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Heaven was never dark, and in the time since their reconstruction of the capitol, it was rarely still. The low throng of the divine bell rang out every half hour, and the air was sweetened with ever-blooming osmanthus and jasmine flowers. Blues and violets, starlit silvers and candescent yellows colored the night sky in heaven with the same splendor as the pinks and golds of daylight. It was all terribly glorious, and a rather old sight to Mu Qing, who had seen more nights across the millennia than any being living in the mortal world below.

His body was still humming from the immediacy of his return, having initially traveled to a remote village tucked in the valleys of a mountain range which bordered his territory.

A yaoguai, born of the treacherous landscape to pull travelers from the slick mountain paths, had taken to preying upon children. In such an isolated place it would have been hopeless to wait for some poor wandering cultivator to stumble upon them and solve the issue, but the village had constructed a small temple of Xuan Zhen fifty years prior. They were smart enough to avoid a statue, instead commissioning their only talent, a reclusive painter who had once lived further east, for a standard portrait. And anyways, Mu Qing had the time to give—an endless supply of it, really—so he’d gone, made quick work of the beast, and returned.

It had only been three days.

But immortality did not deny exhaustion, it only prevented the sore and sorrow of the body from aging and wearing down its flesh and bone. He was tired, and almost glad to not be the kind of person people sought to greet upon return.

The new palace of Xuan Zhen, the second one built that year, was settled against a backdrop of constellations from the southwestern sky, a glittering jewel atop a peak that housed several other martial residences. The first palace, the original replacement, had been torn down after the horrific and inappropriate escapades of those statues of His Highness the Crown Prince and Hua Cheng in its gardens.

None of his junior officials were about, each living in their own keeps further outside the capital. It was an easier model, and one they should have implemented from the beginning. Those officials were respected (and necessarily trusted) members of one’s palace, but they were not guests, nor were they family. Rather, they were bursts of potential housed for a time beneath the eye of the god which believed in their spark—before the mortals caught on and a tribulation swept a perfectly good employee out from under them.

He was glad for the quiet. Even if there were things to say about his trip to the mortal world, complaints to make and vulnerabilities to unveil, he could stand to keep them for himself. Xie Lian was not in a state to be called upon in the evening, the terrors one might stumble upon if they tried were unthinkable and entirely likely.

In each divine palace there was the performative half, which boasted a replica of their grandest temple in the mortal realm and served well enough to host any number of formal meetings or audiences. Then there was the other half—that which hid away the living needs of its gods. Mu Qing’s living portion, that is, where he stripped away Xuan Zhen and returned to himself, consisted of a bed chamber, a study, a large courtyard, a library, a washroom with a bathing pool, and a garden. Once, he had hosted Xie Lian in his garden, introducing him to the various flora—the aesthetic blooms, the medicinal plants, and poisons he grew to study—but the rest of his home was kept for himself.

Mu Qing moved fluidly through all of it to reach his bedchamber, complete with its own washroom which boasted a smaller bathing pool to use if he did not wish to entertain the one larger than most mortals’ homes.

Luxury was commonplace, but a twinge of hesitance remained. Many lives had passed since his humble origins, and still there was the urge to curl away. Not because he did not know how to bask in it or make use of the space, but because…

He was tired. It did not matter that loss of sleep would not impact the health of a martial god, the sensation of exhaustion could still be felt if one let their divinity handle other matters besides masking their body’s feeling.

His routine once home never changed. It was such that instead of growing tedious, it became ritual. First, his boots were settled outside the lip of his door’s threshold. Then, he’d remove the clothing which clung to him, sweat-stained and covered in the sheen of the mortal world—soil, and rot, and smoke, and spice, and blood, and everything else in tandem. In nothing but a loose undershirt and pants with dirt-kissed hems, he would fold his own clothing and prepare it to wash by himself—it was no large task. In his mortal life, he could wash and dry and press his Highness' robes in record time.

At that final aside he would sigh, for there was nothing else to be done when such irritating patterns of thought resurfaced.

Then it was time for tea. Or, rather, it was time to fetch water, contemplate the bath he would inevitably take and whether that should be done first, and then decide to finish the task at hand before considering anything else. Then tea.

He had just gathered water from a dispenser in the courtyard that caught and filtered it from his palace’s own private stream when his ritual solitude was shattered.

'Mu Qing?'

The wooden bowl he’d been holding crashed to the ground.

“Fuck!”

Water puddled, and he had to side step its trail to avoid soaking the toes of his socks. Immediately irate, he kicked the bowl to the other side of the yard and stomped back to his bedchamber.

'What?'

He flinched back from his own voice; in the communication arrays, the mind ruled over the tongue. Whatever emotions hid beneath one’s words would lay themselves bare. And he was very upset about the bowl!

There was no question of who had reached out to him. Who else could choose so perfectly inconvenient a time to disrupt his evening?

In the array, Feng Xin coughed. 'Is something wrong?'

Hand to his temple, Mu Qing paced the floor of his bedchamber—lacquered wood softened by the presence of rugs he’d collected from several artisans across several centuries in the southwest—and tried to push past his base instinct to scream.

'I dropped a bowl.'

'And?'

He stopped, breathing in deep.

'And it was full of water.'

Silence on the other end indicated that Feng Xin was trying to hide his laughter. They’d discussed it before, first to limited success and then again without devolving into argument. They had agreed it was rude to force the person at the end of the line to listen to your pure, mocking mirth when they divulged their misfortunes. Best to pause the connection and regain some semblance of courtesy.

Never one to stay idle, Mu Qing took the time to unlatch his window lattices and bring in the perfumes of the heavenly capital’s night florals, held aloft by the earthy, sweet smell of a bamboo forest which hugged the hills of the peak his palace was set upon.

'I’m here, let me in.'

Mu Qing startled again, hitting his elbow against a window frame. It did not hurt, but it was strange to fall into such clumsiness.

'Where’s that?'

Within the array, Feng Xin huffed.

'Where else? Come to your fine wooden doors, General, before I kick them in.'

The threat was unamusing. Besides, Feng Xin could not ‘kick in’ the temple doors which preceded the divine half of his palace. The central pair, painted a deep red, were taller than most mortal watchtowers, and great beasts molded from heaven-forged bronze were affixed on their knockers. They were six feet thick with a threshold rising higher than most mens’ knees. Elegant designs carved with peachwood were embossed upon them and besides—Feng Xin was all arm, no leg.

'You would have better luck kicking through a wooden crate, Nan Yang.'

Feng Xin didn’t humor him. He didn’t scold him either.

'Will you let me in?'

Mu Qing was already in a state of undress, his boots far away outside his bedchamber, the door of his temple further still.

'Please?'

Well. His manners were improving.

Summoning every drop of generosity that trickled through his heart, Mu Qing fastened an over-embroidered evening robe across his body and slipped into a newer pair of shoes. To his dismay, a wet-spot he had not initially felt on his right sock announced itself when pressed into the confines of his shoes and he fought the urge to cringe.

When he reached the main gate of his palace’s temple, he brushed his palm against the door and waited. His routine was better left to solitude; in eight hundred years, how many nights had been only his own? Nearly all. Those spent in company were never those spent in his own space. But then. The circumstances which had bolstered his isolation had not gone unchanged. Certain things had shifted, that was undeniable.

He sighed and stood back while the doors gaped open by his will.

And there, kept behind their shield like a jewel kept within a vault, was Feng Xin. He never looked quite the same when cast in the shades of the moon. His appearance may have been muted, but with the harsher edges of his armor long since removed and his person unshaken by the toil of a mission to the mortal world, rather than dulled he was softened. Gentle.

“Why didn’t you use your token?” Mu Qing asked, tone cool and flat in the blue night air.

It was not as though he did not have it. Mu Qing could see the elegant accessory—the only thing worthy of being deemed elegant when it came to Feng Xin’s attire—tied to his belt. The token was standard for any heavenly official, imbued with any power granted to it to enter specified places. As a premier martial god, Feng Xin’s was blessed with the ability to enter nearly any public hall in heaven, namely the Great Martial Hall. As Xie Lian’s friend, his token had also been long since blessed with the ability to enter that ever-empty palace of the Scrap Immortal himself. And, in more recent happenings, as Mu Qing’s…

Besides the point. It was, too, imbued with the ability to grant Feng Xin entry into his palace without forcing Mu Qing to drag himself all the way from his inner halls to the front gate. Irritating man!

Without a trace of shame, Feng Xin thumbed the token and shrugged.

“I prefer to make you do the work.”

Mu Qing scoffed, leaning against the door frame and making no gesture to invite his guest in. “Isn’t that typical? You’ve always had a gift for exploiting others.”

“You misunderstand,” Feng Xin said, taking a step further and crossing over the threshold on his own whim. “It’s not about calling you forward to do my bidding.”

“Oh?”

Once Feng Xin had crossed over, Mu Qing gave up his performance of nonchalance and willed the doors shut, letting their thud resound in the otherwise quiet temple. He folded his arms and brushed past Feng Xin to lead.

“En. It’s about watching you from behind when you walk away.”

Halt!

Was that insult or objectification? Either way, Mu Qing turned on his heel—quick with the footwork of a swordsman—and walked backwards through his temple, eyeing Feng Xin all the while with a dead, cautioning stare.

“Careful. You're in my temple now. Show deference.”

“What? Fall to my knees here and now?”

He missed the days when Feng Xin was too arrogant and flustered to speak to him. When his wit was reserved for digging beneath Mu Qing’s skin like arrowheads and not…whatever nonsense he used it for now. It was harder to combat Feng Xin when he got it into his head that he could take the upper hand and say such embarrassing things.

It was the trouble of amiability, he reasoned. Now that they regarded one another as human people with respective human feelings, a world had opened up of emotions to evoke that did not start and end with anger, annoyance, or agitation.

Feng Xin was having far too much fun with the ordeal.

When they were in the mortal realm, confined to whatever disguises they needed to don, Mu Qing knew his teasing and altogether lighter air reaped the terror Feng Xin put his heart through once they were back in heaven and he took the mantle, but really. Being a tease was one thing, but being a flirt? That was just despicable! Wreaking havoc on him like it meant nothing! Really, it was a testament to his pure, generous spirit that Feng Xin had not been flung through a wall after his suggestive utterance.

“Is there a reason you came to me?” Mu Qing asked.

The closer they drew to his private quarters, the more unsure he felt. He had hosted Xie Lian in the garden, but then, Xie Lian had not visited in the depth of the night after Mu Qing had begun the process of discarding the day.

“Well, you were gone for quite some time. And you didn’t bother to greet me when you returned.”

Fiddling with the hem of one sleeve in his hands Mu Qing smirked. “Were you insulted?”

“Deeply,” Feng Xin said flatly. He was getting too good at delivering the deadpan sarcasm he used to despise in Mu Qing, and the latter was getting worse at pretending not to enjoy it.

“So you’ve made my negligence my own problem? Good thinking.”

A pace behind him, Feng Xin exhaled. The kind punctuated with a sharp lilt that Mu Qing now knew to be laughter.

“I wanted to speak with you.”

Mu Qing sighed and quit their advance to stand in place. “Business then? What happened?”

