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Mu Qing does not believe he will ever have a soulmate.

There is a way to find out, of course—a soulmate is someone who one must have a deep love for, out of the bottom of their heart, and the person they choose will leave small marks on skin with a gentle, tender touch.

Mu Qing, of course, does not have marks. There is nobody who will touch him lovingly, affectionately. Nobody would even look at him the way Xie Lian is looked at, like he is the treasure of the nation, like he is something to be sculpted and painted with the utmost reverence. Nobody will call his name like the people who keep their heads down and whisper, as if in a trance, “ Dianxia .”

No. Mu Qing is dirty, and he is hated, and he is nothing more than a peasant to those around him. He keeps his eyes on the floor, his hands on his broomstick, and stays out of the path for others to cross first.

Indeed. He cannot have a soulmate. He will not.

He is laying in the fields.

It is a rare moment of peace, of contentment. It is one of the days he does not get to see often, the type of day when Xie Lian has been all attended to, when his chores have all been done for the day, when the pouch of coins in his palm finally feels a bit heavier than the ache in his heart. This peace will wash away come morning, he knows, when he will have to wake up and attend to his Dianxia’s side, folding his clothes and fixing his meals, but for now—this is enough. Mu Qing makes peace with what he has.

He closes his eyes, fingers twisting into the small flowers by his arms, by his thighs. He fights the urge to pull them out of the bed they lay in and scatter them to the wind, just to watch them fly away. Mu Qing inhales. Exhales. He allows himself just this moment, if only this one, to feel like the only person on this earth. Just him, the flower bed, and the stars coming out from hiding. Mu Qing allows himself to feel seventeen, just this once.

(Mu Qing allows himself to live .)

He draws in a staggering breath. One heartbeat, two, three. He closes his eyes, strangely wet, and lays his head down amidst the flowers. The look of happiness on his face is so prominent, one could almost think he was welcoming death.

And yet, it is not a full minute before the moment shatters in time, another body stumbling aimlessly into the field.

Mu Qing immediately stiffens, resting his hand on a small stick he had brought along for self-defense. He shoves that budding peace down, raises his guard in time with the stick at his side, and—

“Hey, hey! It’s just me,” Feng Xin protests, raising his arms up in surrender.

(As if Feng Xin could be just anything. Feng Xin is more accurately described as everything , the rolling thunderclouds that fill the whole sky on a rainy day, the blanket of sunrise that drapes over the earth, the all-consuming fires that kiss the roots of the forest, and oh . Mu Qing yearns so desperately for the heat of it that his heart aches fiercely in his chest.)

“Oh, it’s just you,” he echoes, tucking his branch back into his side. His weapon goes down, his guard stays raised. He cannot be trusted around Feng Xin. “What do you want?”

He snorts, shaking his head. “Get over yourself. Not everything revolves around you.” He shrugs, and Mu Qing is hit with the desire to draw a real saber. Feng Xin’s come unarmed, save for the poorly hidden kitchen knife tucked in his robes, and now that he’s lost the element of surprise, he could take him down as easily as drawing a breath. Mu Qing’s hand twitches, once, twice, before he tucks it behind his back.

“I just needed fresh air,” Feng Xin says, and there it is again, that word just . He can read him as easily as he can recite the words to his most beloved poem, and notes the dark circles under his eyes, the way his normally rigid posture seems to sag under the weight of the world, the way he hasn’t put any care into hashing out insults that will sting and scratch and bleed .

(These are the type of words that keep Mu Qing awake at night, shaking with indescribable rage , fury cutting through him like a blade of ice, grief splashing over him like a bucket of freezing river water. I want to be your friend , he thinks, and the thought is so pathetic and miserable that he shoves it down immediately, gritting his teeth and blinking back the hot tears that gather in his eyes.

He does not show Feng Xin this weakness. If anything, he does not show Feng Xin weakness at all.)

“Fresh air,” Mu Qing drawls, watching warily as he takes one step forward to sit by his feet in the flower bed. The hairs on the back of his neck rise, and he desperately tries to calm his thundering pulse. “Did Dianxia send you out? Because he didn’t want you anymore?”

“Shut up,” he says immediately, but his posture is still relaxed, like the calm waters of a still river. His voice lacks the usual venom, and he does not snap back, either. Mu Qing does not know how to approach him. Does not know if he will.

It turns out he doesn’t have to make that decision for himself, as Feng Xin notices his lengthy silence. “Don’t get—don’t get weird because I’m here,” he grumbles, cracking an eye open to look at him. The corners of his lips tug down into a subtle frown, seen more in the crease between his eyebrows. He wants to place his fingers on his forehead and smooth it out, and immediately admonishes himself for the thought. Mu Qing forces himself to sit down, so he can occupy himself with plucking the flowers. He needs to busy himself with something , or else he’s going to do something stupid, something he’ll regret.

“Not everything is about you,” Mu Qing replies in turn, and Feng Xin snorts and turns his head fully. Now they’re face-to-face, and he still has his guard up, tall and unwavering, but why does it feel like the opposite? Why does it feel like he is stripped bare, when—

“This is the most civil we’ve been to each other,” Feng Xin murmurs. He tucks a loose strand of hair behind his ear, and Mu Qing’s eyes chase the movement desperately, watches Feng Xin’s eyes glitter with something a little too knowing for his own good.

“Don’t get fucking used to it,” Mu Qing snaps, tossing his hair over his shoulder. He isn’t blind to the way that Feng Xin’s eyes also follow, lingering on the exposed skin of his neck. Theoretically, if he wanted to, he could bring the kitchen knife down while Mu Qing is distracted with the flowers, and for all the weakness of the dull blade, Feng Xin makes it up with his own strength. He could bring the blade down, and take pleasure in the way his eyes would widen in surprise and bitter acceptance, and watch as his blood painted the vast field of pastel a sickening crimson.

Mu Qing hides his words in the way he keeps his hair tucked to one side, tucks them away in the fact that there is nothing guarding his nape but soft baby hairs, a symbol of silent weakness, given—however minute the vulnerability may be.

I trust you , Mu Qing says, in the softening of his eyes, the hand drifting away from his saber. I trust you .

(Feng Xin misses this cue, as he misses all the others, and all the ones Mu Qing will ever send. Mu Qing scoffs privately to himself, ignoring the words that crawl up his throat and threaten to spill past his lips.)

He shrugs, motioning for them to lay in the grass together—and, well. They may be civil with each other when Xie Lian deems it necessary, but they are never outright kind . Mu Qing wonders, in his dazed state, if this is kindness. Reaching out with the simple becoming of a hand, threatening to crumble the walls he has so carefully built to shutter people out. Is this kindness, or is this something different? Something to lure Mu Qing in, to trap him when his shackles have lowered?

He carefully places his head in the grass, turning slightly so that he isn’t outright facing the other. Feng Xin turns the opposite way after Mu Qing does, and he quietly turns his head to inspect his accidental cues, unintentionally given away by his posture and facial expression.

(Feng Xin is always honest to a fault. Mu Qing tucks his honesty deep into his heart, somewhere where it will not be pounced upon and torn to shreds.)

His expression is open, vacant. He belatedly realizes it as peace, eyes trailing over the curve of his nose, the pink of his lips, parted just so that Mu Qing can catch a glimpse of slightly crooked teeth, and he is so fond , so fond he feels weighed down by the force of it.

Feng Xin’s bangs are unkempt, swept messily across his forehead, and his bun is half-undone, loose handfuls of hair pooling around his collarbone. His hair is shoulder-length. Mu Qing ponders who has been cutting it, turns the thought over in his head before letting it flee. He glances at the light dusting of freckles across his cheekbones, trailing to meet at the bridge of his nose. The spring heat must’ve come early, then. He turns away quietly, lest Feng Xin will catch him looking.

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees his lips twitch into a half-smile, and he knows he’s been caught. He swallows, sure that the embarrassed flush will be creeping up his neck by now, ringing his ears a fierce red. Feng Xin knows, and Mu Qing’s almost sure he knows that he knows, but he gracefully doesn’t say anything about it. He hides his own private smile in his elbow, disguised as a quiet cough.

Civil, huh ?

Mu Qing can feel himself being inspected in turn, can feel the eyes sweeping across his figure, his face. He can hear his soft, light breaths in the quiet, the way he quietly shifts as though not to disturb his quiet. He opens his eyes too soon, while Feng Xin is still sweeping his eyes across the bridge of his nose. He looks up, and his eyes are golden, golden like the sunrise, golden like the most precious of coins, golden like flying sparks, and Mu Qing is hit with a wave of violent desire .

“Oh,” Feng Xin says quietly, voice barely a whisper. His breath fans across Mu Qing’s cheeks, watching them turn a faint pink.

Mu Qing feels breathless, the way he does when they spar. This is sparring, in its own way—open looks made to disarm, soft breaths clashing against each other like the tide, like steel. This is fighting , he tells himself, when Feng Xin stares at him, eyes lingering a little longer on his cupid’s bow than necessary. This is fighting .

This fighting feels like uncharted waters, like an endless sea of golden and silver, creeping somewhere dangerously close to the edge, and he looks over and sees the bottom, and he is scared, he is scared , and he wants nothing more than to stand up and run and leave the falling blossoms, the pulled weeds, the night stars and Feng Xin behind, sitting in the stillness of the diminishing golden light.

Feng Xin must sense the fear in his eyes, must think him alike to panicked prey, and reaches out, tentatively. “Hey,” he says, softly, letting his thumb brush over the bare side of Mu Qing’s bicep. “Are…are you alright?”

Mu Qing’s arm burns .

The heat reaches under his skin, traveling, searching for the most fragile parts of his core with outstretched fingers, closing its fingers around his lungs and squeezing, knocking the air out of him, pressing so insistently that he becomes dizzy with it.

And it hurts, it hurts like nothing he’s ever experienced before, but it hurts in the best way possible. It hurts in the way that he flushes immediately, like he’s lost a spar, the way he feels as light as a leaf fluttering in the wind. It burns, it burns everywhere, it burns in his gut, his heart.

Mu Qing is scared. He’s scared .

“ Get your hand off me ,” Mu Qing growls. Feng Xin pulls off, but Mu Qing still feels his touch, and his heart still feels like it’s closing in on itself, because he knows , he knows . “Get away from me, you scum , you pitiful dog , who gave you the right to touch me—”

“You are not Dianxia,” Feng Xin snaps right back, fury dancing like a wildfire in his gaze, and Mu Qing wants, he wants, he wants . “Do you think you are as holy as him? Do you think that you are nobility ? Do you think you are as important as the Crown Prince himself? Do you think someone like you would please the gods, rather than disappoint them?”

“Shut up!” Mu Qing yells, standing and turning quickly so that Feng Xin doesn’t see the scar the burn has left. Doesn’t see what he himself has so clearly seen, has felt branded on him like a mark. He wonders if Feng Xin would have felt it too. If he had given in, made a grave mistake, and lightly brushed his fingertips across the freckles of his cheeks, would there have been…?

Mu Qing pulls his sleeve down, over the soulmate mark, and flees.

(Away from his gaze, away from his golden eyes, away from the unspoken apology, away from Feng Xin .)

He hides it through the ascension of his Dianxia. He hides it through the fall of Xianle, hides it through the time when he leaves, hides it through his mother’s death, hides it when he cuts all his ties, hides it when he rises to be known as an esteemed martial god in the Heavenly Realm.

Hides it all throughout Feng Xin’s stares, poisoned with hatred, tainted with grief left to fester for so long it had soured and turned bitter. Mu Qing hides it, and knows that he will never get another mark, knows that he will never be touched with love again. Knows that he will never be chosen by the one he chose.

He hides his soulmate mark from everyone.

Mu Qing hides his soulmate mark for eight centuries.

(Mu Qing hides from himself.)

The centuries pass. There is a confession that is made. There is an apology.

Of course, there are still hundreds of years of misunderstandings. Of anger, and of anguish. There is only so much the three of them can sweep under the rug, and can put a pin in for a later notice. There is so much to get through, so much to apologize for, so very much to talk about. There are still things they are angry about, still more things to sort out.

But Xie Lian is forgiving, and Feng Xin is…reluctantly so. Mu Qing fears that this hastily made truce between the three of them is temporary, that it’s ready to snap at any time, that the glass is going to tip off the edge and shatter. But Xie Lian seems determined to make this time the one that works , and, well. If Mu Qing shares that hope alongside the three of them, then that’s his business, and his only.

It also comes to his attention that since the incident on the bridge, things have gotten…better. Feng Xin is less sharp, (though not dull, for he could never be) kinder, and has seemingly obtained an infinite patience for all of Mu Qing’s harsh words, honesty still hidden by a layer of snappy comments and infinite sarcasm. He is silently grateful for it, though he will never tell him that, lest that oaf goad about it for the rest of eternity.

Still.

Feng Xin smiles at him now, when they cross paths. He’s less rash, less careless when they spar. He actively seeks Mu Qing in their private communication array, if only to make snide comments about some other god crossing his path. Mu Qing allows him, laughing along with him, and he believes that maybe, just maybe , Xie Lian was right. That maybe, this will be the one that lasts.

