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Ah, poor Feng Xin, Xie Lian thought, holding back a laugh.
Fu Yao was in the midst of gleefully telling the tale of General Ju Yang. Xie Lian knew he shouldn’t listen so eagerly — not if he wanted Feng Xin to retain any of his former dignity. He hoped his efforts to keep his features schooled would help save his former friend some face. After all, he deeply understood the mortification that came with a series of misfortunes such as this.
He also knew Feng Xin (even at over 800 years old) had probably never dealt with this level of humiliation before. He was woefully unprepared for everyone laughing behind his back, let alone for decades. That would be enough to hurt even a martial god’s ego.
At least when people laughed at Xie Lian, they did so right to his face!
Perhaps that was a sign he should show his amusement upfront and honest, but the Feng Xin he knew back in Xianle would never be able to handle it. He could imagine him running up to the top of Mt Taicang for the sole purpose of shouting all manner of curses at the sun.
So, no, he would simply laugh in private later.
Which turned out to be a rather difficult promise to keep as Fu Yao abruptly began to recite lewd poetry about Feng Xin’s Tremendous Masculinity. Xie Lian’s hand flew to his mouth, attempting to hide his amusement from General Nan Yang’s statue. He could do nothing to hide it from Nan Feng, however, who continued to grow redder in the face with every line.
“How dignified of you!” Nan Feng roared, outraged. “Is that really where you’re going to leave it!?”
Fu Yao smirked, inspecting his nails. “I think it’s a perfect ending.”
Xie Lian knew he shouldn’t encourage him, and yet…
“Is there more?”
“Of course there’s more,” Nan Feng snapped, then seemingly remembered himself and cleared his throat. “How else would my general’s name have changed from… that to what it is now?”
“Ah,” Xie Lian said. “That’s true.”
“That,” Fu Yao snickered. “Go on, say it. It’s part of your general’s history. Why hide from it? The wonderfully endowed General Ju Yang.” He punctuated each syllable through a wide-toothed grin.
“Indecent!”
Sensing that the situation could easily dissolve once more, Xie Lian smothered his delight and attempted to intercept, “If the story is not worthy of being told, then we could perhaps go over the scroll once more—”
Fu Yao was uninterested in going over the mission information earlier, but the Palace of Ling Wen had worked so diligently on it. Xie Lian didn’t want all of their hard work to go to waste. But even Nan Feng, who had seemed a bit more invested before, waved him off. “No, I want to tell it.”
Xie Lian’s hand paused in his sleeve, his fist wrapped around the scroll. “You do?”
Fu Yao crossed his arms over his chest and rolled his eyes so dramatically, Xie Lian wondered if it hurt. He almost opened his mouth to ask but hesitated when he noticed the mood in the Temple of Nan Yang had taken a turn. His eyes slid from one junior official to the next, noticing the tension he’d been reading since he encountered them in the tea shop seemed softer somehow (despite their mutual mockery).
“Well,” Fu Yao said, waving his hand toward Nan Feng, “Go on.”
“You aren’t going to stop me?” he asked, sounding surprised.
“Why would I?” Fu Yao scoffed. “I— My General doesn’t lose any face.”
Nan Feng grinned suddenly, and Xie Lian stared. He had not realized the junior official’s face could even make that expression; it had appeared permanently stuck in a scowl all day long. “Are you sure about that?”
Fu Yao shot him a suspicious look. “Why wouldn’t I be? Unless you plan on telling it wrong.”
“I won’t tell it wrong, but you always seem to forget the more embarrassing parts,” Nan Feng accused.
“If he says anything embarrassing, he’s lying,” Fu Yao declared. “My general has only ever conducted himself with grace and decorum.”
Xie Lian blinked. He had listened to the story of Feng Xin’s misfortune regarding his divine title with pity and concern but nothing remotely resembling surprise. This sort of humiliating mixup was exactly the type of situation Xie Lian could imagine Feng Xin finding himself in. However, the idea that his former hardworking, talented, but thin-skinned attendant Mu Qing had anything to do with such a truly mortifying tale was shocking.
Well, not completely shocking.
He could easily imagine Mu Qing standing far away from the disaster and laughing at Feng Xin’s misery. However, playing an active role? That was the unexpected part.
“Sure, grace and decorum,” Nan Feng repeated. “He’s the one who released that horrendous poem!”
“Mu Qing did?” Xie Lian asked, his mouth betraying him. He quickly sealed his lips after, knowing he shouldn’t appear too interested or overeager to hear anything about either Southern General, especially not with their sordid histories. Nevertheless, his interest piqued without his consent, and he greedily awaited an explanation of what happened, despite feeling no small amount of dread.