One dark, well-carved brow lifted on Feng Xin’s face. Why he was confused at the natural response to his statement of purpose was lost on Mu Qing. Then the brow settled back down and a kinder, and for its kindness, weirder expression took shape.

“No, I meant, I came here to talk. With you, for however long you’ll tolerate it.”

Mu Qing’s eyes widened. “You…came to talk?”

Feng Xin nodded, as though they were mutually understood. They certainly were not!

“About what?” Mu Qing asked.

“‘About’? Nothing particularly. I missed—,” He paused. “I missed the chance to talk with you while you were gone. We can talk about anything.”

Mu Qing blinked. “Oh.”

Those conversations that occurred unbound by expectation or script were the kind long since confined to his mortal life. Even with Xie Lian there was an aspect of performance, or at the very least a part of him that refused to give into their talks completely.

Speaking of anything at all, perhaps something as meaningless and fleeting as the day he’d had, was not something he was used to. Once, there had been someone content to listen to him, who would care to hold the various threads he weaved: talking about work, talking about cultivation, talking about stall-owners in the market who overcharged for vegetables, talking about, well, anything. But she had faded with the wind long ago.

Feng Xin couldn’t have possibly meant what his words implied. There must be a pattern to fall into. If Mu Qing seized the offer and used it to talk about trivial things Feng Xin would realize too soon the mistake he had made and rescind the privilege.

He stopped walking backwards, itching to look away from Feng Xin’s expectant face. Wasn’t it too unfair to expect anything from Mu Qing? They had only broken away from their usual vitriol in the last year. Perhaps it was fair to presume Mu Qing would not punch Feng Xin in response to whatever innocuous thing he said, but it must still be too unfair to look at him like…like it was exciting to look upon him at all.

“I can’t, I...”

He searched his mind for clues as to what he’d been set to do before Feng Xin’s imposition.

“I was making tea.”

No, that wouldn’t do. One could talk over tea, and surely Feng Xin would argue that. For a brief moment he questioned the urge to send Feng Xin away at all. These days, being in Feng Xin's company was not so awful. In fact, it was often rather nice. But it had never crossed over into his own home—his own evening—before.

He tried again: “I need to bathe.”

If Feng Xin were operating under precedent, the very mention of bathing would fluster him awfully and send him fleeing the palace. Unfortunately, he was weirder and weirder with each passing day. Instead of running he laughed, light and melodic.

“These are activities that require your full attention?”

Mu Qing’s nose scrunched. “Traditionally.”

“Which tradition?”

“Mine.”

Feng Xin quieted himself, but continued to follow behind him as Mu Qing journeyed further into his private quarters. An itch pronounced itself at the wrist beneath his sleeve. Having no other named feeling to blame the itch upon, Mu Qing decided he could be annoyed.

“Bathing is a solitary activity, and tea is better when drunk hot, rather than being rendered the decoration of some inconsequential conversation.”

He could imagine the way Feng Xin’s brows would pull towards each other, lost in the convoluted manner Mu Qing had delivered his words.

“Bathing is relatively solitary and tea can be reheated,” Feng Xin said, his voice steady and absent of any confoundment.

Mu Qing frowned and stopped his advance once more. He turned around, refusing to let Feng Xin follow him a moment longer. He scanned the other, head to toe, and crossed his arms. Whatever game Feng Xin thought he was smart enough to play was decidedly trite. Mu Qing rolled his eyes and affixed to his face the meanest smirk he could manage.

“Fine then. Stay. Go heat the water in my bathing pool, prepare my oils and soaps, set out a fresh set of clothing and tend to those soiled by the day. Unbind my hair and wash it well.” He picked through the details of what it was to service a person while they bathed, pulling from a flash of images from a life long since past, when he was expected to do all of that and more for Xie Lian. “Stay within the room and attend whatever whims compel me. Undress and dress me with the utmost detachment.”

It was a degrading way to regard another heavenly official, but Feng Xin didn’t bristle. He broke eye contact at the last order, but otherwise maintained a highly uncharacteristic calm.

“Is that all? Will you let me speak when I do these things?”

Mu Qing scoffed, then spluttered. “No— you— ugh! You won't be doing a-any of it. You idiot.” He squared his shoulders. “You’re so stupid, really. Can’t you see I don’t want you bothering me? It’s nighttime, I’m already ill-dressed and my skin reeks of the mortal realm and my hair hasn’t been washed in days and I don’t want you to see—”

“Mu Qing.”

He looked back up, having directed most of his ire to the pillars just behind Feng Xin’s shoulder.

“What?”

Feng Xin pursed his lips and folded his arms, not defensively, but lax. “You don’t have to try and anger me. If you want me to leave, I’ll go, but you can’t make me mad at you.”

“Shut up, according to you the ability to piss you off is my own singular talent.”

In Feng Xin’s eyes, a flicker of something came and went in quick succession. Something like regret. It was gone before Mu Qing could be sure.

“Would you like me to leave you alone?”

Oh, now he was being noble! How kind of him to have attained emotional stability at the fine age of eight hundred-twenty-whatever. The question placed the decision back in his court, however, and Mu Qing could appreciate that. He felt, with no real foundation to the notion, that if he asked Feng Xin to leave the other would do so and truly harbor no ill will. It made him give, just a little.

“You can stay. If you’re so desperate to.”

With that, he spun on his heel and stalked towards his bedchamber, ignoring the tide of relief that came to shore when he heard Feng Xin’s steps behind—following.

Nothing had changed. He set his boots outside the threshold of his bedchamber, removed his outer robe and folded it neatly in the pile of clothes to be washed the next day. He lit a few more candles to bring the room from solitary blue-grey to warm gold. He put tea lower on the list of to-dos, tying his bamboo shades up and away to let the breeze carry in from the already opened windows. He unbound his hair and retied it lower with a single ribbon.

Everything had changed. A second pair of boots sat beside his own, ones faded grey from black, thinning at the toes. A second hand lit two of the additional candles before he could, and another pair of arms helped tie off a shade. A second voice commented on the smell of the breeze, carrying on its swells the perfume-heady scent of fresh flowers.

Feng Xin was frighteningly easy to incorporate into his routine, but perhaps that was because the tasks asked of him were only so complicated. If given reign over his actions, if left to his own unprompted devices, Mu Qing was sure Feng Xin would quickly ruin something, and the thought of it made Feng Xin’s present ease more bearable.

“Should I heat the water?”

Mu Qing snapped from his thinking, finding his palms gripping too tight to the sill of a window, the wood threatening to splinter underneath him.

 “What?”

Feng Xin, infuriatingly calm in a bedchamber which did not belong to him, rendered soft in the candle glow, gestured to where Mu Qing's room broke off into a secondary bathing room.

“For that bath you were so anxious to take,” he said.

Slipping into the easy response, Mu Qing scowled. “I don’t need the esteemed General Nan Yang to warm my bathwater.” He rolled his eyes. “Such an imposition is unimaginable.”

 “You’re being rude.”

“Humility is rude?”

Feng Xin rolled his neck, stopping when a crack resounded at one side. No trace of anger was there upon his face. Instead, he fiddled through his sleeves and retrieved a blank sheet of talisman paper. One corner was crumpled, but otherwise the slip was kept well. Mu Qing blinked.

 “You actually…”

Feng Xin ignored him, walking over to the desk set aside in Mu Qing’s bedchamber and picking a stick of cinnabar left out in an uncommon display of untidiness. Mu Qing stayed bravely rooted for as long as he could, but when the stick came down in a well placed stroke, he broke.

 “Stop that! I don’t need you to— to actually—” he paused; his tongue felt too heavy in his mouth and his words felt like they were not ones he spoke consciously. If he kept trying to articulate the strange balance of terror and intrigue he felt he would stumble over himself, which would only give Feng Xin more fuel to taunt him with.

Speech was not his strength, and never had been. Clipped, thought-out sentiments were the best to communicate. Longer expressions of feeling were means for disaster.

Mu Qing twisted his face and ripped the ribbon from his hair. He’d bathe in freezing water if it meant putting an end to this strange show of docility from Feng Xin.

Without a second wasted he divested himself of his innermost undershirt and folded it alongside his other pieces of clothing. He gave a single moment to consider whether Feng Xin’s presence ought to impact his bathing habits. Shame should have been pouring into his body, heating it from within until all action became unbearable, but really. It was just Feng Xin. In the next moment he’d made similar work of his pants, the only regret in his mind centered on the dirt that patterned their hems.

Completely bare, he made his way across the room to his adjacent bathing hall and began to set the pool. Distantly, as he'd made his trek, there had been the sound of something crashing onto the floor. He frowned thinking Feng Xin must have knocked something over, too focused on the shitty work he was making of a heating talisman.

Once the pool had been set, Mu Qing dipped a hand to skim the surface. The water was cool, but not unpleasant. He settled himself into it.

In their youth, Xie Lian had once come upon naturally icy bathing pools and insisted their bathing in them would promote focus and better attend to their spiritual needs. Eight hundred years on, and Mu Qing could still feel the teeth of that water, bared with a sharp, punching cold that gnawed one down to the bone.

His smaller bathing pool was elevated, filled by a spout connected to his private stream, same as the dispenser in his courtyard. Mosaic tiles made its interior, spiraling in shades of purple and blue and silver and green, shining like dragon scales beneath the gleaming surface of its waters. Mu Qing did not appreciate bubbles, preferring to leave the water as untouched as he could, like some kind of game.

A cough, awkward from the throat of its bearer, called his attention from the pool to the bathing hall’s entrance.

Feng Xin stood with his hands held behind his back and face turned to the side, as though he were concerned for Mu Qing’s modesty.

 “Is there something you need?” Mu Qing asked, a bit miffed to be interrupted in the bath.

Feng Xin startled. He tried to compose himself, eyes flitting to Mu Qing’s face, the ceiling, the floor, a towel rack carved from iron and painted deep and blue as the sea cast only in the light of stars, Mu Qing’s shoulders, the ceiling, his feet, the way the toe of one of his socks stuck out in a particularly silly fashion, Mu Qing again.

Interesting. Mu Qing had not put everything together yet, but there was potential in this…shyness? A way to gain leverage in this weird dynamic Feng Xin had insisted upon by being amused and presumptuous and odd and—

Feng Xin cleared his throat. “I made the talisman.”

Mu Qing narrowed his eyes, crossing his arms even as half of the gesture lay underwater. “Is it going to boil me alive?”

Of course, he knew Feng Xin would not pull such a trick. Even at the height of their hatred for one another he would not have bothered. Cruel and torturous revenges were not his style. If anything, Mu Qing would do better to hold his breath and hope Feng Xin bit his tongue when commenting on the washing room around him. If a single utterance was spared to call the space ‘tacky’ or insinuate the finer things in life continued to elude him, Mu Qing would…well! Find some appropriate measure to respond.

Feng Xin’s brows drew together. There was never an hour that passed without something causing them to furrow. Mu Qing used to think the expression was ridiculous, exaggerated in that unaware manner Feng Xin had. He wondered if he could smooth it out with his thumb, or if the muscle there had grown so used the expression that it was more comfortable being tense than resting.

“What the fuck are you saying? That’s awful, don’t suggest something like that.”

Mu Qing shrugged. “It wouldn’t be the worst idea you’ve had. It could even approach clever. For you.”