But there is doubt, hidden in the raise of his chin, hidden in the way he rolls his eyes. There is doubt, in the way that he ghosts the pads of his fingertips over his bicep, just above his wrist. In the way that he lets his hands linger too long at the sides of his legs. Mu Qing keeps his outer robes on at all times, keeps himself in the presence of others only as long as is necessary, because if he stays a moment too long, they will know .

And if that isn’t Mu Qing’s greatest fear—the fear of others knowing, seeing too much—then what could be?

( Feng Xin , Mu Qing thinks hazily, as a wide hand closes around his wrist. Feng Xin, that fucking idiot, I’m going to kill him .

He opens his eyes, tears clumping together from the heat of the lava and the truth of his confession, and he looks up.

It’s Feng Xin, of course it is. His other hand is clinging desperately on to Ruoye, waiting for them to get hauled out of the pit. His face is turned fully away from Xie Lian, wide eyes glued desperately to Mu Qing’s broken figure. The sparks flicker and emphasize the dazzling golden in his eyes, like the fierce depths of a glowing fire.

Mu Qing, Mu Qing , he sees in his eyes, that desperate, firm, idiotic conviction. I will not let you die .

He’s certain his wrist isn’t burning from the lava.

And when they are hauled out of the pit, Mu Qing clinging to Feng Xin’s back, feeling as though he’s been roasted slowly over a campfire, his hands come to hold his legs firmly in place. He feels the burning, feels the heat coiling all over his body, but his injuries make him weak, and so he stays like that, silently thanking the thin veil of his robes.

He pretends that they don’t exist, the new marks, because they are odd and impractical and so irrevocably wrong , and he hates them, resents them because of the reminder they serve him.

He remembers his frantic heartbeat thudding in time with Feng Xin’s—one from panic, one from proximity—and he allows himself to think, foolishly, that where his hands had rested on Feng Xin’s shoulders, there will be two twin marks.

It could never happen. He berates himself for the very thought, because he will never be chosen.)

“There’s a ghost,” Xie Lian says simply, and if Mu Qing hadn’t once made an oath to follow this man to the ends of the world, he would reach across the table and strangle him. “I wish you two to take care of it.”

“Why,” he says, plaintively. Feng Xin clubs him over the head for it. He hisses, swatting at his partner in protest. “What? It’s true! Why couldn’t you send your…ghost husband to take care of things?”

“Yes, Dianxia,” Feng Xin says, and the fact that they’re agreeing on something for once makes Mu Qing lift an eyebrow. “Send Hua Chengzhu to do it. I’m very busy with paperwork.”

He laughs nervously, picking at his fingers. Mu Qing wants to reach out and still his hands, but Hua Cheng would slice his hand off for touching Dianxia, so he refrains. “Ah, San Lang and I were hoping to have a day of rest. I hope you two don’t mind.”

He almost wants to slam a fist into the table, because of course he minds , but the way Xie Lian claps his hands together in apology allows guilt to settle in his chest. “I do apologize. I know you two have been busy ever since the…” he cuts himself off with a cough. “ Ahem . In any case, you two were my first choice.”

“Why not send another god?” Feng Xin protests, and he sounds so akin to a whining dog that Mu Qing wants to laugh. “Why not Pei Ming, or—”

“General Ming Guang is busy meddling in affairs that he needn’t meddle in,” Mu Qing interrupts, turning to Xie Lian. “Am I correct?”

“You know how he is,” Xie Lian says weakly. “And it’s a Wrath. I couldn’t ask for one god out there, and I doubt either of you would like to be partnered with Pei Ming—”

A shudder goes down his spine at the very thought. In the mortal realm, accompanied by Pei fucking Ming , who has the dishonor of being perhaps the most annoying, nosy god he’s ever had the misfortune of meeting. A shadow crosses Feng Xin’s face at the notion, too, and while he isn’t as uncomfortable with the idea as Mu Qing is, Pei Ming arguably has too much dirt on him to make it a peaceful trip.

“Alright,” he sighs reluctantly. “Alright, Dianxia. We’ll go.”

“We are?” Feng Xin asks incredulously at the same time Xie Lian squeals, “You will?”

“Of course we’re going, idiot,” Mu Qing grunts in Feng Xin’s direction. While he squawks in indignation, he gives a short, small bow to Xie Lian out of habit. “Of course we’re going, Dianxia. I could just as easily handle this job myself, though, if the great, esteemed General Nan Yang is too proud to join me.”

It works immediately.

“Who said I was too proud!” Feng Xin shouts, but it doesn’t have the note of rage that he has grown so accustomed to. Their fights have turned more into playful banter, and at the realization of this, a small smile begins to dawn on Xie Lian’s face. Mu Qing turns his head away in embarrassment, though he’s not quite sure what he’s embarrassed of. “I just said I was busy!”

“Excuses, excuses,” he sniffs, rolling his eyes. “Are you coming with me or not, General?”

“Fine,” Feng Xin says, though the tone of it sounds more like of course . Mu Qing fights down a fond smile. “Fine. Let’s go catch a fucking Wrath.”

He bows slightly to Xie Lian, and then all but sweeps out of the room, robes swishing with him as he goes. Mu Qing feels his face pinch into something like longing, and as he turns to follow, he feels a tug on his sleeve.

“Mu Qing,” he says, features soft, voice gentle. “I’m glad to see you two getting along more recently, as of late.” A small pause as Xie Lian lets a wide grin cross his face. “I’m glad. I’m proud.”

Mu Qing barely gets out a stutter, half pleased by being the subject of his prince’s pride, half embarrassed at being the subject of his…teasing? Knowing looks? “Oh,” he chokes out. “Um, thank you? Dianxia,” he tacks on hastily.

Xie Lian looks like he wants to say more, like he wants to question him, and the thought makes Mu Qing so unbearably flustered that he inelegantly dashes to the doorway. He also rushes because if he stays for questioning, then he’s almost certain that they’re not going to get this Wrath within the day. “I’ll be taking my leave now.”

“Well,” he says, fiddling with his fingers again, “come visit sometime soon, alright? I’ll prepare food, and the three of us can have a nice dinner with San Lang.”

He isn’t sure which scares him more—the prospect of having to down the atrocity that is Xie Lian’s cooking, or the notion of having fucking dinner with the Ghost King . He shudders violently, but still gets out a polite, “Of course, Dianxia.”

Xie Lian ushers him out. “Alright, alright. Enough with the formalities. We’re friends, aren’t we? Now, away you go. Keep yourselves safe!”

He barely gets out a farewell before the door is closed in his face.

“What took you so long?” a voice asks, a familiar figure appearing by his side, and Mu Qing nearly jumps onto the roof in surprise.

“Shit, asshole ,” he mutters, watching the way Feng Xin’s whole face lights up with the way he tries to hold back his laugh. He tamps down all notes of affection in his chest. “I was talking with Dianxia, is all.”

Feng Xin’s face darkens. “Did he invite you to dinner,” he says, gravely.

“Yes,” Mu Qing tells him, just as solemnly. “He invited both of us, in fact.”

“I’m not having dinner with the Ghost King,” he says, repulsed, as he trails behind him. Mu Qing wonders how they think so similarly when they couldn’t be more different. “Please don’t say you agreed.”

“What was I supposed to do,” he grumbles, ignoring the groan of misery from behind him.

“ Mu Qing .”

“I’m not suffering through a dinner with Hua Cheng and Dianxia by myself, come on. Oh, watch your head. There are vines.”

Feng Xin ducks in one smooth motion, still falling in step behind him. “And you had to drag me into it?”

“What, did you want me to ask him to uninvite you?” Mu Qing rolls his eyes. “Unbelievable. There’s a sharp rock to your right.”

“I saw,” he snorts, sliding up so that they fall in line with each other. “You don’t have to call out every obstacle in the way, O Great Observer, esteemed General Xuan Zhen, the most hawk-eyed of the martial gods.”

“Shut up, you,” he sighs, unable to keep the hint of endearment out of his voice. Feng Xin coughs into his sleeve to disguise a poorly hidden smile, but that’s the most Mu Qing gets. He hides his own matching smile in turn.

(They don’t talk about these things, the hint of warmth beneath their actions, hidden in their words. Both of them would rather die than acknowledge the more sentimental parts of their newfound… friendship , and Mu Qing would sooner fall upon his saber before confessing any affection for Feng Xin at all.)

“Did you read the scrolls that Dianxia sent us?” Feng Xin asks.

“Of course I did. What, were you planning to go out into the forest and slash blindly at any ghost that came near you?”

“I was really hoping that we wouldn’t have to go at all,” Feng Xin says sheepishly, and Mu Qing rolls his eyes so hard that he’s sure they nearly hit the back of his skull. “Give me the essence of it.”

“It preys on those that follow the same cultivation path that Dianxia did,” he says, after a short silence. Before he can get another word in, Feng Xin is already pinching his eyebrows together, opening his mouth in protest.

“You follow that same path,” he says. “Did—are you alright with this?”

“Idiot,” Mu Qing huffs, partially into his sleeve. “Would Dianxia willingly put me in danger? Of course I am. I’m…looking for a new path, anyway,” he spits out, squeezing his eyes shut and turning his head to the side.

His change in cultivation has absolutely nothing to do with Feng Xin. It doesn’t .

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Feng Xin tilt his head. “Oh,” he murmurs. “Does Dianxia know?”

“Yes,” Mu Qing admits quietly, folding his trembling hands behind his back. “I felt the need to tell him.”

(And that admission to Xie Lian, to his Dianxia—the one he had served faithfully for years, the one he had protected for even more—it felt like a wound reopening. It felt like saying goodbye, in the most terrible way. Guilt had pulled him away like the strongest tide, sweeping him under the waves. Xie Lian had changed his cultivation path too, but Mu Qing had been overcome with such sorrow at the confession that he had raised his hands and placed them around him in a tight embrace.)

“You didn’t tell me,” comes the reply, and he easily picks up on the undercurrent of hurt in his tone. He frowns slightly, turning to face his companion. “I could’ve helped you go through the records. I still can, if you’d like.”

“Focus on your paperwork ,” he grumbles, grateful that the night hides the flush crawling up his neck. At the way Feng Xin sags like a kicked puppy, he sighs. “Next time,” he says, curtly, and the way he absolutely beams in turn is almost completely worth it.

“How are we going to lure it out, then?”

Mu Qing draws his saber upon the rustling in the trees, and presses his back to Feng Xin’s. “I said I was researching a new method,” he says neutrally as Feng Xin nocks an arrow. “I never said I switched completely.”

Feng Xin gives him an incredulous look. “Bastard, what the fuck! You’re going to get—”

With a hiss, the ghost descends from the trees, claws extended towards Mu Qing. He sidesteps expertly, bringing his blade down in a deadly curve. It hisses again, ignoring the arrows coming dangerously close to its side, and flies into the air, missing the saber by a hair’s breadth.

Feng Xin curses and nocks another arrow. “Why did you come out with me! I could’ve handled it by myself if I had known!” The arrow goes sailing into the sky, and he’s almost sure it would’ve knocked the ghost out of the air if it hadn’t closed its jaws around it and snapped it in half.

“You joke well, General,” he drawls. “You know the ghost wouldn’t have shown its face around you, General Ju Yang, great friend of women.”

“Shut up !” he shouts, but the tips of his ears are flushed, and although the ghost still circles in the air, a pleased feeling coils in Mu Qing’s gut, pulls a small grin onto his face. Teasing Feng Xin really doesn’t ever get old. “You really—”

Mu Qing catches a glimpse of something hurtling down in his peripheral vision, and gracefully jumps backward as a small tree comes crashing into the ground where he once stood. He coughs and blinks harshly, waving away the dust. “Fuck,” he spits. “Feng Xin?”

“Here.” He leaps over the tree and lands by his side. “You didn’t think I’d be taken out by a piece of wood, did you?”

“I was nearly hit by a bell,” he says. “I’ve survived worse.”

(But he can’t deny the fear that creeps into his mind, the all-suffocating force that closes an iron fist around his heart, clouds his eyesight. He can’t deny the way his heart lurches violently into his throat whenever Feng Xin falls in battle, whenever he loses sight of him, giving him no choice but to assume the worst. Terror is a painful prospect that Mu Qing is close friends with, a friend that visits frequently when that fucking dumbass is involved. He worries that perhaps one day, a martial god won’t be strong enough to be able to prevent the worst—)

Feng Xin huffs quietly. “Your concern is touching.”

“Who said anything about concern ,” Mu Qing squeaks out, and watches as Feng Xin raises an eyebrow mischievously, a smirk crossing his features. Mu Qing wants to punch him. He wants, wants .

“Oh,” Feng Xin says smugly, knowingly. “ Oh , could it be that the highest and strongest martial god is concerned about me?” Here, he swoons, and Mu Qing grabs him out of habit before he realizes what he’s done. “Mighty one, if you could bestow even a fraction of your concern upon this lowly, unknown god, this one would be honored to serve you.”

He shoves him off, ignoring the pleased snickers. “This is why I despise you,” he says, keeping his expression pinched to hide the half-amused twitch of his lips. 

Another tree comes crashing down, as if to remind them of where they are. Mu Qing roughly pulls him to his side, arm looping around his waist as Feng Xin snarls and reaches into his quiver. A short puff of breath escapes his mouth with the noise, and it tickles the back of Mu Qing’s neck and sends a short shudder down his spine. “We need a plan.”

