ dreams.” Feng Xin squeezes back and shrugs, unable to meet his eyes. “Y’know. Asked them to make some corrections.”

He says it like it was some casual thing that he did on a whim, when in reality it was anything but. It’s also not a recent development—Feng Xin quietly made the correction a few years ago, shortly after all that fuckery on Mount Tonglu.

It wasn’t easy. Mu Qing might have no problem popping up in his believers’ dreams to nitpick any little thing, but that’s really never been Feng Xin’s style. Even during the height of the whole Ju Yang debacle, he tried to avoid it. He never knows what to do, in the face of all that awe and devotion—what the hell is he supposed to say? How should he behave? What does he do with his hands?

Still, he swallowed any qualms or discomfort he might have with the whole process and did it, back before he even understood the true depth of his feelings for Mu Qing. All he knew at the time was that his heart twisted painfully in his chest every time he saw Mu Qing all bandaged up with his burns healing—burns he received while trying to protect everyone, fully expecting they wouldn’t protect him in return. The village’s warped myth never really sat right with Feng Xin, but suddenly it was intolerable. He couldn’t look him in the eyes knowing people were out there telling Mu Qing’s story wrong. He had to do something.

“Feng Xin,” Mu Qing starts, and he has never once said Feng Xin’s name like that, not in 800 years. Voice hushed and reverent, like the syllables are sacred in his mouth. “You did that for me?”

“I figured people ought to know what really happened.” Feng Xin finally forces himself to meet Mu Qing’s eyes. How can he not, when Mu Qing sounds like that? He gives his hand another squeeze. “People should know that you’re a good person.”

“Feng Xin,” Mu Qing says again in that same breathless tone, blinking rapidly, eyes suspiciously wet.

Feng Xin should tell him right now. He has to tell him now—with the overwhelming way he’s feeling, he’ll say it whether he wants to or not, the words are about to fall right out of him. He takes a deep breath, opens his mouth, and—

Someone sitting behind them hisses out a loud ‘SHHH!!!!’

Feng Xin almost goes ballistic. “THIS FUCKING PLAY IS ABOUT US,” he wants to scream. “WE’RE ALLOWED TO TALK DURING A PLAY ABOUT US!!!!”

He doesn’t, though. Mu Qing’s head is turned back towards the performance, ears red and eyes focused, and the mood is broken.

Might as well just watch.

__________

The play is pretty good.

The actor playing Feng Xin yells and waves his arms just a little too much, and it’s hard for anyone to quite capture Mu Qing’s cool, elegant strength, but hey—as impressions go, they’re not half-bad. The ghost’s actor does an evil laugh between basically every line they say, which is silly but definitely an improvement from the horrible, sickly wheezing sounds that the real one made. It’s all capped off with a inexplicable but very catchy musical number that Mu Qing makes a show of scoffing at, but Feng Xin knows he likes. By the end, he feels him tapping out the song’s rhythm with his thumb against Feng Xin’s own. (They still haven’t let go of each other’s hands.)

Overall: not wholly accurate, but pretty good.

More than anything else, the actors playing the two of them have an irresistible kind of chemistry that makes every moment they share onstage electric, like they’re truly thrilled to be up there performing together. Feng Xin can’t help but wonder if the two are actually best friends offstage—or maybe even lovers.

Either way, they’re fun to watch, even if it does ache a bit. Feng Xin tracks the way their touches linger, the way they can’t seem to take their eyes off each other, all that crackling intensity in every cun of space between them. Is that how he and Mu Qing act when they’re together? Does he look at Mu Qing the way that this actor looks at his counterpart? Is he really this obvious?

And perhaps most importantly: is Mu Qing so obvious in return?

The questions gnaw at him as they applaud and slowly make their way out of the audience after the performance ends, getting ready to leave the village (and the Mortal Realm itself).

Feng Xin’s palms feel cold without Mu Qing’s to warm them. They had to let go of each other’s hands to clap and neither of them makes a move to rejoin them, but as they walk, their hands brush just a little too frequently to be an accident. Or, well, it’s definitely not an accident on Feng Xin’s part. If Mu Qing is doing it on purpose, he’s doing a very good job of pretending he isn’t—keeping his eyes in front of him, idly mocking the play’s sillier moments in a way that tells Feng Xin he actually quite enjoyed it.

“I don’t think anyone in that cast has seen someone shoot an arrow in their entire lives,” he says, snickering to himself like the catty bitch that he is. Feng Xin is embarrassingly charmed. “The arm placement was entirely off. If you’re going to do a play about a god who’s known for archery skills, at least try to fake it well.”

“Oh, so you’re a big expert on archery now?” Feng Xin says, just to be contrary.

Mu Qing rolls his eyes. “I’ve been watching you fire a bow for hundreds of years, I think I know what proper form looks like.”