Instead of fluttering into a flustered mess Feng Xin leveled his expression, the talisman crumpling in his hands the only clue to his true reaction.

“You think I’m stupid? Making a murderous heating talisman counts as clever for me?”

Picking at the low-hanging fruit that was Feng Xin’s apparent intelligence, or lack thereof, was not Mu Qing’s favorite resort. It was easy to dismiss Feng Xin as a fool; he spoke without thinking and took time to stumble into insight. It was easy because it was true in one light, its falsehood obscured.

Mu Qing sank into the bath, wishing at once that Feng Xin would leave him be and put an end to this strange performance.

They had made progress, had they not? Clawing their way out of centuries of mud, trying to sprout and grow into something better, more generative.

And there had been…

Mu Qing was low enough to the water line that his hair floated up beside his face, swirling out along the surface like ink on a fresh-wetted stone. Feng Xin was still in the doorway.

“Well then place it. Since you went to the trouble.”

With permission granted, Feng Xin broke his own hesitance and moved to place the talisman at the edge of the bathing pool.

Mu Qing watched him all the while, close enough to notice how the gaze was not reciprocal. Feng Xin’s eyes traveled everywhere but the body in the bath before him, fixating on his talisman as though it were the most captivating thing in the world. As though a god did not rest mere feet away from him.

The minute the talisman was activated Mu Qing exhaled in unbidden relief. It warmed the water just so, making the liquid around him settle like an embrace along his body, stopping where his shoulders emerged from the water. For a beat, Feng Xin’s eyes moved to trace a drop of water as it traveled down the slope of Mu Qing’s neck and shoulder. Then the moment passed, with nothing in its wake but a new line drawn between them—taut, set to reel.

“Not boiling,” Mu Qing said, as though he could walk right over that line and null its threats. And its promises.

Still focused on anything but the one before him, Feng Xin tsked. “Must have drawn it wrong then. Next time, I’ll be sure to make my treacherous plans follow through.”

He was joking! Mu Qing wasn’t startled, exactly. He knew, no matter what anyone else’s impression was, that Feng Xin could hurl sarcasm in the same breath he condemned it. He would not have lasted as Xie Lian’s confidant for so long without the ability. The crown prince appreciated wit above all in conversation; his mind moved too fast to settle for anything less.

“See that you do. I wasted my suspicion for nothing.”

Feng Xin nodded. “I understand that more than you could imagine.”

“I can imagine quite a lot.”

“True, it’s getting you to come back down to reality that's the trick.”

Mu Qing did not appreciate that comment in the least. He brought his hand above water to flick some towards Feng Xin, forcing the other to close his eyes and move back a ways.

“You’re being rude,” he said, echoing Feng Xin’s own words from earlier.

Wiping the water from his eyes—with a great deal of exaggeration, Mu Qing was certain—Feng Xin smiled. Not a grin, not the kind he used to give free to Xie Lian. This one was small and private, inviting Mu Qing in less by intention and more due to circumstance.

“Alright, I am. I am.”

Good of him to finally admit it. Mu Qing backed down, sliding into the water so much so that only his head remained visible. The low light of the washroom and the darker mosaic tiles coloring the water did some measure to obscure his body, but he knew it wasn’t enough to guard everything. There were circumstances in which that fact would shame him, but not any he faced in that moment.

Having delivered his talisman, Feng Xin lingered a second too long before minding himself and leaving the room. Mu Qing heard several bumps and scrapes from the bedchamber.

Alone again, even if it was temporary, Mu Qing attempted to gather himself. He let the air of unaffectedness slide off of him like soap and sat up in the bath. To busy his hands he worked rice-water into the strands of his hair, but there was no such cure for his thoughts.

Feng Xin claimed his purpose for being there was to talk, but what did that mean? Mu Qing thought they talked plenty, communication between them had never been more civil.

Most of the conversations he had were constrained by time, or place, or utility. Now and then he would speak with Xie Lian, but there was always somewhere else for the former prince to be, no sense of permanence came with those conversations. He knew that the ways he spoke with Xie Lian, the most casual of Mu Qing’s acquaintances, a friend, really, was not the extent of vulnerability for either. Xie Lian had someone like that, to turn to at the day's end, to interrupt in the evening and bother into the midnight.

What one says during the day, surrounded by later obligations, was naturally different from what they might voice in the quiet hours, suspended in time between one day and the next.

He did not dare to presume Feng Xin had that sort of ‘talk’ laced in his intentions, but. It would do no harm to ruminate on the differences. Before his reconciliation with Xie Lian, the most vulnerable of his words were either stamped down to the pit of his heart or spewed with poison, distress, and derision when fighting with Feng Xin.

The last truly frivolous conversation he’d had was centuries past, tucked away in the corners of a life even his mortal self longed to cast away. There was no one he was more himself with than his mother, who had no notions or assumptions. ‘How was your day’ to ‘How have you been’ to ‘After all, how are you?’

Mu Qing continued to work the rice-water into his hair and twisted the bulk of it out of his way to rest. His hair was a point of pride, and the corner of his lips twitched to remember his mother’s water-cracked hands in a small bowl of foggy-water, how she would ignore his complaints that they were wasting food, insisting they care for themselves when the opportunity was present.

As a mortal his hair was soft, as it was in the present, but much weaker—thin, breaking at its ends, and dull.

When he'd first begun working for Xie Lian as an attendant, carding his fingers through fine dark hair, coarse and heavy and smelling of plum blossoms, he’d felt so ashamed he could have died. Eventually, the hurt faded and maintaining Xie Lian’s hair, perfect and glorious as the rest of him, became a primary concern for Mu Qing.

He'd liked to imagine it was a kind of training; he would need to know how a wealthy man cared for himself so that when he ascended, he could do so as seamlessly as a prince. And, then, he liked to imagine that each time he combed through Xie Lian’s hair—each pin he placed, each new oil he tested—were means to care for Xie Lian, in ways he could not, and would never, say.

The absurd question of what it would feel like to mind Feng Xin’s hair, to hold it in his hands and care for it as he did his own, as he used to care for Xie Lian’s, came to Mu Qing and then fled.

He had pulled at Feng Xin’s hair before, content to rip it from the root. Once or twice they’d knocked each other's hair loose and in the midst of grappling had been met with a mouthful of the stuff.

It was easy to neglect the meaning of touch when it was destructive. To care for any part of Feng Xin when he had spent so long rendering the other into nothing but the harsh voice in his head, the weight on his shoulders that wanted to see him fail, meant making a strange bargain with himself: trade ill will for something kinder, but do not lose the upper hand.

Tired of his own thinking, Mu Qing decided his hair had sat long enough and submerged the entirety of himself into the water, muting the world.

As an immortal being, he would not age. The processes that kept mortals alive, whose inevitable dissipation would bring them to death, were processes guaranteed to operate unendingly within him, resilient to change. Caught in his prime forever and ever.

When they’d been deputy officials under Xie Lian all those centuries ago, he and Feng Xin had not truly ceased aging. The lifestyle change and abundance of spiritual energy kept them healthy and perhaps slowed certain aspects of aging, but unlike Xie Lian they had both grown out of their spring years and into appearances more acceptable for the long stretch of eternity.

Practically, this meant they would not carry baby fat on their faces for the entirety of forever as Xie Lian was cursed to. Though in all fairness, Xie Lian had always had a rounder, pretty face, and ascending in his early twenties would likely not have made his visage any less radiant and boyish. Paired with his San Lang, the great and terrible annoyance Hua Cheng, who had died young in his own burst of mortality, Xie Lian did not seem so out of place.

Mu Qing exhaled beneath the water, unleashing a string of bubbles. It was irritating to bring every loop in his mind back to Xie Lian—he had other things going on in his life! The pattern was easy to repeat because Xie Lian was the person he talked with the most after the fall of heaven, and the singular friend he’d had in a long, long time. He willed himself to think of anything else.

If Feng Xin was still there in his room, waiting for him to emerge from the bath, what would he be doing in the interim? What did Feng Xin do to occupy his time? Mu Qing liked to invent outlandish possibilities, compensating for the fact that he did not know, not really.

When they were mortals, he barely took notice of Feng Xin’s habits. He knew that Feng Xin was not quite the lapdog to the crown prince people cursed him as under their breaths.

Once, he had found Feng Xin in the archives of the Royal Holy Pavillion on one of their allotted days off, and had been too shocked to learn Feng Xin could read and would do so willingly to learn why and what he was doing there. Mu Qing could scarcely recall what his own purpose had been, the memory in his mind colored only with intrigue and the vision of a younger Feng Xin, no less obnoxious, sat before a considerable stack of  books with his face screwed in concentration. A bit of the afternoon sun had been creeping through the haphazardly closed shades, but Feng Xin had remained focused, unaware that he’d been cast in an aura of gold.

In the present, Mu Qing then wondered if Feng Xin would take the opportunity to snoop through his chambers. There wasn’t much to find, but any trivial detail could become a chance to jeer or misunderstand from the perspective of another.

An unfinished embroidery project had been tucked away on one of his bookshelves, waiting for a time when Mu Qing would deem giving up more infuriating than pushing forward. Part of him tensed at the thought of Feng Xin finding it. Would he ridicule? Perhaps not, but it was not the sort of thing Mu Qing liked other people to see. Let the process run as it may and enjoy the final offered product. The rest ought to be kept hidden, right?

His lungs protested as he continued to hold counsel with himself underwater, but despite the slight discomfort it did not matter. His lungs could resist the process of dying for weeks, if not months, before giving out and giving in.

Eventually, there was no further task or thought to distract him, and Mu Qing conceded to ending his bath.

The floor was cold against his bare feet, but he paid it no mind. Instead, Mu Qing twisted his hair into a sopping rope and wrung the water from it, back into the mouth of his bathing pool. Some junior official would do the work of emptying the pool when next he left his rooms, so once his hair was relatively unsoaked Mu Qing had nothing more to do but dress himself.

When he turned to leave, he noticed a partition had been set before the bathing room’s entrance, and fresh zhongyi folded just beneath it. Feng Xin must have moved it whilst Mu Qing wallowed underwater.

Feng Xin's insistence upon modesty was more endearing than hindering, and so Mu Qing let the warmth of amusement win over a tug of irritation.

The underclothes Feng Xin had picked for him were tasteful, a shirt and pants colored white, but the socks Feng Xin had brought with them were cold in his palm, having been placed on the floor first.

When both garments were tied, Mu Qing left his bathing hall, feet still bare.

Upon entering his bedchamber, Mu Qing was greeted with the chill brush of air against his damp skin. Though it did not discomfort him, it was not a sensation he reveled in. Ignoring the very conspicuous figure of Feng Xin—sat with polite posture at a low table kept for private dining—Mu Qing moved across the room to drop the shades and stifle the night breeze from outside his windows. He lingered by one of the windows for too long, trying to make sense of the situation he found himself in.

Feng Xin had come to talk, that was all. Perhaps he did have other business. Perhaps he wanted to coordinate a time to meet with Xie Lian in the mortal realm. Perhaps he was bored. Mu Qing frowned at the last thought, for all he attempted indifference, it would dishearten him to learn Feng Xin had sought him out as a last resort.

“And how was your bath, General?”