“Hm,” he replies, distracted by the way his palm lies flat across a part of Feng Xin’s skin that is guarded merely with his robes. He wants to curl his fingers into the cloth, twist it between his fingers, run them across the stitching. He wants to trace the patterns, to take off the rest of his armor, place his palms all over the intricate garments.

To admire the handiwork that went into it. Yes, that’s absolutely right.

(He refuses any other implications it could have.)

“A plan , Mu Qing,” he says, sounding a little breathless, and he really doesn’t want to inspect that train of thought too thoroughly. Feng Xin pulls them out of sight, and it almost feels like something forbidden, like two mortal lovers hiding away in the woods, pressing each other against the trees, exchanging soft breaths, whispering—

“Mu Qing.”

He nearly hits the top of the tree with how badly he startles. “ Fuck . Yeah, okay. A plan.”

“What’s wrong with you today?” Feng Xin blinks, still blissfully unaware of the arm still curled around his waist. Mu Qing would yank it off if it wouldn’t garner his attention. He silently tells himself that’s why his hand is still there.  “Are you ill? Did you bang your head on the way here?”

“Did you? I’m fine,” he snaps. “The plan. Catch the ghost. Come back with its head.” He slips out into the open, ignoring the exasperated sigh of his name. Gods, maybe he did hit his head. He would pray to someone for advice if he wasn’t a god himself.

The ghost still circles the sky insistently, not yet noticing the flash of Mu Qing’s saber, the pop of color against the darkening forest floor. He worries his lower lip between his teeth, pondering.

Strange .

“Feng Xin, the—”

The ghost decides that this is the exact moment it wants to spot him, letting out a screech and letting a large boulder fall from its hands. He curses, searching for a way to avoid it, but before he can blink, Feng Xin barrels into him and sends them both flying backward.

“Were you just going to stand there forever? I can’t believe you!” Mu Qing notes the loose strands of hair falling from his bun, cascading down to his shoulders like a waterfall. “What were you doing!”

“I was thinking!”

“Your thoughts are objectively terrible!”

“Keep telling yourself that,” he snorts, even as a blur of red comes plunging towards their direction. It seems the ghost has foregone attacking from afar, after all. “Stay by my side. The plan won’t work in these circumstances.”

“Your plan was bullshit in the first place!” he barks, and Mu Qing scoffs before rolling out of its path. “God, I fucking wish Dianxia were here with Ruoye—” A new volley of arrows flies into the air, a few catching the ghost on its back. It screams, rips them out of its back, and starts charging towards Mu Qing again.

He ducks and flicks the ghost’s hand off, watching the droplets of crimson fall from its wrist. The cry of agony has his ears ringing, and he barely notices Feng Xin’s arrows coming from behind him, catching the ghost in the calf, the neck, the small of its back. The ghost should be dead by now, but it rises furiously, pulling the arrows out and letting out another anguished cry.

“Don’t trouble yourself with it,” Mu Qing hisses. “This is just the appetizer.”

“What?” Feng Xin asks, surprise painting his features. “What the fuck are you talking about?”

“Don’t act like you haven’t noticed.” He expertly slices one of the ghost’s arms off. “It’s not sentient.”

The ghost hasn’t uttered a word since it first descended, only speaking in hisses and garbled growls, more like an animal than anything human. Feng Xin realizes it too, understanding dawning on his face. “So this is just a lengthy distraction,” he mutters, nicking the ghost in the thigh. Now that it’s lost the element of surprise, taking it down comes with ease from the might of two martial gods. “There’s going to be more of these, aren’t there!”

As if on cue, a second ghost screeches, and then a third, until they’re completely surrounded.

“We’re never going to catch the Wrath at this rate,” he mutters. “If these—if we lose our energy, we can’t—”

“Do you think I came unprepared?” comes the responding demand. “I’ve been prepared for this sort of incident after the fiasco on Mount Yujun!” Feng Xin fishes out a small vial, crushing it under his foot, and a smoke screen immediately rises up to cover them from the coming ghosts. He grabs Mu Qing’s arm, and together they run, Feng Xin shooting volley after volley of arrows into the space behind them.

Mu Qing pretends he doesn’t tremble from the touch of Feng Xin’s hand—calloused, warm—closed on his bare skin. Somewhere, in the back of his mind, he silently hopes it leaves a soulmate mark. He dismisses the thought as quickly as it had come, screwing his eyes shut to avoid looking at the idiotic face in front of him.

“Where did you get that?” he demands, as they duck onto a new path, one that leads them deeper into the woods. “Pei Ming? Ling Wen? Dianxia?”

Feng Xin gives him a funny look. “The former Lord Wind Master,” he says. “They can be quite generous when they want to be. I’ve been keeping vials of it in handy for quite a while. Do you want some?”

“I’m fine,” Mu Qing grits out, puzzled at why the thought of his friend and Shi Qingxuan spending time together makes his eye twitch. Perhaps because the former Wind Master is a natural gossip. He doesn’t want to know about any of the stories they shared. He swallows the bitter taste in the back of his mouth.

“Well,” he says, after a long pause. “Well.”

He slows their pace to a walk, throwing cautionary glances behind his shoulder once in a while. He keeps his hand tight around Mu Qing’s wrist, face twisted into focus. He allows himself a moment to rake his eyes across his face, touch it tenderly with his eyes. He allows himself a moment to wonder if Feng Xin has any soulmate marks.

He hopes he does. There isn’t one person in the world who wouldn’t choose Feng Xin in turn. His heart aches with the very thought.

“Do you think the Wrath will spot us?” he asks, snapping Mu Qing out of his daze. He quietly pinches himself, because this is not the fucking time .

“It’ll probably smell me, or some obscene thing like that,” Mu Qing grumbles, as they come to a halt in front of a new clearing. “Stay out of sight. You’ll need to catch it by surprise.”

“It’s dangerous,” Feng Xin objects, worry pinching his features. Like he isn’t aware of that fact. “If the thing gets to you, what the hell am I supposed to do? Run back with your bloodied body?”

(Mu Qing remembers the bridge.)

“Nothing will happen if you do what you’re told. Get behind the trees.”

Feng Xin reluctantly curls up between a tree and a small fern plant, hidden almost completely from sight. Mu Qing exhales softly and turns to survey his surroundings. His hand twitches just above the hilt of his saber.

He sucks in a breath, eyes sharpening.

“I know you’re there.”

An all familiar hiss comes from the trees in front of him, but this one sounds more…human. Less mindless and more purposeful, like a god with ill intentions. He draws his saber, ears picking up on the soft knock of an arrow against the riser of a bow.

“So you do,” the Wrath says, calmly descending from its place. She’s an elegant woman, now that Mu Qing can see her more closely—her hair regally sweeps over her shoulder, expensive garb draping over her body. She would look like royalty if it weren’t for the dirt stains on her clothes, the leaves in her hair, the wild look in her eyes. He takes a step back, pointing the tip of his saber at her chest. “ So you do .”

“What do you want,” Mu Qing snarls, letting the ice he knows so well seep into his tone. He can feel the chill of it wash over him like snow, encasing him, preserving him. She takes a staggering step closer, arms outstretched as if to pull him into an embrace. He takes another step back.

“She was like you, once,” she says, desperately, ruby tears catching on her fluttering eyelashes. “My sweet daughter. My love.” Mu Qing freezes, hands trembling around the hilt of his saber, because he sees his mother , dressed in rags, at the bedside, hands closed weakly around the quilt covering her chest, arms open to death.

( Mom ? His eyes are wide, wide open, in contrast to hers fluttering shut, and Mu Qing has never been a friend to dread, but here it sits, at his mother’s bedside, clasping his hands in its own. Mom? Don’t go to sleep yet, Mom, I’m not ready . And she is dying, dying , and nothing can fix this, no amount of gold in the world, no cure that he could ever find, and he is not enough, not enough to save his own mother .)

“Come home,” she whispers, and she sounds so eerily like his mother, it nearly makes his heart stop. Her hand stops to rest on his face, and the ice has frozen him, trapped him. He cannot push her off. “Come home, my love.”

Her nails are raking down his face, and Mu Qing cannot move , cannot breathe , because he sees his mother, his mother placing her palm on his face, telling him that everything will be alright, closing her eyes for the last time, deaf to his desperate cries. He’s young all over again, hands fisted in the blankets, screaming for just one more minute, Mom, please, I’m not ready, Mom, don’t go, don’t go —

“ Fuck , Mu Qing!”

There’s an arrow soaring past him, catching the ghost right in the stomach, and she shrieks , high and loud and terrible, and Mu Qing remembers where he is, remembers what is lost, and remembers who is still alive. He brings his saber down in a terrible arc, but the Wrath flies backwards, wrenching the arrow out of her stomach. She laughs, a horrid grating wound, and he thinks, Mom never laughed like that .

“She was just like you!” she screams, tearing at her hair. “My precious daughter! She followed your damn path, prayed every day, and what did that do for her? Did it save her when that damn man came and took everything from her, from me ? When he took her future away? Did her cultivation save her then!” Bloody tears are streaming down her face, her empty, empty eyes. “I’m trying to save you! So you don’t end up like my child, oh, my little one, I loved her so much!”

“You say you want to save us, and yet you still try to kill me.” He holds up his saber. “Are you really trying to save all of us, or are you trying something else—luring these followers out so you can bring back your daughter with evil spells and rituals?”

Her face twists into a sneer, and he knows he’s gotten it right. Mu Qing brings down his saber, landing blow after blow on the Wrath as she growls and meets his thrusts with extended claws. He isn’t blind to the way arrows seem to shoot out of the dark, or the fact that at a certain angle, he can see a looming figure out of the corner of his eye. He curses Feng Xin and his stupidity.

The Wrath gets close enough to land a violent scratch on his chest, right through his armor, and he loses all his breath, legs shaking. “Shit, old wench .” He falls, and the Wrath is above him, and he’s going to die to a Wrath , Feng Xin will never let this go—

“ Qing’er !”

That’s right , he remembers, hazily. Feng Xin is here .

“Feng Xin ,” he spits out blood as the Wrath turns wildly around, searching for the cause of noise. “Don’t be a fucking dumbass, get back in there!”

“Are you stupid!” Feng Xin leaps out of the darkness, and the shadows almost seem to part just for his arrival, gold armor glinting in the moonlight. The ghost meets him halfway, bloodied hands reaching out, but he meets it with a reckless sort of energy, restlessness coming off of him in waves. “You’re going to—you might’ve—”

Mu Qing staggers up, hand wrapping around his saber. “I am fine ,” he says, pointedly. He looks as Feng Xin gets the Wrath right in the head, watching as she flutters to the forest floor, hitting the ground with a sickening crack. It’s almost embarrassing, seeing how easily he could’ve taken her down had he not been so affected. He stands up, dragging his saber to deal the final blow. “I’m…oh.”

He staggers as the demon starts to get up, and he cannot lose all feeling in his legs right now . “Fuck!” Mu Qing shouts. “Feng Xin!”

He would rather die than hand off his saber to the nearest god to deal the final blow, but he’s losing blood by the minute, and his vision is starting to swim. It also helps that the god in question is Feng Xin. He hands it out wordlessly, watching his eyebrows draw together, a question flash across his face— are you sure ?

And what a goddamn stupid question.

“Take it,” he hisses, falling against the trunk of a tree, fluttering his eyes shut.

“ Qing’er , stay with me, you can’t fucking pass out—” A hand curls around the back of his nape, and it burns , searing under his skin, like getting struck by a thousand bolts of lightning. “Hey. Hey .”

He wraps his fingers desperately around Feng Xin’s wrist, watching his other hand point his own saber in the direction of the Wrath. “Just…fucking get it done,” he whispers, even though he wants to keep Feng Xin in his hold forever, wants to hold onto him for a thousand lifetimes. He is selfish, wretchedly so. 

He screws his eyes shut and lets his grip go slack.

“Mu Qing ,” he hears, a pleading tone in his voice, before everything turns into white noise.

(Feng Xin stands, a steady arm around Mu Qing’s bloodied side, the other wielding his saber.

“ You ,” he snarls, “are going to fucking pay .”)

(Mu Qing’s ears latch onto a passing conversation before his eyes are fully open. He slowly breathes in the smell of fresh soup, the scent of cherry blossoms he knows to associate with his Feng Xin.

“Did you know?” he demands, the tone of his voice pitching dangerously low. “Did you know?”

“Feng Xin,” Xie Lian sighs and that—that can’t be right, because Feng Xin would never be caught dead talking to him with such a tone. He would rather shoot himself in the foot with one of his arrows. “Please calm down. This isn’t something either of us should poke our heads in. It’s not of our concern.”

This seems to calm him down, a few deep breaths punctuating the silence before he continues. “Dianxia,” he says, “please. I need to know if you knew.”

“I found out on my own,” Xie Lian huffs softly. Mu Qing can picture the gentle look on his face. “Do you think he would’ve told me, if he hadn’t told you?”

Another moment of silence, almost as if Feng Xin is inspecting the look on his face. “You know who it is, don’t you?”

A gentle laugh. “I have my suspicions. Don’t we all?”