Back in Xianle, Mu Qing and Feng Xin hadn’t exactly gotten along. No matter how many times Xie Lian intervened, forcing them to recite idioms, they seemed destined to hate one another. He could feel a headache coming on from just imagining the amount of damage they might have caused in the last 800 years. A pang of nostalgia hit him right in the chest, and he couldn’t help but wonder if he had been around, would the three of them have still been friends…?
No — that was pointless speculation.
Fu Yao glanced toward him with a complicated expression, and Xie Lian quickly shot out a wave of the hand to dismiss the question. The last thing he needed was the junior official growing offended by his casual use of his general’s birth name. Even if the offense had been completely accidental. Though he doubted Fu Yao believed him based on the small sneer crossing his face. Xie Lian really hoped he wasn’t about to contact General Xuan Zhen about the slight; he could only imagine how that interaction would go.
“He did not,” Fu Yao clarified, looking away. “Someone else penned the poem. My general just thought it was amusing, so he shared it with his followers.”
“All of his followers,” Nan Feng growled.
Fu Yao shrugged. “Maybe if your general had paid more attention, none of this would have happened!”
“My general is fine with the way everything turned out!” Nan Feng snapped.
The moment those words left Nan Feng’s lips, Xie Lian couldn’t help himself. He sat up straighter, leaning forward. “He is?” he questioned. “But what about…? Ah, how to say this…”
“If you’re about to say something inappropriate, don’t say it at all!” Nan Feng roared.
Fu Yao had none of the same restraint. He snickered into his fist, his entire body shaking with the movement. His eyes twinkled with mischief as he looked up through his curtain of bangs. “You want to know where his fear of breasts went, right?”
That was exactly what Xie Lian was wondering, but now that the words had been uttered, he realized how embarrassing they were given they were sitting at the base of General Nan Yang’s statue. It seemed almost sacrilege to bring up the god’s greatest fear in his own temple.
But it appeared Xie Lian didn’t need to confirm his confusion for Fu Yao to eagerly fill him in, “Nowhere! It’s still very much there. His greatest fear: women’s anatomy.”
Nan Feng’s face colored five different shades of pale and purple. “SHUT UP!”
Fu Yao cackled, leaning back and kicking his feet joyfully. It brought a small smile to Xie Lian’s face as a blurry memory replaced this one: a lone attendant allowing himself to relax for a single incense stick while in the presence of his friends. The memory came and went, and Xie Lian did nothing to hold onto it. After all, what good would that do? By the time he came back to himself, Nan Feng had calmed down enough to take over the story.
“So. The poem.” Nan Feng cleared his throat awkwardly. “My general wanted to track down who wrote it.”
“Wasn’t my general,” Fu Yao interrupted.
“No, it wasn’t,” Nan Feng conceded, “but his investigation still led him to the steps of the Palace of Xuan Zhen, where the junior officials had been tasked with the job of spreading the poem far and wide.”
“Only when they had free time,” Fu Yao argued.
Xie Lian looked up at the hideous statue of General Nan Yang once more. He wasn’t sure if he felt sympathy or pity for his former friend, but he suddenly had the urge to light a few incense sticks in tribute regardless. However, as he rummaged, he found his sleeves woefully empty of even the smallest donation.
“I see.” He rubbed his forehead as he huffed out a small embarrassed laugh before looking at Fu Yao. “And you? Were you part of the Palace of Xuan Zhen when this was going on?”
“Me?” Fu Yao blinked. “I— Yes, of course I was, not that any of it was my fault.”
He crossed his arms in defiance as Nan Feng let out a bark of a laugh in disbelief. “Not your fault? That’s rich!”
Fu Yao rolled his eyes. “The poem would’ve spread regardless. I just helped it along.”
“So, who wrote it?” Xie Lian asked.
“Some princess.” Fu Yao shrugged. “A descendent of the brainless king who didn’t proofread his own work. She was married off to some noble who clearly didn’t know what he was doing and wanted a way to get General Ju Yang’s attention to improve her bedroom activities. She wrote the poem and spread rumors far and wide of the godly whore who would visit your bed if you prayed hard enough.”
Purple veins appeared on Nan Feng’s forehead as his shoulders shook with anger. “Fu Yao…!”
Fu Yao blinked innocently. “Am I saying anything wrong?”
“That’s not—!” Nan Feng took a steadying breath. “Whatever. Tell your salacious stories. After my general confronted General Xuan Zhen, a fight broke out, and it’s said it destroyed nearly half of Heaven.”
Xie Lian’s eyes widened. “Were they punished?”