The question reached him across a chasm formed by his own harsh thinking, and Mu Qing startled a bit, jostling against the end of a fallen shade. Keeping his expression guarded, Mu Qing turned around and crossed his arms.

“Lukewarm. What a poor performance from your talisman.”

“My malicious talisman meant to boil you alive, you mean?” Feng Xin shrugged, relaxing his shoulders and settling his arms on the table's surface before him.

“En,” Mu Qing leaned into the lighter tone Feng Xin’s teasing allowed. “You have no promise as an assassin.”

“None at all?” He tapped the table with his fists, pretending to contemplate. “I’ll just have to settle with being a martial god in the heavenly court.”

No longer feeling bound to the window, Mu Qing walked over to Feng Xin, his pace measured with leisure. “And a god of virility.”

Mu Qing anticipated the moment Feng Xin’s humor would drop. Poking fun at his status as the great General Ju Yang had never failed to conjure his ire before. But, though Feng Xin’s smile did falter, he shook the pause away with his head and returned to good spirit.

Something had changed, shifted beneath Mu Qing’s feet and upended itself with such haste he was left scrambling to keep up. He wondered if the world had ended again.

“Do you still want tea?”

Feng Xin tilted his head to look up when he asked the question, and the floor beneath Mu Qing felt as though it had fallen through. He did not answer, instead detouring around the table. Five paces past where Feng Xin sat, he started stomping his feet on the floorboards.

He heard Feng Xin’s laughter, hidden though it was in an exhalation, and let that guide him to a familiar feeling—annoyance. He rolled his eyes and was about to retort when at last his foot hit the right floorboard, its sound hollow where he had landed.

Mu Qing had made the small nook beneath the floorboard intentionally some months ago, hoping to keep within any materials which would benefit from a dark, cool environment. From it, he retrieved a jar of peach blossom wine and two jade wine-cups stained a deep, mossy green.

Feng Xin was still in wait for him, having turned back around to face the table. Mu Qing joined him at last, noting how Feng Xin’s eyebrows lifted with each item placed in front of him—one cup, then another, and finally a wine jar.

“Not in the mood,” Mu Qing answered. “Your nonsense requires a stronger aid.”

“And what about your tradition?”

Mu Qing untied the cap of the wine jar and sighed. “Leave it behind for now. Do you want to drink or not?”

Promptly, Feng Xin stopped yapping and sat straighter. With more courtesy than Mu Qing believed his companion deserved, he poured wine for them both and handed Feng Xin his cup without comment. Their first drink was silent, but of course nothing so fragile as quiet could ever last.

“What about your cultivation?”

Mu Qing frowned. “That’s a petty detail, why do you care?”

Feng Xin remembering the vows of abstinence dictated by the path both Mu Qing and Xie Lian had followed in their youths was odd. He had never hesitated in the past to offer Mu Qing alcohol on long, strenuous missions when exhaustion had been left clinging to their bones, power well and truly tested by some vicious creature or another. His present concern against such a pattern made Mu Qing curious, but also left him confused.

“Will it harm you?” Feng Xin asked, betraying Mu Qing’s expectations with genuine concern.

He stared down at the table, finding himself unable to look at Feng Xin.

The concern was not, on its own, unknown to him. During the first months on Mount Taicang, he had spent his days trying to heal the burns which cradled his legs and crawled all the way to his hip.

In that time, Xie Lian was a constant by his side, preparing his medicine, changing his sheets, fetching him food—keeping himself too busy to grieve. But when Xie Lian found new distractions, or rather, when new distractions hounded him without relent until Xie Lian answered the various officials demanding his attention, Feng Xin had stepped up to take over Mu Qing’s care.

He had been there from the start, but only to hover, or to berate Mu Qing whenever the latter said something to his disliking. With Xie Lian gone, however, Feng Xin’s presence emerged from that shadow and solidified, becoming dependable and welcome.

Mu Qing knew Feng Xin was warm to those he held in high regard, no matter how sharp his temper could be. Never before had he been privileged with Feng Xin’s care, and, even as it was given to him freely in those months of healing, Mu Qing assumed it would be a fleeting thing. Momentary kindness as a gesture of goodwill, given that Mu Qing had humbled himself before Xie Lian.

Yet, over a year had passed since their time on the mountain, and despite that fact Feng Xin was still asking after him, still caring.

“No,” Mu Qing said at last, voice even.

Without further explanation he tossed his head back and drank down his cup of wine in one long stream. He could feel Feng Xin watching him, but he could not stand to try and parse why Feng Xin would be watching him. He set the cup down when he was finished and poured more wine.

“Mu—”

“How have you been?”

They spoke up at the same time, but Mu Qing pushed into his question, drowning out whatever Feng Xin had wanted to say. Feng Xin paused, eyes narrowing.

Eventually, he conceded. “Fine, nothing really to note. The southeast is relatively at ease, though some prayers have indicated upheaval may be on the horizon. There’s a prophecy going around in the mortal world.”

Cup to mouth, Mu Qing smirked. “Oh?” He drank.

“En, though I can’t remember the whole of it. Some nonsense about a son with the surname Li.”

Mu Qing wished Feng Xin had a better memory for such things. He enjoyed small details, no matter how meaningless they were to his day to day living.

Still, Feng Xin had offered a fair share to their talk, and he supposed it was his turn.

“I’ve just returned from a tiny village in the southwest. A nasty spirit attached itself to the only path leading in or out.”

Feng Xin listened, supporting his chin with his hand. The back of Mu Qing’s neck prickled and he felt a surge of restlessness in his heart. He was not used to undivided attention, at least, not for anything as neutral as an anecdote of his time out of the capital.

Though, if Feng Xin was content to hear him speak, Mu Qing would not waste the chance.

“In truth, it was a gnarled tree that had cultivated a spirit after a millennia in the mortal realm. The path it haunted was made inorganically, winding up a mountain, and frequently tormented by falling stones. After centuries of accident, the path was rehabilitated but the death could not be fully excised—” he cut himself off, embarrassed to go on so long about nothing. It was hardly a remarkable case, and he was certain Feng Xin did not want to sit on the receiving end of such meaningless babble.

When it became clear Mu Qing meant to stop speaking altogether, Feng Xin tilted his head forward, expression open.

“And then?”

The invitation to continue struck him, and across time Mu Qing could recall countless moments when his mother had prodded him, eager to make her reticent son divulge in the trifles and small joys of his life at the Royal Holy Pavillion, serving under his highness the crown prince. His throat constricted and his breath caught—he had not realized how much he missed pointless, indulgent chatter.

He could not return Feng Xin’s gaze, so he favored his cup, spinning it about with his hand.

“The town had made a small shrine to Xuan Zhen decades prior, but only began to pray when children became the spirit’s primary target.” He stopped moving the cup, staring off at nothing while he recalled the last few days’ events. “It was easy to subdue, any of my juniors could have done it.”

But he had wanted to go himself, compelled by the ways the people had voiced their prayers. There was no deference, and no posturing. They were upset to have set up a temple in pursuit of his protection yet receive none.

His tongue felt heavy in his mouth as he contemplated whether or not to voice such a detail aloud.

Feng Xin solved the quandary by speaking up. “None would have done it as well as you.”

Whatever pretense of casualty they’d fallen into snapped, and Mu Qing nearly sent his cup flying from the table.

They fought with one another across centuries, were contemporaries, and more than anything, had shared a mortal life. Mu Qing was aware of Feng Xin’s skill and Feng Xin was aware of Mu Qing’s, but it was not something they acknowledged. Rather, it was a truth easily discarded when disparaging each other came so easy.

Feng Xin cleared his throat, and Mu Qing wondered if that statement would be the one to wake Feng Xin up from this dream he had spun—the one in which he sought for and stayed in Mu Qing’s company. It was too strange a thing.

“That is, you’re a martial god, of course…”

Feng Xin trailed off, and Mu Qing dared to look over at him. He did not need to see the coloring of a blush upon Feng Xin’s cheeks, the man’s face radiated heat well enough without the cue. Mu Qing knew how to mock that, but found within him a pooling fondness. He cast his eyes away again, fearing a flood.

“Of course,” he said. “It took three days, but as I said, it was subdued. The merits from the venture were negligible, but they cleaned the shrine.” He’d observed the tidying from a vantage point, invisible to the mortals’ sight. In the hold of recollection, Mu Qing could not help but smile—just a little. “I returned only this evening, as you know.”

Though a certain tension was still visible in the rigid way Feng Xin attempted to perform ease—his shoulders stiff, his chin hovering over his palm rather than bearing the weight of his head—his interest seemed authentic.

“I wanted to talk with you a day ago, actually. An older gentleman had settled before that shrine and told a joke you would have found funny. It was awful.” The confession was past Mu Qing’s lips before he could swallow it down.

Feng Xin fully relaxed. “Why didn’t you?”

“You may have been busy, I didn’t want to waste your time,” Mu Qing said, the honesty bitter in his mouth.

Feng Xin shifted across from him, brows furrowed in thought. Then, having come to a conclusion Mu Qing was not privy to, Feng Xin eased his expression and folded his arms where they still lay upon the table.

“Tell me now, my time is yours.”

At that, Mu Qing did knock his cup over, but could explain it away as an inevitable happenstance from his continuing to spin it around with his hand.

What he could not explain away was the fire catching all across his face and along the base of his neck. If unbearingly earnest was what Feng Xin became when not encased in a mask of fury and distrust, Mu Qing dared to miss the anger. He knew what to do with it, at least.

“I don’t really remember—”

“You remember everything,” Feng Xin interjected.

It was true, but Mu Qing never realized Feng Xin believed as much. His mind had the particular ability to retain minute details and hold onto them forever—an odd possessiveness that had yet to abate itself.

He rolled his eyes, and certainly did not revel in being able to do so without Feng Xin telling him off for the rude habit.

“Fine, I remember it, but I won’t tell it well.” He cleared his throat to stall, and poured another cup to take a sip and stall further. When there were no more distractions Mu Qing sighed and gave up, preparing to recite the joke, though not without an affectation of irritation.

“'A man from the northeast sought to make his fortune by moving closer down to the Yellow River valley. The way of water is the way of wealth, so he had heard, and he’d tangled himself into a thicket of a situation some months prior, having made an impossible deal with his county’s magistrate. Attempting to avoid trial for various non virtuous actions, the man had promised the magistrate he was acting in accordance with the divine rather than in accordance with the fickle system of mortal law, and that if the magistrate granted him time to reap reward, they could share the bounty. The magistrate was a superstitious man and willing to believe in such a fabrication, and thus they struck a bargain.

“'The man, of course, was lying. He took the opportunity of lenience to travel out of his county and make his way down to the shores of the Yellow River. He settled some ways off from a river-side town and dug a hole roughly the size of himself. After a day or so of digging, water pooled into the hole, coming from secret pockets in the earth. This water was colored with sediment and, in the light of a fading sun, seemed imbued with the color of gold. Rather, with a shade of yellow, which gold also was, and thus the man conflated them.