“I don’t,” he protests feebly. “I wouldn’t even know where to—is it a god? A mortal? You know that there’s almost no one he would trust, let alone—”

“Feng Xin,” Xie Lian says, in the tone that suggests he’s about to reveal something that’s never really been properly hidden all along, the type of thing he says with a coy, teasing smile on his face. “Why would you want to go looking for this person?”

A choked off stammer, and then, “I don’t…I’m not…Dianxia. What are you implying?”

“The only thing I’m implying,” he says, as Mu Qing hears the creak of a door, “is that you were always a terrible liar, my friend.” He laughs again as Feng Xin lets out a squeak. “Think about it, alright? Maybe he could tell you if you just asked.”

“He wouldn’t,” he fires back immediately. “And I could never ask. I was just…curious, is all.”

“Tch,” Xie Lian snickers, as the door quietly closes and their voices start fading away. “ Curious . Could’ve fooled me.”

“Dianxia,” Feng Xin whines, and the world’s sounds fade away once more.)

Mu Qing is out of his bed after three days of rest, which, in his humble opinion, is three too many.

He sorts through missed paperwork, silently thankful to Feng Xin for giving the briefing on their mission, and answers prayers given in the days while he was out. He hides himself in his palace, sorting out missed affairs. It’s relaxing to fall back into his routine, burying himself in his work, both from his followers and from Ling Wen, printed mission briefings and burdening devotion.

 All the while, there is an insistent voice nagging him in the back of his mind, and he responds to it exasperatedly.

Are you feeling better ? Feng Xin calls in their private communication array for the fifth time in three days, worry lining his voice. I could bring over some soup, if that would help .

I’m doing fine , Mu Qing responds absentmindedly, running his fingers over one of the prayers that a believer had sent in with either desperation or a great madness. If you want me to get better so that we can get back to sparring, just say so .

A long-suffering sigh fills the space in his mind, and he pushes away his prayers in lieu of humoring his fellow general. Seriously. What do you want .

I’m trying to ask if you’re feeling better ! Feng Xin yelps, and he can almost imagine the way he’s waving his hands in protest. You—you fucking worried me !

Oh , Mu Qing thinks, and his babbling in the communication array becomes a distant thing, white noise filling his mind. Feng Xin—worried about him? What a prospect to think about. He lightly runs his fingers over the scrolls in front of him, musing quietly to himself.

(He cannot pretend the thought doesn’t please him, because it does .)

— Qing. Mu Qing. Hey, what happened?

He jolts up, blinking. Fuck. Nothing happened. I’m doing paperwork! We can spar later, leave me alone .

That’s not what I—

Mu Qing severs the connection, a small smile on his face. He already knows Feng Xin is going to throw a fit the next time they meet, stomping his feet and whining like a petulant child. He stifles a chuckle at the thought, and then sighs, turning back to the prayers that he’s gathered.

He sorts them out cautiously, answering only the ones he deems important, and casting the more…ridiculous requests aside. He glances at his fifth prayer for romance and scowls, eyebrows furrowing. Mu Qing may be many things, but he is certainly not a god of love .

(Although, he knows it better than any other. When he turns the prayer over, reading over lines of heartache and pain, a pang settles in his heart. He is all too familiar with quiet glances, a yearning that runs deeper than the ocean, a dull hurt nestled between his ribs. Empathy takes over his being, and he makes a mental note to send the prayer over to Pei Ming, who is infinitely more suited to deal with these affairs, being…well, the God of Love.)

He’s still fiddling with the prayer in his hands when Feng Xin bursts through the door of his palace, not even a few minutes after their conversation, barking at his junior officials and striding right into his work chambers. In his hands, he carries a cup of steaming tea and a stone bowl of what looks to be soup. Something warm coils around Mu Qing’s chest and stays there, beating in turn with his heartbeat.

For all his temper, Feng Xin places the food gently down on his work desk, sweeping the scrolls and ink out of the way elegantly. He immediately whirls to Mu Qing, a deep upset tugging at his lips, and he wants to brush it off his face, dip his fingers into the wells of his dimples.

“You cut off the connection,” he says. “I was afraid you weren’t doing well.”

Mu Qing’s first instinct is to bite back, to snap and insult the man in front of him to ruin. It would be so much easier to save his pride, to drag him outside and brawl until their knuckles are bloody and their faces are bruised. To push him away, until the rift between them is larger than life, but still close enough for them to stand and face each other, stand side by side. Mu Qing is better at watching from afar, anticipating the next move, the next blow. Neither of them are good at being close unless they’re at each other’s throats.

But that’s not who they are anymore, and Feng Xin is very obviously trying his best to make amends, so Mu Qing huffs quietly through his nose and peers into the bowl. “Congee,” he says, stirring the soup around. “Did you put ginger in this?”

“Ginger and chicken,” he replies casually, like he isn’t flipping Mu Qing’s world upside-down. “I made it myself. Dianxia tried to help, but I wanted to make something palatable for your recovery, so.”

“I’m recovered,” he grumbles, even as he takes a sip of the tea. Herbal with a note of lemon, he notes appreciatively. “You didn’t have to do any of this.” 

“Do you have any idea —” Feng Xin looks away, swallows. “You—I—” His eyes fall to Mu Qing’s chest, where the scars of the Wrath still lay beneath layers of cloth. He reaches out his hand, then pauses and places it on his shoulder instead.

Mu Qing’s breath almost stops.

“I was worried,” he whispers, eyes delicate and fragile, open and honest. He closes his eyes and breathes out a soft laugh, looking away so harshly his whole body jerks with the movement. “I was worried that you wouldn’t make it out of there alright.”

“I’m a god,” he says, swallowing back the lump in his throat. He refuses to let his guard down now. “The only thing I’d be dying from would be the embarrassment from being beaten by a Wrath . You would never let it go.”

Feng Xin chokes on a laugh that sounds suspiciously watery, but when Mu Qing’s eyes snap up he finds himself looking at his back. “Eat your food,” he says, and his voice comes out so level that he has to wonder if he imagined the fragility before. 

“It’s not even a cold,” he says, digging his spoon into the bowl. “Just some battle scars.”

“It’ll help you recover,” he presses insistently, and Mu Qing wonders what old woman's tale he’s been told. He can picture it fondly—Feng Xin, seated in front of a small, elderly woman, eagerly listening to her age-worn remedies and questionable advice. “Finish all of it.”

“I need to work,” he insists, struggling (and failing) to keep the fond note out of his voice. Feng Xin has turned back towards him, but happens to be more focused on sorting through his prayers. “General Nan Yang. What the fuck do you think you’re doing?”

He looks up, quirking a brow. “What does it look like I’m doing? I’m trying to help lessen your workload.”

“More like you’re trying to convert my followers to your own,” he snorts, right as Feng Xin picks up the scroll he was looking at earlier. “Oh, don’t bother with that one. I’ve resolved to send it over to Pei Ming…why do you look like that?”

“A prayer of love,” he muses, but there’s an indecipherable look on his face. “Why would they send you this? You’re a martial god.”

“You are a martial general as well, and yet you still get prayers of fertility and lust by the hour,” he fires back, taking pleasure in the way Feng Xin splutters helplessly and covers his face with his hands. “God of Lust, General Ju Yang.”

“Shut up,” he hisses weakly. “That’s—that’s only because—oh, stop teasing me.” He shoves roughly at his shoulder, and Mu Qing laughs into his tea. “Whatever. You know what I was asking. Why would they send you a prayer like this?”

A terrible, terrible thought crosses his mind—what if his follower had known ? He hadn’t exactly hidden it well, over the years, his burning attraction barely covered by a thin layer of faux anger, an explosion of delicate colors buzzing beneath his skin, released with strong fists and deadly words. History has been rewritten so many times, so what if—what if —

“Not sure,” he grunts, shoving his panic into the far corners of his mind. “I wouldn’t know how to respond, in any case. It doesn’t matter.” He catches Feng Xin’s eyes, observing him intently, and he holds back a staggering breath. “What? Do you intend on answering it yourself?”

He pauses, as if pondering the idea, before shaking his head. “It’s pitiful,” he says, softly. “It’s…I can’t imagine how painful that must feel.” He watches Mu Qing carefully, as if trying to gauge his reaction.

(How can Feng Xin not know how it feels? The quiet glances across the rift they built, the hollowness in his when they are not side by side, the first century of ascension spent in dark, cold hallways, devoid of bright smiles and rumbling laughs, sun kissed skin and amber, honey eyes. Lonely nights, biting days, an everlasting winter that ended with the warm comfort of companionship, a quiet hand on his shoulder. The burning sensation whenever wide palms and scarred fingers find his face, his torso, his arms and legs. The lingering marks serving as signs of what could never be requited, could never be given back.)

He looks away. “Pitiful,” he echoes, his voice strangely hoarse. “Yes.”

They sit for a while, Mu Qing silently eating his meal and letting the weight of that word settle into his chest, Feng Xin pacing around the room, filing through his paperwork and diligently sorting them out by type. It’s kind, something he has yet to get used to, a little strange, but not entirely uncomfortable. He brushes the back of his ear unconsciously, before hastily letting it drop, remembering the mark behind it.

He finishes both his tea and the bowl of congee, gently setting it down. He turns to Feng Xin, sitting quietly on his floor, scowling and arranging his scrolls into neat piles. 

“Why are you here?” Mu Qing muses aloud, and watches with mild satisfaction as Feng Xin jolts up, scrambling to place the papers back on his desk.

“Why am I—why do you think I’m here?” he snaps, but there’s no real bite to it—just a flustered sort of bluff. It’s endearing. Mu Qing forces down his grin, because even though the situation is incredibly gratifying and awfully humorous, he really does need to know. Feng Xin studies his expression, curiously, and then understanding dawns on his face. “You really—you really don’t know.”

(Mu Qing hates not knowing, hates the unknown.)

“I don’t,” he admits, and it feels like the sweetest defeat on his lips, the most gentle surrender.

They study each other in the dim light, exchanging a long look, before Feng Xin exasperatedly huffs out, “Mu Qing .”

His lips quirk up into a half smile, because they’ve played this song and dance before, over and over again, the steps familiar and comforting. “Feng Xin.”

“Mu Qing. Xuan Zhen.”

“General.”

“Qing’er,” he says, but it comes out a little breathless. He steps into Mu Qing’s space, so close but just out of reach. He reaches out, places a hand on the desk, and leans forward, intention gleaming behind his eyes like gold. It’s almost as if his breath gives life to the blush that spreads across his cheeks, fanning across his face in time with the way his blush starts to grow rapidly from the tips of his ears to the bridge of his nose. He places his other hand on Mu Qing’s thigh, and he jolts —the burning heat under his skin startling him into shock. A soft gasp parts his lips, and Feng Xin is still staring at him, what in all the hells is happening — “Qing’er.”

He wants to say don’t call me that , or say it again , or even a teasing A’Xin , but what comes out instead is a weak, pathetic, muffled sigh, like “Hnmpg.”

“Mu Qing,” and his eyes are blazing like a fire, and he wants so badly to burn . “Is it really so hard to believe that I care about you?”

“Yes,” he snarks back immediately, and the tense moment shatters, Feng Xin pulling off his hand to run it through his hair, exhaling on a half-laugh, half-sigh. “Yes, actually, and I could have a list of reasons why sent to your palace by tomorrow morning.”

“You’re impossible, and I despise you,” he mutters, fixing his headpiece. Mu Qing watches as he turns around, and immediately takes a second to sit still in shock, eyes blown wide, tracing trembling hands over the mark that he’s sure is now under his thigh. This is wrong. This is wrong , and unrepairable, and he doesn’t know what to do at all because he’s just so lost , and Feng Xin is looking at him like he’s something precious, and all of this is just so wrong .

(Old habits die hard, as do old thoughts, actions, and words. Mu Qing cannot erase history. He cannot rewrite it, he cannot forget it. Cannot forget the hatred once festered towards him, cannot forget the way Feng Xin had looked at him one night, after a terrible argument that had upturned tables and shattered glass, cannot forget the way he had said, eyes open and honest and angry , “You left us. You left me .”)

“Feng Xin,” he says, quietly, and watches as he stands immediately at the change of tone.

“Mu Qing,” he says, eyes wide, afraid. “Mu Qing, did I—did I overstep?”

He remembers. He remembers that this is the tone he uses with Dianxia the most, when he is hesitant, when he is frightened, small. He remembers being seventeen and a child, looking at the friend of the Crown Prince, who had looked at him with wide eyes and always asked, Dianxia—Dianxia, did I do something wrong? Dianxia, I can fix it, I can, believe me, what did I do wrong, I can fix it, please—

“You didn’t,” Mu Qing says, voice softening by a fraction against his better judgment. He clears his throat harshly, willing himself to shrink back, to hide back under his mask. Feng Xin watches him carefully, eyes darkening.

“There you go again,” he spits, and this is more like it, the dynamic he’s so used to, the harsh push and pull of the tidal wave, dragging him out and shoving him back onto shore, tired, broken, heaving. “Hiding all over again.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Mu Qing snaps, but he does. He knows it better than any other. It’s all I have left , he wants to scream, to shake at Feng Xin until he understands. This is the only way I could ever stay .