He says it so offhandedly, completely oblivious to the heat it brings to Feng Xin’s face. He is not, however, oblivious to the way that Feng Xin trips over his own feet at the compliment. Mu Qing looks like he’s gearing up to tease him about it when he catches sight of something else to torment Feng Xin with.

“Oh, look. There they are,” he says, pointing to the large wagon that the actors are currently loading all of their props and costumes into. His smirk is merciless and Feng Xin is unfortunately very into it. “You could give them lessons. Should I call them over?”

“Don’t you dare.”

“Surely the generous Nan Yang wouldn’t deny his people—”

“Fuck you. Fuck you. You’re a menace. Fuck you.”

“Don’t you at least want an autograph?” Mu Qing asks, tone entirely too innocent for the mischievous glee in his eyes. “Go and say hi. There, those are the actors that played—”

He points over to the pair, just in time to see ‘Xuan Zhen’ barrel into ‘Nan Yang’ and hug him tightly, nearly knocking the other actor over with the force of his embrace. Instead of falling, ‘Nan Yang’ uses his momentum to pick ‘Xuan Zhen’ up and spin him around, beaming all the while. If Feng Xin ever tried something like that with Mu Qing he’d probably end up maimed for his trouble, but ‘Xuan Zhen’ just lets out a delighted laugh, turning his head down to clumsily kiss ‘Nan Yang’s forehead, his temple, his cheek.

Feng Xin looks away before their lips meet.

“Us,” he says, suddenly hoarse, finishing Mu Qing’s thought.

For a moment, no one speaks or dares to look at each other. Feng Xin briefly and vividly imagines a sudden tidal wave sweeping through the village, killing him instantly.

He coughs. Mu Qing coughs. The tidal wave refuses to come.

“Should we—”

“Yes.”

Both resolutely refusing to make any kind of eye contact, Feng Xin and Mu Qing turn their backs on the acting troupe and start making their way away from the makeshift theater—much faster than before.

At least Feng Xin’s got an answer to his question.

Definitely lovers.

__________

The walk is quiet until they return to the outskirts of the village, back where they started. Bathed in moonlight and the dim glow of the festival behind them, they transform back into their true forms, certain that no one is around to see them.

They could just ascend right now, but for some reason, neither makes a move to. The two just stand there, stealing quick glances at each other, a soundless standoff as each waits for the other to do… something.  

Feng Xin knows what he’s waiting for—or rather, what he’s trying to build up the courage to do. Mu Qing, on the other hand, he isn’t so sure about.

In the end, though, it’s Mu Qing who breaks the silence.

“You know, the actors playing us were definitely—” he clears his throat, gesturing vaguely, “you know.”

In love, Feng Xin thinks.

“Fucking?” he says out loud.

Mu Qing’s eye roll is almost audible. “Not how I was going to phrase it,” he says, swatting at Feng Xin’s arm. “But yes. That.”

“You’re allowed to say fuck, Mu Qing.”

“I can say fuck! I can say fuck as much as I want!” He crosses his arms, fixing Feng Xin with a look that’s dangerously close to a pout. “You say it enough for the both of us.”

Feng Xin bursts into a fit of laughter, any residual embarrassment from the Actor Incident swiftly melting away. He can’t really argue with Mu Qing there, can he?

“Thank you. For coming with me today,” Feng Xin says, when he finally pulls himself together. He rubs the back of his neck, willing his face not to flush. “It, um. It would have been boring if I went alone.”

“You never thank me for anything.” Mu Qing’s lips twitch like he’s fighting off a smile. “I can’t believe you’ve finally learned some manners.”

“Hey, you’re the one who’s a rude little shit. I have perfect manners.”

That actually makes Mu Qing laugh, loud and inelegant and bright. Feng Xin has never been happier to be mocked.

Mu Qing leans in closer, grinning like he can’t help himself. “You’re a charmless brute.”

“I’m fucking delightful,” Feng Xin insists, before his hands find Mu Qing’s waist and he closes the distance between them.

Kissing Mu Qing is so easy.

Easy like firing an arrow—something Feng Xin was meant to do, something he could never get tired of, even if he’s done it countless times before. Easy like—like why the hell weren’t they doing this sooner? How on earth have they wasted so much time?

Can’t go back and change it now, Feng Xin supposes. And anyway, it’s hard to focus on lamenting lost time when Mu Qing is warm and solid in his arms, kissing him back like there’s nothing else he’d rather be doing. He curls his arms loosely around Feng Xin’s neck, letting out a pleased little hum that he’d probably vehemently deny ever making, if you asked him. Feng Xin holds him tighter in response, reveling in the soft press of their lips and the sweet smell of Mu Qing’s jasmine hair oil, the way they fit together like two halves of one whole.