“'Returning to his county, the man carried three large casks of the silt-colored water, offering them to the magistrate and proclaiming his excuse to be true. He said to the magistrate: ‘The new master of water in heaven is a man who values wealth, and he works tirelessly to accumulate favor for those settled near bodies of water. I have gone to the water and returned with riches.' However, when the magistrate, a highly superstitious man, opened the casks to find them filled with silt-stained water he cried out in fear, despairing that the ‘riches’ had been replaced with water from the springs of the netherworld. He died on the spot and the man, by one way or another, was able to wander off once more, free of all debt, having never realized his mistake and, in the end, never caring.’”

Mu Qing rushed through the joking tale, recounting the words the older gentleman had told him without fault. He knew his delivery was off, and half-way through wondered if he was supposed to give emphasis to some phrases over others. By the end of it he was sure he’d managed to waste Feng Xin’s time precisely as he’d feared and he took another drink to distract himself.

Indeed, there was only silence to greet him when he finished speaking. Mu Qing pressured his mind to think of a quick retort, divert attention from his disastrous performance, but there was no need. Between one breath and the other Feng Xin burst into laughter, the delay of his reaction making Mu Qing jump in place when it finally broke through.

He knew Feng Xin appreciated absurdities, finding humor in anything so long as humor was the intent. Unless, of course, it was Mu Qing making the joke. He had never spurred Feng Xin’s laughter with his words, nor his actions, and when Feng Xin did snort or snicker at him it was just that—at him.

Feng Xin’s genuine laughter was boisterous and unconstrained by concerns of propriety. Mu Qing was unsure, not really understanding himself why the tale was funny, but for the chance to hear that laugh he was willing to stomach the uncertainty.

Xie Lian had been singularly skilled at making Feng Xin lose control in that way, and Mu Qing allowed himself a petty pleasure that it was he, and no one else, that had drawn Feng Xin’s amusement this time.

When he brought his cup to mouth again, it was to hide a traitorous smile that could not help but answer Feng Xin’s raucous joviality.

It took Feng Xin a moment longer to calm down, but when he did a grin was still in place, setting his entire face alight and leaving Mu Qing breathless.

“I knew you remembered the whole thing,” Feng Xin said, smug.

“And now you know why I was hesitant to prattle off, you should have heard how the old man delivered it—paused every other sentence like he was pulling it from his own memory.”

It had been a bit grueling to sit and hear the tale, but the old gentleman who told him had used it to lighten the mood after giving Mu Qing vital information about the casualties their village had suffered. The way he'd spoken, with leisure as though time were nothing but a passing fancy, had reminded Mu Qing of the way Xie Lian used to ramble in their youth. Like the world was boundless, and any thought that came to mind was worth parsing.

“Thank you for telling me,” Feng Xin said, voice absent of anything but real gratitude.

Mu Qing wanted to thank him for listening, but such a response was a step too far for him. He settled on a single nod.

With the movement of his head, a section of his hair fell forward over his shoulder and Mu Qing realized he’d spent too long drying it out. If he let it lie unattended any longer it would tangle, and he had always hated working through tangles. He should have combed it more thoroughly when washing, tying it back when done, but no wishing he’d done something different would change his present.

He sighed, thinking that this was the moment he sent Feng Xin away and continued into the rest of his night alone.

Mu Qing did not mind solitude, and often reveled in existing without a guard raised. But Feng Xin had asked for nothing from him since arriving, no performance and no hesitation. He’d sat across from Mu Qing and listened and laughed and, in the end, Mu Qing realized that he did not want Feng Xin to go.

“I need to comb my hair,” he said, cutting the sentence short of any phrase that might signal to Feng Xin it was time to leave.

Feng Xin’s smile eased off of his face, and he chewed at his bottom lip. Mu Qing braced himself, preparing to act relieved when Feng Xin found the proper excuse to end their meeting, but it never came. Instead, Feng Xin set both of their cups aside and straightened his spine.

“Would you let me do it?”

Mu Qing blinked. “Do what?”

“Comb your hair.”

It took a bit for Mu Qing’s mind to process Feng Xin’s request, and when he did he couldn't think of what to say. Who would willingly comb another’s hair if it was not an expectation of their service? Family, he supposed. Loved ones. His mother had taken joy in his youth to do the work of combing his hair for him, but as he grew Mu Qing insisted on minding the burden himself. The thought he’d failed to disperse earlier, the thought of how it might feel to hold and care for Feng Xin’s hair, then became inescapable.

Mu Qing wondered if it would mean as much to Feng Xin, if the other understood all the layers stacked across their mortal and immortal lives that made his question, Would you let me do it?, so incredibly disruptive.

He contemplated refusal, imagined the consequences of denying Feng Xin and sending him back to his own palace. It would not be hard, and in fact, he thought Feng Xin might be anticipating his reply: No, I do not want your hands anywhere near my hair. Mu Qing could taste the words on his tongue, knowing their shape and understanding why they made sense.

But he did not want to turn Feng Xin away. He did not want Feng Xin’s presence to sweep up and carry out all the light and change and disruption it had brought. For that selfish want, and really nothing else, Mu Qing shrugged and said: “If you want to.”

The move to his vanity was a quick affair, and Mu Qing could almost trick himself into finding the situation normal if he focused on consistent details.

His copper mirror was in place as always, the various jars he kept to augment his appearance or treat his skin after extended time in the mortal realm were sealed tight and aligned in neat rows. His comb lay upon a folded cloth, winking up at them with its ostentatious, jeweled embellishments. Next to the comb was a bowl he’d prepared to soak elm shavings, and next to that bowl a vial, which held a floral mixture of his own invention that made his hair smell exponentially more fragrant and lovely than any mortal hair oil.

Cataloging those small details helped him keep his mind off the massive upheaval: he was not alone at his vanity. Feng Xin sat behind him, postured to best comb through Mu Qing’s hair. He let himself breathe in deep before taking the comb and handing it back to Feng Xin.

“Work in sections,” he said. “Start from the bottom, then move upwards.”

“I know how to comb hair,” Feng Xin responded, though his tone betrayed no actual offense.

“Your own hair,” Mu Qing insisted. “Remember to be gentle.”

Xie Lian had been too nice, unwilling to shout if Mu Qing yanked through a tangle, incapable of raising a fuss over something as trivial as hair-combing. But Mu Qing had learned to look for signs Xie Lian could not help—the tightening of a fist or the pinch of a brow—and once proficient, had come to understand how easy it was to be reckless with another person when their vulnerability was on display and he had power, however inconsequential, over it.

Feng Xin got to work, starting with the section of hair that Mu Qing had first noticed going dry. As he’d suspected, Feng Xin was not practiced in the art of combing through another’s hair—he would have made a terrible attendant. But, in contradiction to what such inexperience often led to, Feng Xin approached his task with caution, moving slow and deliberate, eyes often flickering to meet Mu Qing’s in the mirror and assure nothing he’d done was painful.

They settled into a rhythm, and Mu Qing tried to ignore the buzz which had begun to encroach on his thinking. The wine must have taken hold of him, though he typically had quite the tolerance. Surely it was for the wine and nothing else that his face heated, that his hands trembled. Anything he could have said risked breaking the care Feng Xin granted him, and so Mu Qing bit his cheek to keep quiet.

After detangling the first section of hair, Feng Xin set to work on another, and began to hum. The sound was low at first, held in Feng Xin’s throat. When Mu Qing failed to poke fun at the action, Feng Xin’s humming increased in volume and came out steady, weaving a tune he could not identify.

The melody was sweet on its ascendance, but grew melancholy when it dipped. Feng Xin’s voice was no great instrument, but it carried the song well, urging Mu Qing to sink into the comfort and consider little more.

Tears gathered and Mu Qing was immediately grateful for how Feng Xin’s work on the back of his hair required him to stare at his lap, rather than lay his expression bare in the warped reflection of his mirror. He could not deny what bloomed within him as Feng Xin minded him.

It did not feel as though Feng Xin was completing a task, indifferent to the hair he combed and the head from which it grew. It did not feel as though Mu Qing had seized a new kind of power, subverting his mortal status as a servant.

Feng Xin replaced the comb with his fingers after detangling another section, letting the glide move in time with his humming. Mu Qing felt that, somehow, Feng Xin truly did mean to take care of him. The tears that had gathered fell, though Mu Qing knew how to keep himself from weeping outright.

His mother had loved him, and Xie Lian returned his friendship ardently, but to at last experience what it meant to hold Feng Xin’s thoughtfulness, to have the firm reliability of Feng Xin’s kindness…Mu Qing hardly remembered to breathe.

When Feng Xin took a ribbon from the vanity to tie back Mu Qing’s hair, now well-combed and smooth to the touch, Mu Qing wiped at his eyes harshly and lifted his head, willing to face the other man once more.

“What song was that?” he asked, trying not to die on the spot when his words creaked, coming from a throat scraped raw by emotion.

Feng Xin did not comment on it, if he noticed at all, and simply finished tying the ribbon. “A folk song. I heard it while traveling through a town on the Pearl River with my junior officials some weeks ago.”

“It was nice.”

Feng Xin smiled, placing the comb back on Mu Qing’s vanity.

“What’s that?” Feng Xin inquired, pointing to the bowl of soaked elm shavings. Thankful for the redirection, Mu Qing cleared his throat and put some distance between them—in the course of Feng Xin’s combing he had eased too close into the body behind him.

“It helps when I style my hair for banquets. Makes it smoother.” And when he dressed to pose as the divine general Xuan Zhen in the dreams of mortal sculptors.

Mu Qing watched Feng Xin lose battle with his whims, and did nothing as Feng Xin poked the mixture with a finger. The gel slid from his skin back into the bowl when Feng Xin retracted his arm.

“Slimy,” Feng Xin said.

He wiped his hand off on his pants and Mu Qing scrunched his nose, disgusted with the action.

“What’s this?”

Feng Xin pointed to another thing on his vanity, this time a jade bowl filled with a thick red paste.

“Are you going to ask after every item I own until I die of irritation?” Mu Qing asked. He would find the task tedious, if indeed Feng Xin planned to do so, but the addition about dying was hyperbole. Mu Qing feared that in truth, he might like to explain himself through such a concentrated lens.

When Feng Xin failed to rise to his bait Mu Qing rolled his eyes and gave in. “My own mixture, made with the juice from mulberries and an enhanced root powder I can only grow in the heavens. Here—” he cut his explanation short to press the pad of his pointer finger into the paste. It came back stained with the color, a rich purple-red that he brought to his lips, painting them several shades darker than they were naturally.

For one reason or another, Feng Xin’s question quieted, and he watched Mu Qing apply the tint with rapt attention, lingering on his mouth even after the color had been set. His gaze, when at last it returned to Mu Qing’s eyes, was heavier than it had been before.

“Should we move back to the wine?” Mu Qing asked, all at once overwhelmed by the weight of Feng Xin’s expression.

As if broken from a dream, Feng Xin moved away from him and nodded. “Now that your hair isn’t at risk of drying messy, we might as well.”

The teasing was familiar, and Mu Qing latched onto it like a ladder.

“Not everyone keeps their standards as low as you do,” he tossed back.

Upon their return to the table, they did not assume the position of sitting across from one another on either side. Instead, Mu Qing joined Feng Xin, sitting such that their backs leaned against the edge of the table.

“Tell me about why you and your junior officials were traveling,” Mu Qing said, offering a line of conversation that could keep them afloat from the depths they’d almost fallen into back at the vanity.