“ Coward !” Feng Xin roars, shaking the entire palace with the force of it, and the word lodges itself in his throat, cutting deeper, and deeper, a knife aimed precisely for the kill. He forgets, all the time, that Feng Xin is cutting with his words whenever he wants to be, cruel and evil and cunning.

He loves him.

“ Get out of my fucking palace ,” he seethes, fingers trembling at his sides. He’s standing, and the porcelain has knocked to the floor in his haste, and he is shattered, shattered like the pieces strewn across the floor, lost, unwhole. “ GET OUT !”

Feng Xin sweeps out in a wave of rage, not even trying to raise his fists. He is kind even in anger, and Mu Qing hates it, hates this man he has cared about since he was a child, this man who wrings out love from him in the most painful ways.

It is better this way , he tells himself, closing his eyes and fighting back the tears in his eyes. It’s easier, to have Feng Xin at an arm’s distance, to keep his wretched feelings at bay, before he is forced to present them, bare, bloodied hands and all. He swallows back the words he wants to say before he presents the shipwreck in front of him, broken glass and jasmine flowers and a god, held together by nothing but a string, sadness, a sense of duty, and an aching, festering, horrible love.

He supposes even horrible things can be beautiful in their pain.

They don’t apologize.

They don’t apologize, but—

Feng Xin comes with him, wordlessly, to visit his mother and lay flowers at her grave. He stands, silently comforting Mu Qing with his presence as he lays his shaking hands down on the ground, and when he thinks nobody is looking, he kneels down and whispers words spoken out of the depths of his heart. He tells his mother what a lovely son she has, and that she needn’t worry, because now he has hot, full meals and a warm fire and a loving family to keep him safe, and Mu Qing is home.

He’s home .

“Thank you,” Feng Xin says, as they walk side by side through the field of flowers. “For letting me meet your mother,” he clarifies, smiling to himself. It’s radiant. He’s radiant, and beaming, and real, and Mu Qing almost chokes out an apology right there and then. Instead, he coughs into his sleeve, hiding his glassy eyes.

“Hm,” he mumbles, pulling at his robes.

A moment of silence, and then, “She would be proud of you, you know.”

The words immediately strike a burning iron rod into his heart, poking and prodding. His throat burns, but he manages another hum. “Thank you.”

They continue their walk, and Feng Xin looks so peaceful , so happy, that Mu Qing takes the longer route just to observe that lovely smile on his face, tracing it with his eyes. He bites his lip, hesitant, before remembering their measly fight, and takes a breath. 

He deserves this. He deserves all the sweet words in the world, carried softly from eloquent tongues to his ears, deserves anything that Mu Qing can give him, so he swallows back his pride and says, “She would’ve liked you.”

Feng Xin lights up like a thousand lanterns, a million stars, and oh , Mu Qing is falling, fluttering to the ground like the petal of a spring blossom, sinking from a tree and into his open palms, turned upward towards the sky. He takes Mu Qing cautiously by the arm, palm settling in the crook of his elbow, and that familiar fire light beneath his skin, a gentle glow, like a warm house fire. He smiles to himself.

They don’t apologize outwardly.

They forgive each other, all the same.

Sparring is an art in itself.

The clash of blade against blade, the precision of every blow, the intensity of it all. The blotchy, purple bruises that will form in the aftermath, maybe even the glittering vermillion of blood from a cut lip or cheek. The comfort of fighting, where he’s nestled his home, the delicate sheen of sweat that falls from his forehead, from his neck. The peace he finds in the weight of his saber in his hands, wielded not for violence but somewhere closer to entertainment, for relaxation, for relief. Relief is what it gives him, to be able to hold this weapon and feel like he is capable of holding it without causing finite damage.

(But back then, too, sparring was a form of lashing out, of rage and unsaid, barely concealed words, trembling beneath the surface with their weight. They came rushing out of him, punctuated with fists, with the cut of a saber, with words meant to kill. He fights, and he fights, and he never stops fighting.)

Mu Qing brings his saber to the training grounds, dragging the tip of it through the rocks, the grass, the dirt, aimlessly strolling around in wait. He takes a seat, carding his hands through the grass like he would the hair of a lover, and this seems awfully familiar .

He recalls the first soulmate mark he had gotten, hands ghosting over his bicep. Where it was once something that brought him shame, it now serves as a dull ache, a sweet, everlasting kiss goodbye, something that still lingers and stays with him, not unlike a ghost. It is something sad, and something lonely, but it is his all the same, so he does his best to honor it, to come to terms with the fact that some things may never change. He recalls the more recent ones, running his fingers lightly over his thigh, his arm, the small space behind his ear. Painful reminders. Gentle kisses, just the way he knows he cannot have them. 

And it’s alright. He has Feng Xin as a partner, as a friend, devotedly standing by his side in brotherhood, and if that cannot satiate him, he would be a bloody fool. To have Feng Xin with him at all is a blessed, fragile thing, one that may fly away from him any moment, and so he is grateful, holding their friendship with shaking, careful hands. It is beautiful.

He is alright. He is alright with the fact that he has not been chosen in turn.

It is enough , he tells himself. It will be .

Feng Xin arrives like a dream, soft features and a blaze in his eyes. There is a saber by his side, not the weapon he is usually privy to, and against his better judgment, a possessiveness like fire alights in his chest. This is the weapon he holds, and now it is in Feng Xin’s hands, and something in his mind is singing, screaming out, mine, mine, mine .

“Took you long enough,” he says instead, because that’s much easier than approaching the swirling hurricane between his ribs. He scowls, glaring up at him, but Feng Xin seems to find it more endearing than threatening. He snorts, dragging Mu Qing to his feet, like he always has, like he always will. 

“Didn’t expect you to get here so early.” His hair is worn halfway down, a small bun tied loosely at the top of his head, the rest of his hair coming down in waves. Mu Qing wants to card his fingers through it, style it like he once did with Dianxia, but Feng Xin would never let him, and thus he resolves to keep his hands by his side, fiddling quietly with his robes. “You’re anxious today.”

“You kept me waiting,” he huffs, in lieu of a proper reply. He crosses the area, stretching languidly as he goes. “Did you prepare? Are you sure you’ll be able to beat me with a saber, great Nan Yang of the Southeast?”

“Don’t make me laugh,” he snorts, unsheathing his saber. It’s a glittering, shining thing, studded with gold and tangerine colored gems. A red tassel is clipped to the end. It’s all so very Feng Xin that Mu Qing doesn’t know whether to laugh or cry. “Who brings a bow to close combat? That’s practically begging for failure.”

In the past, they had sparred with nothing but their fists, wit, and festering anger. Rarely had they ever fought with sabers, or bows, or any weapons of the like. Kitchen knives? Likely. But never real weapons. Feng Xin’s grip tightens on the saber, as if he is astutely aware of this fact, and says, “Why? Scared I’ll hurt you and your pride?”

“Don’t push your luck,” Mu Qing scoffs, drawing his own saber, and right when Feng Xin’s guard lowers, he lunges, swinging his saber up, up, up , steel meeting steel as his companion flashes his own blade up to deflect. The clang echoes across the field, and he almost sighs in relief, because this is what he’s been waiting for. This is what he’s wanted all along.

Feng Xin parries, a clever move for someone who is more used to holding a bow, and he draws back, bringing his own saber up to deflect as a saber thrusts into the space between his side and his arm, dangerously close to brushing his side. Mu Qing takes a few steps back, leaving Feng Xin at the other side of the field. “Good, but hasty,” he muses, watching as the other laughs disbelievingly. “Try again, General.”

“Bragging while sparring is unwise,” he calls. “Don’t press your head too much.”

He laughs, a short, manic, joyous thing, before meeting him with a wild, reckless thrust. A move he would not use in real combat, more on the flashy side and less on the fatal one, but Feng Xin meets it with stride, twisting his hand with his saber in an attempt to disarm him. It would work on a less experienced martial god, but Mu Qing has enough strength in his hand to cut down mountains, so he counters the movement with a sharp withdrawal. He leans forward, silver steel glinting menacingly in the bright sun, and he swings to the side, aiming for his shoulder. Feng Xin twists entirely, countering the movement with such force it causes both of them to jump back, and Mu Qing sweeps his hair back, laughing.

“I didn’t take you for the offensive type,” he admits, watching as Feng Xin viciously slashes the air where he had once been. He can feel his hair coming out in waves behind him, ribbon fluttering loosely to the ground, and it would be a hindrance if his opponent hadn’t immediately latched his eyes onto the movement, eyes widening. He takes the chance to fling himself forward with a dramatic cry, switching his strategy and swinging his blade low. Feng Xin jumps out of the way just in time, but if the torn cloth is anything to go by, it’s a minute victory for Mu Qing. “What did I say about not letting your guard down, General?”

“You give yourself too much credit,” he chuckles, and starts forward again. He butts the end of his saber into his chest, which should be a foul move, but Mu Qing was anticipating at least one attempt at cheating from him. He allows himself to stumble back and catch his breath, pressing at the bruise he knows is forming underneath. Feng Xin places his hands on his hips, looking entirely too proud of himself. “Hah!”

“You son of a bitch ,” he seethes, but there’s a wild smile on his face that he can’t seem to keep down. “You said you wouldn’t try anything of the sort, you!”

“Did I say that?” he says. “I don’t recall.”

Mu Qing dashes forward, bringing his saber up once more, but when Feng Xin brings up his own to block, he brings it down and slams the flat end of it into the small of his backside, watching in satisfaction as he doubles over with a wheeze. “Who’s laughing now?”

He’s met with a playful glare. “I’ll show you funny , you fucking asshole!”

Feng Xin butts him with the end of his saber again, but before Mu Qing can cry foul, he drops his saber and immediately tackles him to the ground, knocking his weapon out in the process. He laughs again, bright, beautiful, gorgeous, and he is helpless in this adoration, he is drowning in it, and he loves . 

“Fuck,” he laughs, grabbing the front of Feng Xin’s robe in an attempt to flip both of them over. “Wrestling? Just like old times?”

“I have you mounted,” he says, smugly. “I’ve already gotten the upper hand.”

Mu Qing seizes the lapels of his collar, expertly jutting his knee into his backside, waiting until Feng Xin doubles over from the impact, and then pushes out from beneath him, shifting from side to side until he has enough space between them to flip their positions, rolling them over so that he sits on his chest, long fingers delicately wrapped around his neck.

“I think this counts as submission, no?”

Feng Xin manages to choke out a snicker, which greatly amuses him. “I haven’t tapped out yet, asshole.”

“Well, alright then.” He plants his legs firmly into the ground, leaning forward to press his forearm into the base of his neck. He presses enough for it to ache just so, for his breath to be knocked from his lungs. He breathes, the ghost of it coming down to run its fingers over Feng Xin’s face, his neck, his lips.

Submit , he thinks, boring his eyes into ones of molten gold, wide with shock and something else, something indiscernible. Submit , he thinks, against his thundering pulse, against the soft catching of his breath. Submit .

They are two boys, tangled on a field, fingers and limbs intertwined, and Mu Qing feels—he feels —

Feng Xin taps the side of his wrist lightly—once, twice. A silent submission, but with the burning of his wrist, the heat that coils underneath his skin, the way he looks at him under fluttering eyelashes, Mu Qing cannot help but wonder if he is the one that loses, in the end.

“Mu Qing,” he says quietly, almost reverently,  and he cannot know, he cannot know, he can never know . “Mu Qing,” he whispers, in a trance, fingers still lingering on his wrist, but if he removes them then he’ll be able to see , and what then? What then ? “I—”

Mu Qing stands, and does what he does best.

He turns his back on him, adjusts his robes, and walks away.

It would be an exaggeration to say that he flees, and yet.

(He’s done it before. He’s fled Feng Xin so many times, he’s left him and Dianxia to rot, and Mu Qing—he’s been left behind too, but still—still—)

He is a coward.

(“He’s just been acting strange lately,” Feng Xin murmurs, distractedly tracing patterns into the wooden table before him. His cup of tea starts to cool, but he pays it no heed. “Why? I don’t think he has anything to hide.”

Xie Lian and Hua Cheng exchange a subtle glance from next to each other. Feng Xin lifts his eyebrows, and Xie Lian clears his throat awkwardly. “Um, maybe it has something to do with the Wrath you two were hunting a few weeks ago.”

“He gets so weird whenever I’m close to him,” he muses, almost to himself. “It’s almost like he doesn’t want me to touch him.”

Xie Lian almost cries tears of relief right then and there, because yes , he’s finally figuring it out after centuries . There’s a twinkle in his Hua Cheng’s eyes, something like hope, and he knows that they’re both anticipating the words that will come from him next.

“Yes,” Hua Cheng murmurs. “And why do you think that he’s been trying so hard to avoid you?”

“Who the fuck knows!” he grumbles, and Xie Lian is hit with a sudden desire to slam his head into the table. “He’s always been like that—I mean, I know we’re not…but…” he trails off, a hint of hurt in his voice, and when was the last time those two talked about feelings?

“Feng Xin,” he says, placatingly. “He doesn’t…he certainly doesn’t hate you, and it’s not like he doesn’t like you.” Rather the opposite, actually. If Xie Lian hadn’t had a deep respect for the two of them, he would’ve grabbed both of them by the robes, shook them both thoroughly, and shouted, YOU TWO ARE FUCKING OBSESSED WITH EACH OTHER! But, as it is, he respects them deeply, and he swallows down the strong words.