When he finally pulls back, there’s still a smile on Mu Qing’s lips—but now it’s gone impossibly gentle, not a trace of mocking to be found. Feng Xin loves him so much he’s almost sick with it.

“How was that?” Feng Xin blurts, partly out of habit, partly because if he doesn’t say something, he’s going to do something crazy like ask Mu Qing to marry him or just kiss him again.

But also, he asks because he genuinely wants to know, perhaps more desperately than he’s ever wanted to know anything. Was that good? Did that make you happy? Do I make you happy?

Feng Xin watches the words make impact and knows instantly that he’s said the wrong thing.

The tender look drops from Mu Qing’s face, making way for something shocked, bordering on horror—before it all gets swallowed by the forced neutrality that Feng Xin has come to realize is usually just a poor disguise for hurt.

Then, he disentangles himself from Feng Xin and begins to walk away.

“I’m going back,” Mu Qing says.

Dread is an iron ball in Feng Xin’s stomach. “Back? Where?”

Mu Qing keeps walking. “The heavens. My palace. I’m going to bed.”

Feng Xin chases him like he always does—like he always has, with every person he’s ever loved. “You jackass, why the hell are you doing that?”

In lieu of answering, Mu Qing spins on his heel, eyes flashing with humiliated fury. “So this whole day—this was all just—just—” His expression crumples. He covers his face with his hands, fingers threading through the loose locks of hair framing his face and tugging them at the roots. “Fuck, I’m so stupid.”

Feng Xin frowns and reaches for Mu Qing’s hands, gently disentangling them from his hair so he can’t keep pulling at it. “What the fuck are you talking about? Was it—was it that bad?” He gives Mu Qing’s hands a little squeeze, voice going almost timid. “I can try again—”

“No,” Mu Qing hisses, wrenching himself out of Feng Xin’s grasp. “You win, okay? You don’t have to keep trying anymore.”

Feng Xin doesn’t feel like he’s won anything. It feels more like he’s lost a limb.

“Well, what if I want to keep trying?”

“Don’t. Don’t say that.”

“Say what? The truth?”

“It’s not the truth,” Mu Qing says, shaking his head. He’s shaking all over, actually, trembling like a leaf caught in the breeze. “You’re only doing this kissing thing so you can prove a point. Don’t lie to me and tell me you want me. You don’t even like me.”

Now Feng Xin is the one who wants to tear his hair out. He throws up his hands, shouting, “Of course I fucking do! Do you seriously think I’d spend all this time kissing someone I didn’t like?”

“I don’t know! I don’t know what you’d do!” Mu Qing fires back, the certainty in his tone knocking the fight right out of Feng Xin.

You can tell he really means it, and that’s what cleaves Feng Xin’s heart in two—that he can love Mu Qing so deeply and know him so long, and still be a mystery to him.

Even if Mu Qing doesn’t love him back, he doesn’t want them to doubt each other anymore.

“Why did you even suggest this in the first place?” Mu Qing asks. Even laced with wrath and desperation, Feng Xin can tell it’s a genuine question.

Well.

This really isn’t how Feng Xin wanted to say it, but he blew all his chances to do it properly, so this the what he gets. At least he doubts he can fuck things up any worse than he already has.

He takes a deep, shaky breath.

“Because I wanted to,” Feng Xin says.

It’s the first time he’s even admitted it out loud to himself—that it was all desire from the very beginning, not an ounce of altruism that started this whole silly thing.

“Mu Qing, I haven’t been kissing you to prove a point. Or to be noble, or because I feel bad for you—or any other half-baked reason you’ve cooked up in that twisted head of yours.” Feng Xin’s face feels like it might very well be on fire. Even so, he forces himself to keep talking. “I’ve been kissing you because I want to. Because—because I love you, and I want to make you happy.”

Mu Qing’s eyes are so wide that Feng Xin is momentarily worried that they might just pop out of his head. He doesn’t say anything.

Again, Feng Xin hopes for a tidal wave and again, it doesn’t come. He ignores the heat prickling in his eyes. “Listen, it’s fine if you don’t feel the same—”

“Are you kidding me?” Okay, looks like they’re shouting again. Mu Qing’s voice comes out raw and unsteady in a way it almost never is, the verbal equivalent of a porcelain plate shattering against a wall.  “You think—you’re saying you think I don’t—YOU—”

Mu Qing grips the front of Feng Xin’s robes, shaking him. Feng Xin flinches, bracing for impact—and is pleasantly surprised when Mu Qing doesn’t haul off and throttle him, instead taking a deep breath and gentling his hold without letting go.