Feng Xin settled beside him, so near their shoulders almost brushed, and poured them each a new cup of wine.

“A shuigui, particularly nasty. It had begun to block passage from one city to another, and a few merchants gathered their influence to make a grand offering at a temple of Nan Yang. It caught my attention, and you know I recruited a whole new batch of little officials recently, so I took the chance to get them experience working with prayers and stepping in where we could.”

Though a rather unremarkable story, Mu Qing found himself content to hear it. He liked how Feng Xin’s voice caressed the words it sounded, and he liked the ways Feng Xin made his points, the details he did or did not include. He supposed, past all reasoning, he just liked hearing Feng Xin. When the man was not using the resonance of his voice to hurl insult, it was incomparably nice to listen to.

“And the song?”

He watched a smile tug Feng Xin’s lips, and wondered how it might feel to catch the corner of it with his thumb and keep it there. Mu Qing diverted his gaze immediately after, bringing his arms close across his chest.

“A woman and her grandfather. She sang like a bird, chirping out a sound that, I admit, I hardly understood. Her grandfather accompanied with a pipa, and it's his line of music I memorized. He played it like…” Feng Xin trailed off, searching for the words. Mu Qing waited, content to let Feng Xin come to them in his own time. Eventually: “Like he owned nothing else but the harmony, like it was the one thing left to him.”

Feng Xin cleared his throat, and Mu Qing lifted his head in time to watch the smile fade into a troubled frown.

“Their second song was…less amusing,” he said, offering no further explanation.

He did not need to, Mu Qing was more than familiar with what unsavory folk songs traveled the south, especially those crafted in recent centuries, all making some kind of reference to the legendary, virile general Ju Yang.

“A young woman and her grandfather sang that kind of tune?”

“Under the payment of patrons. We’d gathered in a restaurant overlooking a canal.”

Mu Qing scrunched his nose. “Were the patrons drinking?”

Feng Xin nodded. “A crowd of drunk men can be both a blessing and curse when you’re busking. They spend more, but demand more, too.” His gaze wandered off into memory, and Mu Qing wished he could intercept the recollection, take it for himself from Feng Xin’s mind and hold onto it. He wished to know what Feng Xin thought of.  “Did you know, one time his highness and I were working a corner, late into the night trying to put together enough money for her majesty. We wanted to buy her a new set of clothes.”

Mu Qing held his breath. It was a precarious thing to speak of those days after Xie Lian’s first banishment. Too many rotting hurts lay in shallow graves, taking no effort to dig up again, especially when he and Feng Xin were the ones holding spades. He waited for Feng Xin to continue his speech, dreading the moment he connected their past dire circumstances to Mu Qing’s fault.

“A band of men, stumbling home from a winehouse, asked his highness to scale a watchtower for two silver ingots,” Feng Xin said. There was no anger in his voice, his fondness for Xie Lian perhaps overwhelming whatever centuries-old annoyance remained from the incident.

“Did he?”

“Like he was born to.” Feng Xin chuckled, and when he made no other comment Mu Qing relaxed.

They shared another drink, trading chatter for presence, content enough to be beside one another with a cup of wine in hand.

As if anything so peaceful could last.

“Can I ask you—” Feng Xin began, cutting himself off.

“What is it?”

He took information from Feng Xin’s expression when the man himself failed to answer. The fingers wrapped around his wine cup twitched, his brow was pinched, and his eyes would not meet Mu Qing’s.

“Well, it’s a weird question,” Feng Xin said, again refusing to go on.

“You’re a weird person, I fully expect your questions to match.”

At that, Feng Xin frowned, but his fingers finally stopped fidgeting and the tension in his face eased.

“The wine, is it—” He made a vague gesture with his hands. “I mean, you, and his highness, you both. Cultivate.”

Mu Qing caught on to what Feng Xin meant, but refused to give him grace.

“We do,” he said simply.

The crease between Feng Xin’s brows deepened. “Right. So are you, or, is it…okay?”

“For what?” Mu Qing asked, keeping his tone even.

“To drink, to—” Feng Xin coughed into his fist. “Since you, ah, abstain.”

Mu Qing let the silence elapse between them, staring at Feng Xin with wide, empty eyes. He ran a dozen possible answers through his mind, trying to determine which would be the most absurd, which would fluster Feng Xin the greatest. In the end, however, he decided to be fair.

“I won't come to harm. I don’t…” He held back, hesitant to reveal the truth not for its content, but for its implication. For its context. Mu Qing sighed. “I have not practiced that path in centuries.” He took another drink to distract himself from the aftermath, draining his cup.

To anyone else, it was no secret that he no longer followed the ancient path of Mount Taicang’s disciples. To anyone else, there was no need for explanation, and no danger in what said explanation entailed. But to Feng Xin, his reticence was split in two directions.

First, it was embarrassing. He knew Feng Xin thought very little of him, but he could at least be assured the disparaging asides Feng Xin flung at him never concentrated on such intimate details as his drinking or sexuality.

Second, it was frightening. The event which enabled him to change the path he'd cultivated was one Feng Xin was more than familiar with, and one of Mu Qing’s greatest regrets. To explain his current cultivation was to invite Feng Xin to ask why it had changed, and if Mu Qing were to do so, the odd veil of amiability they’d cloaked themselves in would be ripped away, torn to tatters.

He held his arms close, tucking his chin downward, hoping in vain that Feng Xin would not ask him to elaborate.

“Oh? When did that change?”

Mu Qing closed his eyes. He knew he was scared, he knew what he risked by bringing the truth forward to answer Feng Xin. He knew, too, that he could lie, spin a tale on the spot and shut down any further questions.

But, he felt that Feng Xin was not someone he had to fear. He felt that, despite the risk, the truth was all he ever wanted Feng Xin to know from him. He felt that to lie would be to quietly ruin their carefully pursued evening, and draw forth a wall that would never fall again. He felt that maybe, this time, Feng Xin would listen.

Mu Qing sniffed, pulling his arms tighter around himself, looking up and off into no significant distance ahead.

“During Xie Lian’s first banishment, after I left…” He breathed in deep, shaking his head a bit to disrupt the awful reluctance that had settled upon him. “The god who pulled me back to the middle court—or, the lower court, as it was called then—offered me time to begin my cultivation anew. Since I had to rebuild it anyways, he gave me leave to study with—” He bit into his cheek, holding back a sick, nervous smile. “Thirty-three other officials, who sought to cultivate on an auspicious piece of land.”

Feng Xin had tensed when it became clear where in time Mu Qing’s change had occurred, but he remained silent. Mu Qing continued:

“The path I cultivated then, and the path I followed upon my ascension, makes no stipulation for asceticism. It cautions against excessive release of one’s vital essence, but even so, it carries no strict consequence for debauched behavior. Within reason.” He chuckled, in on a joke only he knew. “By the time I ascended, my base of believers had no cause to barter their belief on my abstention from alcohol, excessive emotion, or sex.” He trembled slightly on the last word, but played it off by ‘drinking’ from his empty cup.

Feng Xin did not react physically, his posture the same, his expression the same. He did not appear angry, but Mu Qing had to wonder if the shock was still overpowering an oncoming fury.

After too many tense beats for Mu Qing to count, Feng Xin nodded. “Then, that makes sense. I was worried your spiritual power may be damaged after drinking three quarters full of the wine jar.”

Mu Qing sputtered. “Three quarters? Are you out of your mind? We’ve drinken an equal share!”

Feng Xin burst into sharp, resplendent laughter. “Oh, have we? I’ve only had two cups.”

“Two—! You’re full of shit, Feng Xin—”

“And you’re full of all our wine!”

He knew he was being teased, and he knew that if Feng Xin’s best response to his admission was distraction, it meant Feng Xin did not know what to make of it. But Mu Qing didn’t care, he was too pleased with the fact that Feng Xin had chosen to mess with him, enlivening their space once more, rather than storm off in anger, cursing Mu Qing for all the mistakes he had made in their shared past.

Eager to seize the route away from their conversation, Mu Qing set his cup aside and attacked Feng Xin, bowling the man over and sending them both tumbling to the ground. Feng Xin’s cup, still full with wine, spilled across Mu Qing’s floor, making a long puddle beneath the low-set table.

Giving the cup no heed, Mu Qing fought for the upperhand, grappling with Feng Xin until he came out on top, pinning Feng Xin to the floor.

“You have drinken exactly half of that peach blossom wine,” he said, keeping both of Feng Xin’s wrists in hold.

Beneath him Feng Xin huffed. “Were you measuring?”

He used the time it took Mu Qing to reply to kick upwards, successfully destabilizing Mu Qing’s position over him. Since he did not fight to win, Mu Qing allowed the move and let go of Feng Xin’s wrist, trying to get off of the floor before Feng Xin could strike.  

Turning his back on Feng Xin to rise to his knees was a mistake, but since their fight was an absurdity from inception Mu Qing did not mind it when a hard, warm grip fastened around his ankles and tugged him back down. He did take issue with how his teeth dug into his bottom lip upon his face’s impact with the floor, but he was a god—it would take more than that to break him.

Once Mu Qing was planted face-first on the ground, Feng Xin released his wrists and Mu Qing flipped over, kicking his feet out just in time for one foot to land a hit into Feng Xin’s gut.

“Ough!” Feng Xin lost composure, but regained his wits quickly, grabbing for Mu Qing’s other leg and dragging Mu Qing back across the floor.

“You’re too easy to topple, General Xuan Zhen, clearly you are more impaired.”

Mu Qing bared his teeth and swung the leg caught in Feng Xin’s hand down, startling the other man and breaking his hold. Free to move, Mu Qing scrambled, desperate to stand. He managed to do so in tandem with Feng Xin, but when they were in front of each other again, both up on two feet, Mu Qing noticed that neither had gone to form fists.

His observation cost him, and in a blink Feng Xin crossed the distance between them to push Mu Qing over, throwing them both down again with reckless abandon.

They groaned simultaneously as the impact caught up to them, but Mu Qing recovered slower, having borne the brunt of their fall.

“You—” he coughed, trying to catch the breath that had expelled itself from his lungs. “You bastard! Your constitution must be suffering, to fight with no purpose and wound yourself with each attempt you make on me.”

Feng Xin, now a weight added to Mu Qing’s burdens, lifted himself up partially to gaze down at Mu Qing. They were close, and if the context of their fight were genuine upset, Mu Qing would have exploited that closeness to spit at Feng Xin, or attack his undefended center, or even start biting as he had during some less honorable squabbles. Since their fight was consciously facetious from the moment he tackled Feng Xin, their closeness became something else. Something strange, and heavy.

He noticed how Feng Xin smelled, overwhelmed by the scent of cinnamon and privately pleased with the fresh hint of soap lurking beneath. It meant Feng Xin had taken care to bathe himself before visiting Mu Qing, wanting to be the most presentable he could be for the duration of their meeting. Mu Qing gave up struggling to take in the small details, and hardly noticed Feng Xin’s grip on him slacken.

They were not fighting, and if they were no longer fighting, all they were in that moment was close. So near, Mu Qing could see the individual dark hairs comprising Feng Xin’s ever-furrowed brow.

“Nan Yang,” he whispered, cautious to shatter their proximity. “Concede. If I’m drunk, you must be, too.”