Hua Cheng, however, has no such qualms, and snorts. “Don’t make me laugh. He’s infatuated with you.”

Feng Xin turns beet red, spluttering uselessly. Xie Lian sighs, patting his lover’s thigh. “San Lang…”

He raises an eyebrow. “What? Am I wrong, gege?”

Of course not, but…

“He’s not—ugh! What do you know,” he spits, huffing and finishing his lukewarm cup of tea in one gulp. “What’s more, he’s never been this averse to touch before! I don’t think it’s just me.”

No, but it’s especially you , Xie Lian thinks woefully, because while Mu Qing may be an excellent liar in all other aspects, he is certainly aware to the way his gaze lingers on Feng Xin a little longer than necessary, the way he jolts back as soon as he touches him with care, delicacy. He takes a sip of his own tea and wills his headache away.

“General Nan Yang,” Hua Cheng starts, startling the other two into silence. “Who’s your soulmate?”

“Out of—out of nowhere?” he yelps. “What the fuck , Dianxia, teach your husband some damn manners, what the fuck .”

“San Lang,” he starts, before realizing that Feng Xin has never told him the answer to that question either, at least outright. He looks up. “Wait, hold on, Feng Xin. Who is your soulmate?”

Feng Xin’s face goes through a series of complex emotions, flitting and indescribable, before he casts his gaze downward. He laughs bitterly. “I have the feeling you already know, so why do you ask? It’s not like it matters.”

Of course it’s Mu Qing. Of course it’s Mu Qing.

“Ge,” Hua Cheng sighs, gloomily. “He’s so damned stupid .”

“What the fuck!” Feng Xin shouts. He turns to Xie Lian, suddenly, realization dawning in his eyes. “Wait, wait, wait. Dianxia. You two know what’s going on with him, don’t you?”

This conversation is so eerily familiar, he’s almost surprised Feng Xin hasn’t figured it out already. “Of course we know ,” Hua Cheng pipes up, disinterestedly inspecting his nails. “Come now, how long have you known Xuan Zhen? And you haven’t figured it out yet?”

Xie Lian tenses, watching the way Feng Xin leaps to his feet, fists trembling with rage. His eyes are alight with a fire that can’t seem to be ceased, and he inwardly sighs. “You,” he spits, “you don’t know anything about him, so shut the fuck up .”

“Hm,” Hua Cheng hums amusedly. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say you were getting possessive.”

“He is not mine , he was never—” his fists are still trembling, but Xie Lian can see the way his expression falls, the way defeat rolls over his features. He wants to pull him into a tight embrace, because the sight is purely heartbreaking . It is not an expression fit for the great martial god of the Southeast. “He is not mine. He…” Feng Xin sits and buries his head into his hands. “It was clear the moment I saw his soulmate marks.”

And how could someone be so close , but so devastatingly far from the truth?

He is yours, as much as you are his , Xie Lian wants to scream. He wants to tell Feng Xin that the marks on Mu Qing’s body are from him , because if he wasn’t sure before, he’s almost certain of it now. Hua Cheng sighs, his visible eye drifting miserably to the table.

Ge , he whines, in their private communication array. All your friends are idiotic trash .

San Lang , he scolds, before turning to Feng Xin. “How could you know that?” he asks gently, letting his hand rest over his. He turns away, a tense frown pulling at the bottom of his lips.

“I’m not…I’m not someone who he would choose,” he mumbles. “Mu Qing would want someone elegant, graceful, ethereal. He would want the type of person that you would fall to your knees just looking at—beautiful, strong, cunning. Someone with such wit to rival his one. Maybe even someone who could wax poetics about his beauty, his skill. I am exactly none of those things. I’m clumsy, and too sharp, and blunt with words. I—he would never want me.”

“Enough with the pity party,” Hua Cheng snaps, eyes glinting. “You’re wasting gege’s fucking time, so listen to me carefully. Do you think you’re describing someone he actually wants, or do you think you’re describing someone who you think he deserves? It’s not kind of you to make presumptions about what he wants, when you two clearly haven’t discussed this with each other. The facts are as clear as day, but you’re too far in your own head to consider the other possibilities. Xuan Zhen has already admitted that he wants for you to be friends, yet you dutifully ignore that in favor of hiding, of falling back into the dynamic that both of you so hate. If you want things to change, change them yourself. Try using your words for once, useless trash.” Even with the harsh words to couple the advice, his tone is more open, one of begrudging friendship. Xie Lian almost gives him a round of applause for his great effort.

“Thank you, my San Lang,” he says earnestly, and his lover instantaneously brightens. “Feng Xin, what he said is right. You have been making assumptions on Mu Qing’s half, without even talking to him.” He tries to make his gaze as stern as possible. “Feng Xin. Do you understand what needs to be done now?”

He lowers his head, playing with his fingers. After, he looks up, reluctance on his face. “I do,” he says. “Thank you, Dianxia.” He wrinkles his nose, and then spits, “Crimson Sought Rain Flower.”

Hua Cheng smirks, but there’s a shimmer of surprise in his eyes, like he wasn’t expecting Feng Xin to personally thank him. “Don’t mention it. Ge, shall we go to Ghost City?”

Xie Lian stands, casting a glance at Feng Xin, deep in thought. He smiles, letting his hand slip into his beloved’s, and whispers, “Of course. Let’s leave him be, for a while. I think he has much to discuss with Mu Qing.”

A snort. “So they do.”

Right before they leave, he casts a final glance at the figure behind him, eyebrows knitted together, a nervous aura surrounding him but a fierce determination in his eyes. Xie Lian smiles to himself, tilts his head to the sky, and lets pride flood his chest.

They will be fine , he tells himself. He knows it, deep in his heart. They will be .)

“Mu Qing,” a voice floats through his door, and he sighs, pointedly ignoring the harsh knocking that thuds in tune with the aching in his head. “Hey, Mu Qing! Open this fucking door, you ass!”

Mu Qing grumbles, because he can’t genuinely remember the last time Feng Xin hasn’t barged into his vicinity within the last few couple of days, and he waves at one of his junior officials to let him in. Feng Xin marches right inside, with all the air and confidence that he would expect from a con artist like Pei Ming, and walks straight into his space, pressing an accusing finger into his chest. “Where have you been?”

“Settling business,” he mutters, rubbing at his eyelids. It’s not a lie. He’s been working tirelessly day and night, and the exhaustion had started to kick in this morning. He doesn’t know if Feng Xin’s presence is a welcome distraction, though it certainly is. A distraction. “What do you need? If there’s been any disputes by the border, I can look into them myself—”

“No,” he says, but there’s an indiscernible look on his face. “No disputes. I just came to…”

He trails off helplessly, glancing around at the pile of scrolls around them. He raises his eyebrows slowly, sweeping his gaze across Mu Qing’s face, and suddenly, he feels bare, stripped, emotions naked before him. He turns away sharply, fingers tensing around the table.

“If you have nothing to say,” he says, “then get out.”

A beat.

“Mu Qing,” Feng Xin says, slowly, and he jolts. “When was the last time you let yourself rest?” He reaches out, almost as if to run the pad of his thumb over the dark circles under his eyes, and that ever consuming panic sets in once more. He flinches away from the touch, fingers flying up to cover his face, and hurriedly glances away.

“I’m fine,” he mutters. “Don’t worry about trivial things like that.”

Something in Feng Xin’s face twists, and Mu Qing has just enough time for dread to settle in his stomach before he reaches out again, this time for his arm. He all but scrambles back, rather inelegantly, and his expression darkens immediately.

He’s been caught.

No , he thinks desperately, because he can’t know, not now, not ever. No, no, no .

“I’m busy,” he says, and both of them can hear the way he pours a sharpness into his tone. “I’m busy, so state your business and get the fuck out of my palace.”

His junior officials sense the heightening tension in the room and immediately scramble out, clutching their scrolls and slamming the door behind them as they go. He sighs, glances to the ceiling, and prays that he gets out of this encounter unscathed.

“Mu Qing,” and the accusing note seeps into his voice, low and rumbling and fearful. “I suspected it before, but you’ve been acting even more on edge lately. You’ve been avoiding everyone. Or should I be more specific, and say who you’ve been avoiding outright?” Something dangerous glows in his eyes.

“Feng Xin,” he sighs, because he’s exhausted and drained and really, why did all of this have to happen today?

“Why,” he demands. “Why? You try to avoid me, you run away after that big confession on the bridge—why?” His face crumples, and Mu Qing wants to cup his face in his hands and soothe him until all his doubts wash away. “I know I’m not any good at this either, but—but I’ve been trying, and I just…I don’t understand .” His voice trembles on the last word, and Mu Qing is spiraling, he is falling, because what if he’s never been understood at all? Who would understand him, if not Feng Xin?

Mu Qing clears his throat. “I’m sorry if it seems like that to you, but I haven’t been avoiding you. I’ve just been…” he sighs, drops his head into his hands. “I haven’t been avoiding you.”

“When you lie,” he says, lowly, “you avoid eye contact, your ears turn red, and you become restless. You’re an excellent liar, I’ll give you that, but I’ve known you for eight centuries. Cut the shit, Mu Qing.”

“I haven’t ,” he hisses, using all his willpower not to bring his hands up to cover his ears. “I haven’t been avoiding you. You’re making it up. If that’s all you’re here for, then I’m sorry to say you’re here for nothing. Get out of my palace.”

“Bullshit,” Feng Xin snaps. “Bullshit! Why are you still trying to hide, after all this time? What could you possibly have to hide from me? We’ve known each other for so long, and I’m telling you outright that I’m trying , so don’t you fucking dare say that it’s my fault—”

“When did I fucking say anything was your fault?” he says poisonously, because what else can he do? What does he have left? Eight centuries of dangerously built friendship, hanging on by a thread, and Mu Qing will be damned if he’s the one that cuts it himself. “Always assuming the worst, aren’t you?”

“I should’ve known,” he hisses. “I should’ve known you would’ve been this fucking difficult—you and your damn secrets! I told Dianxia that you wouldn’t listen, that you—”

“You talked to Dianxia?” he snaps. “Look at you, making this a bigger deal than it is. I’m not fucking hiding from you. You’re delusional.”

“You ran! ” Feng Xin shouts, and they’re yelling again, because they don’t know what else to do. Mu Qing is exhausted, and aching, and so, so tired of lying, but he has to. He would lie himself to hell if it meant keeping him by his side. “You ran from me, that one day on the training grounds, and I was so bewildered, because you had never done anything like that before, not since the day you—you left —and I just—I didn’t know if I had done something wrong —”

“I didn’t run , I never fucking ran —”

“Why?” he demands, and his voice echoes around Mu Qing’s brain like a songbird, forever cursed to sing the same song— why? It asks him this teasingly, with a great smile on its face, and he knows, but he doesn’t, but he does , and the knowledge of it almost cleaves him into two. Why , the voice named Feng Xin demands, begs. Why? Why, why, why?

I don’t know , he cries. I don’t—I didn’t—

“I had to,” he hisses quickly, all second thoughts fleeting from his mind. He tenses after registering the words that leave his mouth, clenching his fists at his sides. Feng Xin stops as well, observing his face for any traces of falsehood, and falters when he finds none. 

Don’t try and read me, please.

“You…had to?” he asks, something like confusion and desperation crossing his expression. “Mu Qing…?”

I had to, I had to, I had to, so you would stay, so you wouldn’t leave—

“I didn’t mean it,” he snaps, hackles raising again, because this is the crucial moment, the one where he can’t slip up. He pinches himself harshly, the sting grounding. “I only needed you to shut the fuck up.”

“Mu Qing,” he says. “Mu Qing, please don’t lie.”

“Feng Xin , I’m fucking—I’m tired, Feng Xin,” he sighs, so weary that he is weighed down with it. Tears prick at the corners of his eyes. “I don’t want to fight over something trivial. I’m tired.”

“Okay,” he says, quietly. “Let’s talk, then. Civilly.” He guides Mu Qing carefully to sit on the edge of his chair, hand pressed to the small of his back. He’s too drained to flinch away, to fight the small burning of his touch. Feng Xin sits in front of him, looking up at him expectantly, face perched on his hand.

“I’m sorry,” he blurts, immediately. “But I can’t tell you.”

Hurt paints itself onto Feng Xin’s features, and he is so beautiful, so open, and Mu Qing curses the fact that he had to fall in love with this man—fragile, honest, untouchable, impossible. Want aches in his chest, but Mu Qing has never been good at any of it, comfort, love, and the like, so he sits there, hands folded in his lap, just barely shaking.

“Why?” he asks, immediately. “Have I done something wrong? Have I offended you?”

“It’s not—it has nothing to do with you,” he lies, on instinct, and the hurt on Feng Xin’s face instantly leaves, expression shuttering.

“It has everything to do with me,” he argues. He reaches out, as if to prove his point, and watches as Mu Qing moves back, a miniscule movement that makes him just out of reach. “See? You’re avoiding my touch.”