“Of course not.” Fu Yao scoffed. “Destroying half of Heaven is practically expected of those two.” He paused. “Or, well, it used to be. Besides, I doubt it was half of Heaven at that time. Only a few palaces collapsed.”
“Still cost a lot of merits,” Nan Feng grumbled. “We had to take on so many extra missions outside of our territory…”
Fu Yao seemed wholly unconcerned as he inspected his nails once more. “It wasn’t so bad.”
Xie Lian was under the impression that whatever happened landed heavily on Nan Feng’s shoulders. He hoped Feng Xin wasn’t overworking him, but that wasn’t really any of his business. Still, he smiled sympathetically, reaching over to pat him on the knee. Nan Feng jerked his head in his direction, looking surprised, and Xie Lian laughed awkwardly as he retracted his hand.
“No, no, it wasn’t,” Nan Feng said, suddenly changing his tune. Xie Lian blinked at the abrupt attitude shift. “Really, Your Highness, you needn’t worry. Things ended well. See, after the fight, our generals were forced to go on many missions together to pay back the damage, and so they were forced to finally talk. General Xuan Zhen had spread the poem because of his own obsession with my general’s body.”
Fu Yao whipped his head around, glaring daggers. “That’s not true!”
Nan Feng grinned. “Very true. He’d been obsessed with his body since they were young.”
“I—! You—!”
“Don’t deny it. After all, when the truth came out, your general was the one to make the first move.”
Nan Feng spoke in a way that sounded almost… affectionate to Xie Lian’s ears. He wondered if he should ask more questions, but he wasn’t sure if he wanted to know more. Of course, at this point, he had a feeling it didn’t really matter what he wanted. Nan Feng and Fu Yao were deep in their story, engrossed in sharing barbs back and forth. One could almost call it flirting, not that Xie Lian knew anything about that.
“So, what if he was?” Fu Yao shot back, lifting his chin defiantly. “Your general made so many stupid comments and jabs, what else was he supposed to do? He called him a coward!”
“And he was proven wrong.”
Nan Feng sounded nonchalant as he made the statement so callously. Xie Lian wondered what Feng Xin would think if he knew. Most Heavenly Officials had egos far too large to handle that type of humiliation. Then again, it wasn’t like Xie Lian really knew what Feng Xin was like as a god. He wondered if Nan Feng was a reflection of that.
“Of course he was. Per usual. And the story changed after that,” Fu Yao said, sounding almost proud. “General Xuan Zhen tamed Tremendous Masculinity at last!”
Nan Feng finally looked over at Xie Lian again. “That’s what the mortals call the story of how the two generals wed.”
Xie Lian, who spied a steamed bun on the offering table, took several moments to react. He knew it must have come across quite disingenuous when he startled almost two minutes after the end of Nan Feng’s story, but the shock was genuine as he turned toward the junior official, expecting to hear a punchline. Instead, he found two faces staring at him with indiscernible expressions.
“Married?” he repeated. “Feng Xin and Mu Qing? Are you sure we’re talking about the same gods?”
Fu Yao rolled his eyes for the third time in one conversation, and Xie Lian felt that was a bit too much. Surely there needed to be a limit on the number of eyerolls one was allowed during a single topic. Under his breath, Xie Lian barely caught him muttering, “Of course he wouldn’t care…” but he couldn’t fully wrap his mind around the meaning.
“The same gods,” Nan Feng answered with a bit more grace, though even his response seemed strained. “Our generals married on Mt Taicang a hundred years ago tomorrow.”
Xie Lian felt uncharacteristically flustered, struggling to locate his voice. “I… A hundred years ago? Is this a joke?”
After all, he was still the Laughingstock, and people often ridiculed him. Though a tiny part of him ached at the idea of Feng Xin and Mu Qing joining forces for the sole purpose of making a mockery of him, he knew it wasn’t an impossibility. Then again, if Nan Feng and Fu Yao were here without their generals’ permission, perhaps it was simply a case of proud junior officials trying to take revenge for their gods.
“Not a joke, Your Highness,” Nan Feng said.
“Why would we joke about something like this?” Fu Yao added.
Oh, only about a million different reasons, Xie Lian thought, but he kept the errant speculation to himself. The two junior officials sounded sincere. He was probably walking right into a prank, but it wasn’t like he hadn’t been through worse. Deciding he could handle a little humiliation if it brought up their spirits, he placed on a polite smile and nodded.
“What a story.”
Fu Yao’s face dropped. He clicked his tongue and climbed to his feet.
Nan Feng looked alarmed. “Where are you going?”
“Your story bombed,” Fu Yao announced as he began to walk a lap around the perimeter of the temple. “Your general really has no pride in his temples, does he? Everything is out of order, dirty, the ceiling is cracked—”
Nan Feng’s eyebrow twitched. “Why are you going on about the temple!?”