The breath from his speaking stirred a few errant strands of hair that had descended from Feng Xin’s topknot during their brawl, making them dance as though caught in a gentle breeze.

“I’m not drunk,” Feng Xin said, speaking softly.

Mu Qing could not nod, they were close enough that all there was to do was look at one another, perhaps even look into one another. The pupils of Feng Xin’s twin brown eyes were so blown they made the irises appear as though they were the same obsidian color as Mu Qing’s own. They acted like mirrors, and Mu Qing could see his own reflection staring back at him, but ignored it. Ignored his own likeness in favor of studying Feng Xin’s eyes, regardless of what could be seen through them.

“Neither am I,” he said.

Feng Xin hummed, dipping his eyes so that he could gaze once more at Mu Qing’s mulberry-painted lips. Like before, Mu Qing felt caught, and his breath came so short he felt it best to hold it until whatever weighted spell Feng Xin had cast on them with that one heavy look was broken.

It was good to stifle his breath, for when Feng Xin began to lower the entirety of his head Mu Qing did not fall victim to a stuttered inhalation or hitched exhalation. He knew what could come next, and knew what he hoped would come next. Not in any hurry to guess aloud and spoil the instance, Mu Qing stared, and waited.

In his waiting, Feng Xin had brought a hand to cup at his jaw, encasing one lower half of Mu Qing’s face in a warmth he’d never felt outside of the context of violence. The hand Feng Xin brought to him was open, and caring. It was no fist, and so Mu Qing was faced with a touch he scarcely understood.

Feng Xin’s thumb brushed over his bottom lip, and Mu Qing’s chest ached from holding back his breath. Before either sensation was registered Feng Xin struck again. This time, with his head lowered such that Mu Qing could no longer look at him directly, Feng Xin replaced the caress of his thumb with the tip of his tongue, swiping over Mu Qing’s plush lower lip once, then twice.

Mu Qing gasped, mouth parting open and giving Feng Xin the perfect access to lick along the curve of his upper lip before sucking on it lightly.

The kind of contact initiated hence was not any kind Mu Qing was prepared for. Between them, physical touch was commonplace, but always harsh. He had never thought to consider a language of physical intimacy, he was fluent only in conflict. As Feng Xin released his upper lip and continued to swipe his tongue across Mu Qing’s mouth, never quite a kiss but always hinting at what one might be like, Mu Qing committed himself to parsing the touch Feng Xin had introduced. He wanted to know it, and he wondered how to return it.

Of course Feng Xin was handsome; as a proper son of Xianle his highness Xie Lian knew how to find beauty, and knew to keep it close, a preference which naturally extended to those kept in his confidence. Of course Mu Qing had desired…but it was a desire that had articulated itself as desperation for understanding, never one that dared to wonder at how they might come together, and feel—

“Mu Qing.”

He was called back to focus. Feng Xin had ceased his licking, putting distance between them.

“I take it back. I'm drunk,” Mu Qing said. “I have to be, to have fallen asleep in the middle of our talking.”

A brief concern graced Feng Xin’s face before clearing. “Are you dreaming?”

“Must be,” he murmured.

Feng Xin leaned in again, but kept his tongue to himself. “A good dream?”

It could have been. He felt aglow in a way he’d only felt when dreaming, unbound from all that kept his waking reality burdened and isolated. Being so near the person most entrenched in his thoughts, conscious or otherwise, to despise or to hope for, untethered Mu Qing from any sense of the world outside of them.

“Will you wake me?” Mu Qing asked.

Feng Xin did not answer his strange question, instead pulling back. A confused, tentative shuffle of movement brought them both to sitting, level with each other once more. It took a moment longer for Mu Qing to recognize that the pounding sensation in his ears was the reverberation of his own immortal heartbeat, sent into frantic flight.

Mu Qing attempted to settle himself, putting more distance between them and busying himself with retrieving the wine cup Feng Xin had dropped as a consequence of their scuffle. He stood, walking to the otherside of his low-set table to pick the cup from the ground. Once the offending object was in hand he stayed where he was, sitting across from Feng Xin.

All the while, Feng Xin said nothing, and gave nothing away. Mu Qing watched him, waiting until Feng Xin returned the stare. When at last Feng Xin looked to him, Mu Qing kept his gaze steady, lifting a hand to his mouth and, without blinking, wiping at his spit-slick lips.

Feng Xin did not glance away, but his resolve cracked. His arms were back on the table top, but Mu Qing caught how he twisted the cuff of a sleeve between his fingers—fidgeting.

“It was your paste,” Feng Xin said, completely abashed. “The mulberry…paste.”

Mu Qing emptied the last of their peach blossom wine into each respective cup, waiting for Feng Xin to elaborate.

“I thought. Since you had bathed it might be best—or, you might prefer it if, the paste were removed. Uhm.”

Mu Qing hid his smile, keeping his amusement under practiced control. He had not expected Feng Xin to conjure such a flimsy excuse. Not talking about the blatantly obvious thing was his preferred method, but it was almost endearing that Feng Xin insisted on saying something.

“Mhmm,” Mu Qing allowed, pushing Feng Xin’s cup, filled to the brim, towards him. “Your consideration is appreciated.”

Though the heat and unprecedented nature of their previous exchange had at first left Mu Qing disoriented, seeing Feng Xin act the more lost between the two in the aftermath gave him reassurance. It was a reminder that he wasn’t facing their increasingly dissipating boundaries alone. They were talking together, moving together, pushing further together.

It was interesting, though. When they were close enough to breathe into one another, Feng Xin was the one who kept his mind about himself, poking light fun at Mu Qing. With distance, however, Feng Xin retreated into nervousness while Mu Qing could take the time to think clearly.

He shook his head, taking a measured drink, the wine cool on his feverish lips. When he set the cup down again, no mulberry tint stained its rim. Mu Qing frowned. If Feng Xin was willing to go so far as to remove the paste upon Mu Qing’s mouth with his tongue, why had he not completed the audacious action with a kiss?

That’s what was happening between them, Mu Qing was certain. He had no great well of experience to draw from, and no example to call upon when it came to Feng Xin, but he knew how to recognize desire. He thought, at last, what they each wanted from each other was one in the same.

“Your path,” Feng Xin said, artlessly redirecting from his disastrous excuse. “If it has been changed for so long, are you—” he gesticulated with his hands, but Mu Qing could make no meaning from the motions.

“Am I what?”

“Well, have you—”

He raised a brow. “Have I what?”

Feng Xin took another drink, long enough to drain his cup. When he returned, Mu Qing tilted his head, still waiting. Feng Xin breathed in.

“Had, intimate, uh, encounters.”

Mu Qing let his eyes grow moon-wide. “‘Intimate encounters?’”

“With women,” Feng Xin added, losing all the momentum he’d prepared for himself when downing his wine cup.

Mu Qing kept quiet, allowing the awkward question to sit in the space between them, taking up too much room. He had wondered if Feng Xin’s earlier inquiries into his drinking had an edge to them, if beneath all of Feng Xin’s prodding about his ancient vows there was a curiosity about Mu Qing’s sexual affairs. When Feng Xin’s expression twisted into a distress too agonizing to witness, Mu Qing set the both of them free.

“No.” He emptied his own cup. “Not with women.”

There had been little a man like him could offer a woman, both in his mortal and immortal life. His lineage was devastated by the disgrace and execution of his father, and thus he had no family to offer a young lady vying for marriage. His status was degraded in its own right, and though the common people of Xianle were enabled to appreciate romantic notions of unions between lovers, even if a woman were to accept his affections she would find herself alone in the marriage. At that time, the center of Mu Qing’s world was Xie Lian, serving him, and owing him for the chance to study on Mount Taicang.

When he was granted the opportunity to be a disciple he took it with both hands, grasping on without a second thought to its consequences. If celibacy was to be maintained, what of it? He had scant to offer in that regard, anyway. Not a family, not wealth, and not desire. By the time he was no longer fifteen and instead a man grown, serving under Xie Lian as a lower court official and furthering his own cultivation were still more important than any apparent limitations to their shared path. Xie Lian revered the restriction, and Mu Qing wished to be like the crown prince exactly, so he learned how to revere it, too.

It was easy enough to deny desire when he assumed it was women alone that might reel it from him. When his second stint as a lower court official presented a new opportunity, he knew well enough that a path free from asceticism would be a path kinder to him and his body, if only for the simple pleasure of despising Feng Xin as fierce as he despised himself without the havoc such strong resentment wreaked on a man purportedly free of all binding faults—debauchery, drunkenness, and deep, wounding anger.

The silence which elapsed after his clarification gave Mu Qing enough time to wind down the paths of his memory, and he wondered if Feng Xin was facing the same tendency. He looked up from where his gaze had fixated on the wooden tabletop to catch Feng Xin’s expression. His breath caught.

Feng Xin had not been lost in thought, rather, he had been staring at Mu Qing. His eyes were unreadable, but the intensity emanating from him was such that it made Mu Qing’s head itch. Unmoored by that look, Mu Qing flitted his own eyes elsewhere, noticing that Feng Xin’s hand, which he’d raised to drink, was still held aloft, nearly brushing his mouth.

It was a nice mouth. Both lips full, the top slightly darker in color than the bottom. A freckle graced the left side of his upper lip’s bow. Mu Qing had never had the time to study it as he did in that moment. Feng Xin’s mouth tended to be busy spouting inflammatory curses or elsewise bitten into oblivion while Feng Xin worked his mind to think. Mu Qing was once again severed from his own good sense, caught wondering what those lips would have felt like upon his own had Feng Xin dared to take them both off the cliff with a kiss.

“And you?” Mu Qing asked, desperate to fill the void between them, which felt too dangerously close to anticipatory.

Called back to attention, Feng Xin ceased his regard, setting his cup down and clearing his throat. “Hm?”

Mu Qing smirked. “Your intimate encounters, unfettered by Mount Taicang’s path of cultivation. Were they numerous?”

He had been passively curious for some time when it came to Feng Xin and his potential lovers. In theory, the great general Ju Yang was a passionate man, eager to aid married unions in procuring a son and just as prepared to assist in the act of pleasure. The various licentious poems, tales, and ballads Mu Qing had come across were full of such sentiments—and so very removed from the temperamental, isolated Feng Xin he had known all his life. Where Ju Yang was a confidante of women, Feng Xin could scarcely dream of standing next to one without flushing to his hairline. Where Ju Yang granted sons and blessed unions, Feng Xin had faced nothing but tragedy and despair in his own romance with Lady Jian Lan.

The instant he remembered Jian Lan, Mu Qing wished he could take his question from the air and shove it back down his own throat. Who was he to ask after Feng Xin’s affairs when he knew very well the one that had mattered most ended in devastation and had never rekindled after their reunion.

Mu Qing crossed his arms to hold himself, certain he had finally gone too far, finally reminded Feng Xin that they were not friends, they did not ‘talk,’ and they certainly did not discuss such intimate things. Certainly did not act in such intimate ways and were surely absent of mutual desire…

“Not numerous,” Feng Xin said, releasing Mu Qing from his compounding remorse. “But there have been some.”

“At present?”

Mu Qing cursed his mouth for spiting his mind, which would never have concluded more shameless questioning to be the best path forward.

Feng Xin shook his head. “None.”