“Maybe I’m not fond of people touching me,” he mutters, and that’s a half truth—he’s always been averse to touch with people he doesn’t really know —not like someone akin to Shi Qingxuan, who immediately latches onto any familiar face in sight. But with people like Xie Lian, he relaxes into the touch, not quite reciprocating in full, but not flinching away, either. Feng Xin knows this. They both do.

“If you’d like me to stop,” he murmurs, “I will. But I know you, and it could never be just that. There’s something else you’re not telling me, and I want it told.” His eyebrows furrow. “Have you been cursed? Does my touch…hurt you, in any way?”

It’s only a hair’s breadth away from the truth. Yes , he wants to say. No. Both .

“No,” he says. “It’s not really—it’s not anything.”

“You hide all these things,” he sighs, hurt and anger and upset burning beneath the surface, and Mu Qing fears that they’ll get into another fight, but Feng Xin sighs, and in an admirable display of self-restraint, occupies himself with playing with the scrolls spilling onto the floor. “Huh. When did you get so busy?”

“I’ve always been busy, you oaf,” he huffs. “I’ve just been handling some extra affairs. Nothing I can’t do, and who knows how much more help the Heavenly Empress needs with these sorts of things…why are you looking at me like that?”

Feng Xin silently holds up a scroll, titled in bold letters, REPORTS OF THE SOUTHEAST . He swallows. Shit. “Oh. That—it’s not—I’m not trying to steal the rest of the South, if that wasn’t clear, and it’s not like I’d have any reason to—”

A sigh.

“See?” Feng Xin says, rolling up the scroll, “you’re always like this. Always thinking that I assume the worst, but I know you’ve been lessening the workload.” He flashes a look at him. “You didn’t have to do this, especially while you were avoiding me, so I know that it’s not any fault of mine, or any hatred from your side. You’re far too kind for that.”

“Kind?” Mu Qing asks, brows raising in disbelief. “You must’ve mistaken me for someone else.”

And how could Mu Qing, the one who spat words at him, the one who always thought of him as an enemy, the one who turned his back on him and left when he needed him the most, ever be kind in his eyes? The thought is laughable, painful, terrible. It feels like an arrow to the throat, shot with deadly precision, meant to sting, meant to kill. How could you think of me as kind, even after all this time? 

“I know you,” Feng Xin says, simply. “I know who you are, Mu Qing.”

The weight of those words burn him, settle into his chest, drop a thousand weights onto his head, crush him, rip him apart, bring him back to life. How can someone say that about him, with such confidence, with such absoluteness? Who can say that but Feng Xin, the one who has stayed by his side for all these years, the one who walked beside him, the one who brought up his bow whenever he stood undefended?

“You don’t,” he says, but it is false, and the wrongness of the statement shocks him to his very core. He knows it is incorrect, and yet—and yet—

“I know,” Feng Xin insists, and Mu Qing is falling apart at the seams, stitching and sewing himself back together with trembling hands, desperately trying to keep the bubbling feeling inside his chest, but it blossoms out, outwards, flying towards his fingertips, engulfing him in golden. He is trembling, he knows, and he cannot stop until he is stilled by his comfort, his rock, the one thing unchanged by all the years.

“Feng Xin,” he whispers, weakly, because he is on the brink of giving up, and he is so, so, tired, “I can do nothing but hurt. I can do nothing but cut down the people that I love, I can do nothing but scar and burn. You know this the best, so—so—”

Feng Xin’s heart breaks. Mu Qing can see it on his face, the way his expression immediately falls, the way his eyes grow glassy, the way his lip trembles and drops, as if he cannot believe what he’s hearing. His lips part, and a small, broken sound comes out. He opens and closes his mouth a few times, as if he wants to say something but can’t. He simply sits on the floor, fingers curling around the rug, eyes open and honest and hurt .

No , Mu Qing wants to say. No, it was better when you hated me, it was easier, don’t look at me like that, like you can’t believe the monster I’ve always been, who I am, it runs in me, what if it infects you —

“Mu Qing,” he croaks out, and the sound of it is so unexpected that he jumps. “ Mu Qing .” He pauses, and he notices that his hands are also trembling by his sides. “Mu Qing, can I—just this once, I’ll never touch you again, if that’s what you wish.” He carefully outstretches his arms, a tentative question.

He dips his head once, a slight, shaky thing.

Feng Xin leaps up and bowls him over, knocking him out of the chair. He sends them both tumbling to the ground, strong arms wrapped tightly around his side, trembling palms coming up to meet the small of his back, and he is burning , burning from the inside out, burning with a pulsing need, a want, so selfish he could never possibly bear to ask for it.

Feng Xin , he cries out, silently, desperately, from where he’s buried his face into the crook of his neck. Feng Xin, how could you do this to me, how could you make me burn so desperately for such a thing, you wicked man, you evil being, how could you make me love you?

“Mu Qing,” he whispers, and his touch is searing , burning like lava, and he is gasping, trembling in his hold, shaking like a leaf in the wind. “Mu Qing, Mu Qing. You are so much more than a weapon. You are a person, do you understand? A person. You aren’t—you were never—”

“ Feng Xin ,” he says, and he is utterly broken. There are no tears falling from his eyes, but he is broken all the same. He is shattered, like porcelain on a stone floor, and he does not know if he can ever be put back together. “Feng Xin, I have never belonged to anyone—I don’t know if I ever will , and I—”

“Then belong to me,” Feng Xin says, voice low, eyes wide and earnest.

Everything stops. His breath, his pulse, the whistling wind by the open window. He freezes, fear creeping over him like the ice he has always encased himself in, but this time it seeps into him, trapping him, suffocating him in a dreadful cold.

(And if belonging to him isn’t all that Mu Qing has ever wanted, what’s the point of it all anymore? If belonging to him isn’t what he’s prayed for at his lowest times, in his darkest moments, in the moments where the candles flicker out and all Mu Qing can think about is what could’ve been, then is the world even right? In a world full of wrongs, is the only truth not Feng Xin? And if all he has wanted to do is to belong , for the kids in the local neighborhood to stop picking on him, for the gods to stop sneering at the sight of his face, then would his home not be the only one who stayed by his side?

But he cannot have it, can never have it, because it would never be right.)

Mu Qing drops his head. “Don’t say things that you don’t mean.”

Feng Xin looks as if he’s been hit. He draws his eyebrows together and pushes himself up on his palms, anguish in his eyes. “That I don’t mean ? Mu Qing, don’t joke around.”

“You’re telling me that? Seriously,” he huffs, turning his head to hide the look on his face. “You know I hate it when people bluff.”

“You think I’m bluffing,” he says. He looks utterly stumped, and shocked, and upset, and Mu Qing tilts his head confusedly, because if he isn’t , then—then—

He sighs. “I told you not to joke.”

“And I told you to take me seriously—Mu Qing ,” he begs, and somehow during the conversation they’ve ended up apart, with Feng Xin kneeling on the floor and Mu Qing sitting, disheveled, just across from him. He looks open, heart bared on the floor between them, and he cannot bring it in himself  to look away.

“Qing’er,” he says, quietly, “I would have you, if you would let me.”

Please , he thinks, desperately, please, please take me, please have me, I don’t know what I’d do without you. What would I do without you? You have me. You have always had me. I never knew if you wanted to have me, if you wanted you keep me around—

“I’m selfish,” Feng Xin admits. “I know it’s a lot to ask, for me to have you—and I know I cannot have it.” He laughs bitterly, and his eyes widen, because how could someone be so wrong ? “I know that…I know that it’s hard, being friends, because you always wanted it and never spoke up. But I never wanted it.” He reaches out, and presses Mu Qing’s fingers against his own wrist, sadness dancing in his eyes.

He watches in awe as he traces the intricate soulmate marks over his wrist. His lip is trembling, and he looks up. The marks aren’t as old as the two of them are, but they’re certainly not new, either, and Mu Qing holds his breath.

“These…” he forces out, “were made by…me?”

He laughs again, but all traces of mirth have left his voice. “Who else?” he asks, miserably.

And he could never be more wrong.

Because how could Feng Xin ever think that it was unrequited? How could he possibly think that Mu Qing wouldn’t have the matching marks in kind? How could he ever doubt the love that festered like an infection in his heart, a wound that never closed? How could he pretend that he hadn’t had thousands of other loves—Xie Lian, Jian Lan, and all the lesser ones that went unnamed? Mu Qing is inferior to all of them in so many ways, no matter what he wants to think, and yet—

Feng Xin had chosen him. Feng Xin had chosen him .

“You chose me,” he murmurs, almost imperceptibly. “You chose me. You actually chose me.”

“Mu Qing?” he asks, uncertainly. “If you’re…if you’re uncomfortable with being my soulmate, I could…leave. Now. And I’d never bother you again with anything else, if you didn’t wish it! I’d never touch you again, and I could stay away…well. I really couldn’t. It would pain me to no end, but if that’s what you want, then I’ll do it.” He hesitates, looking up. Whatever he sees in Mu Qing’s face, it must be terrifying, because he immediately pales.  “Oh. Oh, you’re…you’re upset. You’re upset, I’m sorry, I’m sorry! Fuck, I shouldn’t have said any of that, I’m really sorry—you must be so fucking uncomfortable, gods. I’m—you don’t have to—don’t—I’ll leave right now! You don’t have to see me ever again, and I’m really fucking sor—”

“You chose me?” Mu Qing asks quietly.

“Of course I did,” he answers immediately. “I’d known for a while.”

He snaps.

“Why the fuck would you do that!” he shouts, immediately grabbing the nearest thing and throwing it at his face. The agricultural reports for the Southeast hit his forehead with a small thunk . “What the hell is wrong with you?”

“ Ow ,” Feng Xin hisses. “What the fuck?”

“There were so many others ,” he growls, “Dianxia, your nameless lovers—I fucking thought Jian Lan was your soulmate for the longest time, are you kidding me? I knew you were pretty fucking stupid, but not that stupid—”

“Who’s stupid?” he immediately retorts.

“I can’t believe you,” he sighs, burying his face in his hands. “Unbelievable. What is wrong with you? Why would you—”

“Mu Qing,” Feng Xin interrupts. “Mu Qing. Xuan Zhen. Qing’er.”

“Feng Xin, Nan Yang.” He sighs, and then— “A’Xin.”

A small smile crosses his face at the name. “You know me by all my names—even the more unseemly ones.” He scowls, and Mu Qing’s lips twitch, but he doesn’t speak. “You’ve known me. You’ve always known me. Since we were children, since the time you thought all I knew was Dianxia, but…” He looks at him, gaze wide and honest. “How should I put this? There were other people who caught my, ah, affections. And kept them. For a good, long, while.”

“Me?” he asks, dumbfounded.

“No, fucking Qi Rong,” he snorts. “Yes, you.”

“Me.” He blinks, hard. “Why.” It’s not a question, and if it were, it’d be a rhetorical one.

“Why not?” he quips back, shrugging. “You’re the person who knows me best. You’re the person I’d like to know the best. You’re kind. You’re sweet. It’s hard to pinpoint exactly why. I could like you for all the qualities someone else does, but still admire you more.” He smiles softly. “Of course it’s you, dumbass. All I can say is, who else could it be?”

“…Feng Xin.”

“Don’t worry,” he says, hastily. “I already know that it’s not possible.” His gaze falls to Mu Qing’s wrist, and dread pools in his stomach. “After…after the mission, while we were healing you, Dianxia and I saw your soulmate marks. I won’t pry if you don’t want us to know, but we did see them. We had to, in order to dress your wounds, but there was also the fact that…they were rather beautiful,” he murmurs, softly. “Like the stars kissed your skin. I’ll admit I was rather envious of the lucky person, but it wasn’t any of my business. All I knew was that you weren’t mine.”

 “Feng Xin.”

“I know, I know! It’s selfish of me to think like that, and it still aches. Just a bit.” He chuckles. “A lot. But it’s fine. Give me another eight centuries, we have all the time in the world. We’re gods, aren’t we? I can’t be bothered by such trivial things.” He wipes harshly at his eyes with his sleeve. “I promise, I’ll get over this. And we’ll go back to normal, if you’d like. Anything you want, Mu Qing. Anything.”

A pause, and he laughs.

“Gods, but if the son of a bitch you chose is being an asshole, come find me, yeah? Dianxia and I would pummel them into the ground in a heartbeat. Hell, I’d even ask Crimson Sought Rain Flower to drop by and deal a few blows for you. But by the looks of all those marks, you seem to be doing well.” He glances up, eyes watering. “You’re very loved by this person, Mu Qing. Please let—please let them love you enough for me, too. Please let them love you for me. That is my only wish. My last selfish request.”

Silence.

“You love me?” Mu Qing forces out, eyes wide, lips parted.

Feng Xin laughs. “Was it not obvious? Every time I looked at you, every time I asked for you, every moment I was by your side, I loved you.” He looks away. “Everyone knew. Everyone knows . It’s really only you.”

“Oh,” he says, voice trembling. He presses his palms to his face, breathing shakily. “Oh.”

He immediately reaches out in concern, the kind, careful bastard. “Hey, hey. Are you alright? I know it’s a lot to take in, and—wait. Wait, wait, wait. Are you crying ?”

“I am not crying ,” he hisses, wetly. “Sometimes, A’Xin , when I get fucking emotional , water starts to leak from my eyes! What the hell do you want me to do?”