“Ah, here it is,” Fu Yao said, ignoring Nan Feng’s question. “If you still doubt us, you can find the proof here.”
Realizing Fu Yao was addressing him, Xie Lian scrambled to his feet to follow. Fu Yao stood in front of one of the mural-covered walls. Years of neglect had allowed the mural to dull with time, and the paint sorely needed a touch-up. However, now that Xie Lian stood in front of it, and with the aid of Fu Yao’s palm flame, he could clearly see a scene forming. Similar to the statues, the image was distorted by mediocre artistry, and Xie Lian had to take a few steps back in an attempt to make sense of the muted colors.
Two figures in red stood atop a green hill surrounded by trees. The figures held hands, leaving their free hand to (symbolically) clutch their bow and saber.
Xie Lian’s lips parted in surprise. Though the painting was crude, he could instantly tell what it depicted. Some artisan must have received the knowledge regarding the marriage between the two southern generals and deemed it important enough in General Nan Yang’s mythos to add onto the walls of this temple. Multiple temples, probably, if Fu Yao’s certainty of its existence before was any indication.
“Oh.”
Fu Yao’s lip curled. “Too ugly.”
“Shut up!” Nan Feng barked. “It’s not your temple. Leave it be.”
Fu Yao looked to Xie Lian. “So, what do you think, Your Highness? Are we still lying?”
Xie Lian bowed his head. “No. You’re not.” He smiled sadly down at his hands. “Are they… happy?”
Startled, Fu Yao seemed to lose his ability to speak.
“Yeah,” Nan Feng said lowly, “yeah, they fucking are.”
For years, Xie Lian had listened to the two men that would one day become the Martial Gods of the South argue and fight in ways that challenged his sanity. He watched them wield words like weapons, always one step away from violence. And from the sounds of it, that line was crossed (multiple times) once he was no longer around to hold them back. Now, however, all of that was behind them.
Xie Lian’s chest ached in mourning; it was a feeling he knew all too well. The knowledge he could have mended their broken relationship ages ago hung heavy on his heart. There was another feeling too — warmth and happiness — contradictory and far more important. A feeling he hadn’t felt in far too long. It brought unexpected tears to his eyes.
Xie Lian looked up with a determined smile. “Good. That’s all that matters.” He glanced toward the offering table, his mouth watering as he spied the steamed bun once more. His fingers itched as he reached for it. “Do you think your general would mind if I—?”
Nan Feng’s face blanched. “Don’t eat that! It’s dirty!”
Fu Yao looked disgusted. “You don’t know where that’s been!”
“Ahaha… you’re right.” Xie Lian reluctantly dropped his hand. “It was worth a shot.”
—
Later that night, still disguised as Nan Feng, Feng Xin left His Highness sleeping in the temple to suss out where Mu Qing had disappeared off to. He wasn’t surprised when he found his husband sitting on the roof of the temple. His eyebrow twitched in annoyance and affection, a strange dichotomy he’d grown very used to. Using his martial strength, Feng Xin leapt up to join him.
Mu Qing still wore Fu Yao’s skin, and he looked especially ethereal under the moonlight. Though his hair was lighter in this form, it still caught the moon’s rays equally as elegantly. The paint around his eyes glimmered, and Feng Xin wondered if he’d done something special to it. Mu Qing did not even acknowledge his presence as Feng Xin sat next to him.
“What are you thinking about?” Feng Xin asked.
“What His Highness said,” Mu Qing answered in a quiet mumble.
“About what?”
“If we were happy.”
Feng Xin’s heart jumped in his chest. A frown touched his lips. “We are,” he said, a bit harsher than he meant. “Aren’t we?”
Mu Qing rolled his eyes. “Of course we are, you dumb bastard. Just wondering… if His Highness actually wanted to know if we are or if he just asked to be nice.”
“Does it matter?” Feng Xin grunted. “We are. His Highness is back. And we’ll protect him like we always did before.”
“Easy for you to say,” Mu Qing grumbled.
Feng Xin caught him by the chin before he could turn away. “Hey, none of that. Whatever the fuck happens going forward, we’ll figure it out together, alright?”
He pressed a kiss to his lips, and Mu Qing melted against him. Only then did he release him. Mu Qing sighed as he turned his gaze back to the moon. Feng Xin stayed close, an arm wrapped securely around his body.
“It’s probably after midnight,” Mu Qing pointed out in a whisper as he intertwined their fingers. “Happy anniversary, a-Xin.”
Feng Xin grinned into his hair. “Happy anniversary.”