“Feng Xin,” he starts, obviously trying very hard to keep his voice even, “they… they’ve all been good. The k-kisses, I mean. Not the first one, obviously, but the others were—” Mu Qing cuts himself off abruptly, covering his face with one hand while the other stays firmly clinging onto Feng Xin’s robes like a lifeline. Mouse-quiet, through gritted teeth, he admits, “I liked them. I only kept saying that I didn’t because I didn’t want you to stop kissing me, because I also—” he struggles, starting and stopping the word love about five times before finally settling on, “Feel that way. About you.”

It's like Mu Qing has knocked him upside the head with a rock all over again.

“Really?” Feng Xin somehow manages to say, instead of passing out on the spot.

Mu Qing finally drops his hand from his face, only so he can direct the full extent of his ire at Feng Xin. “I thought you knew! I thought we were on the same page for once, that we were playing a—a game, or something, but then suddenly you made it seem like you didn’t want to kiss me anymore—”

 “I do! Of course I do!” Feng Xin winces at the memory of what he said and how Mu Qing must have heard it. “I was being stupid.”

“YOU’RE ALWAYS STUPID!” Mu Qing shouts, before slamming his warm face into the junction where Feng Xin’s shoulder meets his neck. “I can’t stand you. I’ve l-loved you for—for forever, and now you suddenly decide you love me back? You’re such an idiot. I—I never thought you would—”

“Forever?” Feng Xin chokes out, too loud, wild around the edges. He pulls Mu Qing out from his hiding place to look him in the eyes. “You—what do you mean, forever?”

“What do you think forever means?”

Mu Qing looks deeply torn between being extremely embarrassed and murderously pissed off. As usual, pissed off seems to win, and he stares Feng Xin down with a look so intense that it’d be frightening if not for the pretty blush illuminating his whole face.

“Always,” he says. Practically spits the word out, like he hates it, which is how Feng Xin knows it’s true. “Since Xianle.”

Feng Xin tries to process this: that Mu Qing has loved him through all of it, all the arguments and the tears and the misunderstandings, all the many lifetimes they’ve muddled through together. The thought knocks the wind out of him, leaves him sprawling.

His whole life, he’s been desperate for someone to love him, to just fucking want him around—and someone did. Quietly. Stalwartly. Somebody loved him the entire time.

“Fuck,” he says, pulling Mu Qing against him in a crushing hug. Feng Xin buries his face into Mu Qing’s hair, trying very hard not to cry. “I kept you waiting.”

Mu Qing lets out a soft sigh, rubbing a soothing hand up and down Feng Xin’s back.

“I wasn’t waiting,” he says. Unlike the obvious lie from before their date, this time, Feng Xin knows he’s telling the truth. “Didn’t think I had anything to wait for.”

Feng Xin draws back, beaming at Mu Qing even though his eyes are watery. “You did. But you don’t have to wait anymore.”

He clasps Mu Qing’s hands in his own, bringing one up to his mouth with the intention of giving it a kiss. Feng Xin’s always wanted to do that. Always admired Mu Qing’s hands with their graceful long fingers, strong enough to hold a blade, careful enough to sew.

There’s so many places he’s been dying to kiss Mu Qing since their little arrangement started—his cheek, his forehead, that one little mole he has on the side of his neck. Everywhere. All places he never dared to go, for fear of wasting what little kisses he had. He’d burned with jealousy when they saw the actors together, longing for the simplicity of their affection, indulgent and unrestrained.

He can kiss Mu Qing like that now, can’t he?

Can’t he?

Feng Xin pauses before his lips can meet Mu Qing’s hand, just a hairsbreadth of space between them.

“Going back on your word so soon?” Mu Qing asks. The imperious tone of his voice is undercut by the vulnerable look on his face, as though he somehow still thinks Feng Xin might actually take back everything he’s said. “I thought you were done keeping me waiting.”

“I’ve already kissed you once today,” Feng Xin says, only half teasing. “Wasn’t sure if I was allowed.”

“Of course you’re—” Mu Qing starts to snap, then seems to realize what he’s saying. Significantly redder, he goes on, “You’re—a-always… allowed.”

Feng Xin finally presses his smiling lips against Mu Qing’s knuckles, reverently kissing each elegant knob of bone. “General Xuan Zhen is so gracious,” he murmurs, fully teasing now. He turns Mu Qing’s hand over so he can kiss the center of his open palm. “So kind.”

“Shut up,” Mu Qing huffs, not an ounce of venom in it. He tugs his hand away so he can cup Feng Xin’s face and drag him in close, fixing him with a look so hot it could turn an entire ocean to steam.

“I’m selfish,” he says, before kissing Feng Xin, hard and searing.

He isn’t, really. Mu Qing has never been as selfish as everyone has always seemed to think he is. But if he wants to be selfish about Feng Xin, well, that’s more than fine. Nothing wrong with taking good care of what’s yours.

“Good,” Feng Xin says, gasping for breath, grinning against Mu Qing’s mouth. “I like you that way.”