“I want you to tell me how you’re feeling,” he says, immediately, but his expression is still gentle. “I don’t know how you feel about this whole thing. At least let me know how you’re feeling right now, so I can…” he sighs. “Tell me what you want me to do. If you want me to stay, tell me to stay, but if you want me to leave, I can leave right now.”

Mu Qing immediately grabs onto his wrist. “You’re not leaving ,” he snaps. “You’re not…you didn’t even give me a chance to respond.” He watches in awe as soulmate marks bloom under his touch, springing from beneath his fingertips. “Oh, Feng Xin.” He sighs, a shaky, breathy thing. “Oh, Feng Xin, they’re so beautiful.”

“You—you’re not upset?” he asks. He tilts his head to the side, adorably confused. “I thought you’d be angry. You’re really…alright?”

Mu Qing sighs, and pinches the bridge of his nose with his fingers. He clicks his tongue. “Did I say that I wasn’t?” He reaches down, unfastening the knots of his outer robe. Feng Xin yelps, immediately bringing his hands up to cover his eyes. 

“Mu Qing, what the fuck are you…”

“Feng Xin,” he says, calmer than he feels, shaky hands undoing the clasps of his undershirt. He neatly folds his clothes and places them in a pile next to him, then brings up his hands to undo his headpiece. His hair tumbles over his shoulders, and he sweeps it all to one side. He shudders, goosebumps rising on his bare torso. “Feng Xin.”

He opens his eyes and his breath hitches, only slightly. His eyes dart everywhere, from the ceiling to the floor, but ever so often they come to rest on the curve of his waist, and the tips of his ears turn a brilliant shade of red. He closes his eyes and tips his head back, breathing softly. “Mu Qing,” he rasps, deep and heavy with want , and he goes dizzy with the knowledge of it.

He turns, showing the marks he knows are on his back from the earlier embrace, and gently takes Feng Xin’s wrist, slotting his fingers against the small of his back, and he hears him suck in a breath.

“Mu Qing?” he asks, small, quiet.

“These are yours,” he admits, and the confession rings within the room, bouncing off the walls, ringing in his ears. Feng Xin’s hands are still, and his back is turned. Mu Qing curses himself for not being able to see the expression on his face.

“…Mine?” he croaks out, tracing the patterns on his back. A shiver runs up his spine with the motion, but he relaxes into the touch, sighing as Feng Xin’s palm comes to rest just below his shoulder. “These…I just made them?”

Mu Qing hums in acknowledgement, nodding his head once, twice.

“Mu Qing,” he breathes, and then there’s a face buried in his shoulder, arms circling his waist. “You—you really—” His lips are moving against his bare shoulder, and he valiantly tries not to quiver—to no avail. There’s a wetness in the crook of his neck, soon enough, and he whirls around.

“Well, who’s crying now?”

Feng Xin sniffles and buries his face in his hands. “Sorry, sorry. I just—I’m—are you sure?”

He sounds so incredibly scared , and Mu Qing wants to scoop him up and pepper feather light kisses all over his face. Instead, he raises an eyebrow. “Am I sure you’re my soulmate? Isn’t that kind of an ignorant question to ask?”

“No, I mean—” he huffs out a weak laugh. “You always make things so difficult.”

“I’m not going to make things easier for you just because you’re my soulmate,” he scoffs, cupping Feng Xin’s face in his palms. “If that was the case, it would’ve been a lot easier for you…say, eight centuries back.”

Feng Xin fiddles with his fingers, picking nervously at his nails. “Are you sure you want me? I know I haven’t always been the greatest person—hell, I’ve never been the greatest person to you—and this whole thing between us is weird and complicated, and I don’t know how to treat you gently, or be romantic, or—”

“Did you not hear the part I said about the eight hundred years?” Mu Qing snaps, pinching relentlessly at his cheeks. Feng Xin yelps, and he softens. “If I wanted a lover who wasn’t a bumbling fool, I would’ve chose someone else. Choosing a soulmate and falling in love are also entirely different things, and it just so happens you seem to be the recipient of both.” He taps his nose lightly, but his voice shakes. “I never thought you chose me, because of all the people you loved before, like Jian Lan and—”

“I love you.”

“—Dianxia…wait, what?” He turns to face Feng Xin incredulously. He takes his face out of his hands, and stares at Mu Qing with something akin to fiery determination. “What. What did you just say?”

“I love you,” he says, and his whole face is flushed a lovely pink, but his voice is firm. “I love you, and have loved you, for several centuries—maybe even longer than you have. I always wanted to…to know more about you, but you would always push me away, and I never knew if you despised me or otherwise. I thought—I thought…” he pauses to recollect his thoughts. “I thought you didn’t want me, would never want me, the way I wanted you, and it was fucking horrible , living with that knowledge that someone so beautiful and elegant could never love me.” He looks up, eyes ablaze. “But I loved you. I love you. I always have.”

“But…but Jian Lan ,” he protests. “And Dianxia. And—”

“I loved you and Dianxia at the same time.” He lifts his shoulders in a shrug. “And Jian Lan, well. She was the light of my life, but after you left, it was like…” He covers his face again, but it’s not from embarrassment, this time. “After you left. It was…hard. It was really hard. I know that your mother—I know you had to leave, but I’m—I’m scared you might do it again.”

“I have no reason to leave,” he says, fists clenching at his sides. “Don’t you dare think that. I won’t ever leave your side. I won’t leave you . We’ve been through too much for me to just…” He gives up, letting his hands fall into his lap. 

“Feng Xin,” he says, quietly. “I love you too.”

He sucks in a sharp breath from where he’s seated, casting his gaze downward. “I know that now , you ass,” he laughs, the sound watery and weak. “I can’t believe that took us eight hundred years to figure out.”

“You didn’t make it any easier,” he snorts, but his eyes are watering now, too. He throws his arms around Feng Xin’s shoulders, and he lets out a surprised, soft shout before settling his arms around his waist. “You fucking asshole. You fucker .”

“I love you,” Feng Xin says gently, in response. He cups Mu Qing’s chin with one hand, and sweeps his bangs from his eyes with the other hand. “I love your stupid face you make when you get angry with me,” he runs his fingers between his eyebrows, “I love your nose, and your eyelids, and your pretty eyelashes.” He brushes over each feature as he names them aloud. “I love your hair,” he threads his hand through it gently, carefully watching the expression on his face. “And I love—”

He pauses, letting the pad of his thumb rest over Mu Qing’s bottom lip. He lets his other hand fall to his waist, curling his fingers and lightly digging his nails into his lower back. He smiles from under his lashes, fluttering his eyes playfully. Mu Qing swallows.

“Your lips,” he whispers, softer than the beat of a butterfly’s wings.

“Feng Xin,” he whispers back, shaking with anticipation and want. “Please—please, can you—”

Feng Xin cups his face and surges up to kiss him.

And oh , fireworks set fire in Mu Qing’s chest, and he feels light, like a lantern drifting into the sky, as he reaches up to shakily hold his face in his hands. His heart is pounding so hard he thinks it might fall right out of his chest, and he shudders, trying to draw as close to Feng Xin as possible. He stays still, not daring to shatter the moment, because he doesn’t know what to do , and he feels so damn much —

He trembles silently, and Feng Xin pulls away with a fond laugh, brushing stray hairs from his face.

“Have you ever kissed anyone before?” he asks, teasingly.

“What do you think?” he grumbles, burying his face in his hands. “That was probably—that was terrible for you, wasn’t it? Fuck, I’m sor—”

“Don’t apologize!” Feng Xin immediately grabs both of his wrists and pulls his hands away from his face. “Hey, don’t apologize. It wasn’t bad at all. It was adorable. I liked it. I like you .” He grins, boyish and earnest, and Mu Qing feels a matching grin form on his face. Before he loses confidence, he quickly darts forward and plants a soft peck just below his ear, breath ghosting over the spot as he slowly draws back.

“I like you too,” he echoes, a tad bit dumbstruck. “I love you.”

“Okay,” Feng Xin murmurs, slinging his arms around his shoulders. “Me too.”

He presses a small kiss to his forehead, and then the tip of his nose, then on both of his cheeks, and then a soft, slow, final kiss to the lips. Mu Qing immediately cards his fingers through his hair, playing with the soft strands and taking off his headpiece. He tangles both his hands into Feng Xin’s now undone hair, laughing softly into the kiss.

Feng Xin seizes the opportunity, pressing forward and nipping softly at his bottom lip. Mu Qing gasps, and he immediately tangles his fingers into his ponytail and swipes his tongue against his lip. He lets out a high, surprised sort of noise, and Feng Xin immediately pulls back, searching his face for discomfort.

“What’s wrong?” he asks, worriedly. “Did I hurt you? Did I make you uncomfortable? We can stop, if you’d like.”

“No,” he says, hoarsely. His eyes flutter shut. “I’m—I’m alright. I feel…good. I don’t know what came over me.”

Feng Xin sits back, pondering. Then his face lights up. He leans forward eagerly. “Mu Qing, can I—can I try it again?”

He nods, blinking slowly, and parts his lips as he tilts his head and slots them together. He bites at his lip again, a little harder, and presses his tongue into his mouth. Mu Qing makes that noise again—high, sharp, uncontrollable. Feng Xin keeps going, pressing open-mouthed kisses down the side of his neck.

“Fuck,” he hisses. “Oh, ah, fuck , A’Xin—”

He scrapes his teeth lightly over his throat, gently biting down, and Mu Qing bites back a loud whine, jolting so violently that it nearly throws Feng Xin off with the force of it. He curls his hands into fists, shakily running his fingers over the bruise he knows is forming.

“Sensitive,” Feng Xin laughs, and he presses a gentler kiss to his mouth. He pulls back, gently brushing his fingers underneath his lips, and he feels the burning sensation again. It feels like the warm glow of a fireplace, the soft candlelight at his bedside. He smiles, eyes closed, leaning into the touch.

“Wow,” Feng Xin whispers, awed. “I just gave you a soulmate mark on your face.”

“It seems you did,” Mu Qing smiles, hands drifting to ghost over the mark. His lips are tingling, and he unconsciously moves his hands to run over his lips instead, pressing trembling fingers into his bottom lip. He sighs as Feng Xin reaches up to brush against the mark again, flicking his thumb back and forth.

“You can’t cover it up,” he says, petulantly. “You can’t, or I’ll really kill you. Everyone has to see it.”

“Alright,” he hums. “Alright, I won’t.”

He digs his fingers into Mu Qing’s bare side, and his eyes fly open. Feng Xin buries his face into his shoulder, digging his nails into his waist. He yelps, hands scrambling to grip the back of his robes. “Feng Xin—!”

“Mine,” he murmurs, pressing a kiss to his shoulder. “Mine.”

He huffs out a short laugh as Feng Xin bites gently, pressing over the bruise with light kisses. “Yes, yes. Haven’t we been over this already?”

“I still can’t believe it,” he says, plainly. He looks up, fragile, delicate, and Mu Qing sighs and presses a light kiss to his forehead. “I don’t know if I’m even doing this right.”

“Seems like you’re doing fine to me,” he snorts. “For a Lust God with years of experience, you seem quite anxious to please.”

“You just make me that way,” he admits, sheepishly rubbing at the base of his neck. “I want to make you happy. Always, all the time.” He sits back, looking at him seriously. “Please let me make you happy.”

“I’m insatiable,” he deadpans, before kissing him. He pulls back, relishing in the shocked look on his face, and sighs fondly. “You already make me happy, you idiot. I despise you, but it’s in your nature.” He flicks him lightly on the forehead. “You have a thing for making people care about you. It’s impossible not to, you know. Likewise, you have a talent for making people happy. You’re skilled in many aspects, I suppose.”

“Mu Qing ,” he groans, “how could you say that?”

“It’s true,” he laughs. He smiles, brushing Feng Xin’s hair behind his ear, taking care to lightly brush his fingers against his cheek. “I love you.”

A beat of silence, and then Feng Xin groans again. “I really, really despise you,” he says, miserably. “You’re going to kill me, you really are. You rascal.” He smiles mischievously. “Is this a ploy to try and take me out? So you can be the only ruler of the South?”

“You caught me,” he says, looping his arms around his waist. “This is all very necessary for my revenge plan. All very, incredibly necessary.”

“Even the kissing?”

He pretends to think about it, tapping at his chin. “Hm. Especially the kissing.”

“Well,” he says, slowly raising his eyebrows. “Who am I to get in the way of your plan?”

Mu Qing laughs, loud and boisterous, and tackles Feng Xin to the floor, capturing his lips in a slow, sweet kiss. He continues to pepper kisses all over his face, each one punctuating a soft declaration of, I love you . Feng Xin grabs his hand and intertwines them, a matching warmth engulfing both of them, and matching marks sprout from their touch. They both smile at each other, grins equally blinding in their joy. 

Mu Qing tips his head back, reveling in the knowledge that he’s made it.

After the long, perilous journey, he’s finally made it to the place he never thought he’d make it to. The place that he could only dream about, the place that was always right before him, slipping from his fingers. It’s come to stay, this time, for however long he wishes, and he laughs, joyful, relieved tears clinging to his lashes. 

He’s home.