Mu Qing swallowed, but found his throat nonsensically dry, making the motion unpleasant and leaving him without satisfaction. There was one final question, but it was the kind he could not ask. Did not know how to.

“Your hair,” Feng Xin said, voice nearing a whisper. Before Mu Qing could ask what was wrong with it, Feng Xin extended his arm, brushing the strands which had fallen from Mu Qing’s ribbon and curling them around his own finger.

“You tied it poorly,” Mu Qing accused, though no heat invaded his inflection. His hair was likely tousled during their ridiculous fight, or when Feng Xin had held him down and wiped his lip tint away. Mu Qing bit his cheek to curb his reaction to that memory.

Feng Xin looked at him, hair still wound about his finger, pretending to be remorseful. “Then, my bad. What should I do?”

Mu Qing tried to swallow again, but could not manage it.  “Fix it.”

A beat between them, and eight centuries already traversed, slowed to the exact moment when Mu Qing asked Feng Xin to retie his hair and Feng Xin acquiesced, standing from where he sat across from Mu Qing to instead kneel behind him.

There was no vanity before them, and thus nothing to keep Mu Qing grounded when Feng Xin gathered his hair and twisted it into a more manageable rope. He breathed in, but his chest felt too heavy to make any more than a shallow, stuttered intake. Feng Xin took the bundle of Mu Qing’s hair and set it down over Mu Qing’s right shoulder. The pads of Feng Xin’s fingertips grazed his neck with every motion, and the smell of cinnamon incense was almost heady, taking greater effect on him than their shared jar of wine ever could.

He could not see Feng Xin, but he knew the act of retying hair was a facade, and he thought Feng Xin might know it, too. Feng Xin had, afterall, pulled all of Mu Qing’s hair to one side and let the tresses settle, unbound.

Feng Xin had let the bundle of hair go, instead placing his hands to hold onto Mu Qing’s arms, keeping them in a loose embrace. Through his thin undershirt sleeves, Mu Qing felt their warmth and sighed.

A kiss, hesitant and shaking, was placed carefully at the nape of Mu Qing’s neck. Feng Xin’s lips were dry when they pressed against his skin, but when the kiss lifted—a quiet burst of sound from the suction breaking their quiet—Mu Qing could feel where it lingered, still wet.

With no more to deny, and every vulnerable hope brought to the surface, threatening to break through from his skin, Mu Qing refused to retreat back over the lines they had crossed. He tilted his head, and bared the side of his neck.

Again, Feng Xin kissed him, and this time his lips had been smoothed over, their pressure delicate and soft. His breathing came heavier, and Feng Xin moved his kissing higher, the sound of each getting louder and more obscene as he went. Mu Qing’s hands had twisted the fabric of his pants into awful, wrinkled bunches but he could not mind them, focused as he was on Feng Xin. To end the round of kisses, Feng Xin brought his cursed tongue back into play, licking up the side of Mu Qing’s neck and stopping to kiss at the juncture between jaw and ear.

Mu Qing gasped and fell forward. He did not fall over, the hold Feng Xin had on either of his arms kept him upright, but he did manage to put space between them.

As he might have feared, a kiss from Feng Xin was really too wonderful. A wash of feelings he had never wanted to voice, never dared to make real, came over him one after the other. What was he to do, now that they were so close? He was, despite his best efforts, a fool for sentiment. He had rarely loved, but had not abandoned the feeling altogether. He knew his love was strange, and he never expressed it as he should. He hoped, nonetheless, that his strange, inarticulate love could suit Feng Xin.

Slowly, he turned around in Feng Xin’s grasp until they faced each other. Feng Xin did not look expectant, nor did he project regret. Like before, his pupils were blown, and Mu Qing had half a mind to wonder if a magical aphrodisiac had been set alight in his room unbeknownst to them.

He stared for a moment at Feng Xin’s nose, long and strong, with a bump along its slope that Mu Qing was sure Feng Xin had been born with. If it came from a break, Mu Qing was not responsible. He liked Feng Xin’s nose, and he had never sought to punch it. His fists aimed around it, conscientious as they were.

The corner of his mouth twitched. He supposed he liked the entirety of Feng Xin’s face, regardless of which individual elements he had chosen to spare during their brawls and which he had once relished in breaking.

“Mu Qing,” Feng Xin said, and as they held the same space, Mu Qing felt the breath used to speak his name ghost across his face.

“Yes?” he was whispering, as though conspiring.

“Could you kiss me, too?” Feng Xin whispered back, in on it.

He could do anything he pleased, blessed as he was with a variety of talents and a resilient will. As it was, said will aligned with Feng Xin’s want, and Mu Qing leaned closer, straining his neck and shoulders to meet Feng Xin while maintaining their embrace.

Their first kiss, all considered, was pitiful. Their position was awkward and though Feng Xin’s lips were well-prepared, Mu Qing’s were dry and unmoving. But Mu Qing paid the details no heed, too caught in the overwhelm of all it meant to him to be kissing Feng Xin.

When they pulled away from it, having done nothing more than press against one another, Mu Qing smiled. An ugly smile, lopsided and stunned. Feng Xin grinned in return, not recognizing a single shortcoming in Mu Qing’s odd expression of the same joy.

Caught in the confirmation of Feng Xin’s desire, Mu Qing broke free from Feng Xin’s hold and turned to face him entirely, their knees bumping together. He surged forward, too affected by their first kiss to bother overthinking, and slung his arms across Feng Xin’s shoulders, forcing the other to hold his weight. Without a word of complaint Feng Xin took it, and returned the gesture by wrapping his arms across Mu Qing’s back, pulling them closer still.

With a hand stretched to cradle Feng Xin’s head, Mu Qing pushed himself upwards and brought their lips together again, catching Feng Xin’s upper lip between his own and sucking, before detaching and moving to the bottom.

Over and over they kissed like they barely understood the act, like they were the same foolish mortal youths they’d been when they’d met. Like they were each nervous to be so intimate, but likewise desperate to keep one another near, for as long as they could. It was Feng Xin who finally moved them to kiss at an angle, easing the movement and keeping Mu Qing’s nose from knocking into his own. Instead, Mu Qing found the tip of his nose repeatedly squished into Feng Xin’s cheek—he quite liked it there.

It became too cumbersome to kiss when their bodies were still so far apart, and eventually Feng Xin broke away, using his hold on Mu Qing to ease them into a new position. When his back hit the low table, Mu Qing had the mind to curse, and with Feng Xin settled between his open legs he had the urge to faint. Keeping his wits about him against all odds, however, Mu Qing chose to bring Feng Xin down on him completely and seal their lips together once more.

With better vantage, Mu Qing threaded his fingers through Feng Xin's dark hair, setting it loose with a deft hand. He had rarely seen Feng Xin free of his topknot, and so cracked an eye open to steal a glance.

Feng Xin's hair was much like Xie Lian's, thick and gorgeous. Though, as it was bound so often, distinct waves ran throughout Feng Xin's hair and Mu Qing reveled in the act of feeling each curve with his wandering hand.

He pulled away from Feng Xin’s face, tucking himself into Feng Xin’s neck instead. At the juncture where neck met jaw Mu Qing bit in, eliciting a sharp breath from Feng Xin. It had been years since he’d last bitten Feng Xin, and their present circumstances were considerably more favorable. Rather than hurting Feng Xin, Mu Qing closed his lips around his teeth and pulled the soft skin of Feng Xin’s neck. The mark he planned to leave would be garish and obvious and impossible to hide.

While he worked, Feng Xin continued to adjust their position, placing his hands to brace Mu Qing’s back against the table-top, allowing them to stay steady so long as they held onto one another. Once his spit made it too difficult to maintain his suction Mu Qing relinquished his biting-kiss, laughing aloud. The sound of it was not mocking, but light as a water glider skimming the surface of a pond. Quick, inevitable. Joyous.

When they returned to facing each other, Mu Qing offered a brief peck to the tip of Feng Xin’s nose.

What little experience he had with physical affection had never been the sort which allowed for indulgences, but Feng Xin was his pair across centuries of life, even if their place beside one another had been fraught, and their present intimacy hard-won, Mu Qing knew Feng Xin. He kissed Feng Xin’s nose once more for good measure.

Their lips met again, at last familiar. Mu Qing got ahead of his own mind, excited at the notion of the world he now existed within—that is, the one in which he could think of Feng Xin’s lips and recall them and their taste with the ease of experience. His right hand twisted in Feng Xin’s hair, the overwhelming intensity of his feelings abated only so long as he could grasp onto Feng Xin.

His other hand drifted, hooking below Feng Xin’s arm and reaching for the belt tied firm around Feng Xin’s waist. Any trick or trade he learned was his for eternity, and there were few more adept than Mu Qing in the art of undressing. Xie Lian’s garb, first as prince and then as god, had always been extravagant to an extreme, and thus had provided ample opportunity for Mu Qing to hone his ability for untying sturdy knots, unbinding wraps of fabric, and removing a garment with the dual detachment of a professional and the consideration of a lover.

Feng Xin’s belt came loose and fell off beside them, the pendant tied to it hitting the ground with a dull thunk.

Not to be outdone, apparently, Feng Xin stopped holding Mu Qing’s weight, leaving Mu Qing to try and balance his precarious spot atop the table. It was not an immediate struggle, his thighs and core were strong enough to keep him in place, but the consequence of Feng Xin leaving him to handle the burden himself was that it meant Feng Xin was moving away.

His bubbling disappointment was eased a bit when Feng Xin leaned in again, brushing his hands along the two ties that kept Mu Qing’s undershirt closed. Mu Qing lowered his head to watch.

Feng Xin’s hands shook, fumbling with the knots Mu Qing had made of his shirt’s ties. Over and over Feng Xin failed to get a good hook onto the fastenings. He huffed—in amusement or exasperation, Mu Qing couldn’t quite tell, but regardless chose to intervene.

He placed his hand over Feng Xin’s, which still trembled. Biting back a smile, Mu Qing steadied that nervous fidgeting and intertwined their fingers, guiding Feng Xin’s left hand to the hem of his undershirt.

Feng Xin was receptive to the instruction, pushing Mu Qing’s shirt-hem up and up, exposing the soft skin of his abdomen. The vulnerable position made the muscles along Mu Qing’s torso seize, and his breath was coming in shallow punches. It was not overwhelm, but anticipation.

Mu Qing raised his hand to cup the top of Feng Xin’s head. Their eyes met, for just an instant, and then Mu Qing smirked, pushing down on Feng Xin.

Feng Xin went without complaint, bracing his weight with his hands and replacing their warmth on Mu Qing’s skin with a reverent kiss. Unable to muffle himself Mu Qing cried out, the hold he had on Feng Xin ending as his hand flew to cover his traitorous mouth. He could feel Feng Xin’s grin as it was pressed into him. The feeling faded, replaced with teeth, as Feng Xin worked to return the love bite Mu Qing had gifted him earlier. When his labor finished, Feng Xin licked over the bruise and sealed it with a chaste kiss upon the newly sensitive spot.

It was not a whine that escaped past the shield of Mu Qing’s hand, but he could not re-classify the sound in any dignified way. Feng Xin made no comment, moving his attention lower and introduced each subsequent kiss across Mu Qing’s stomach by first swiping his tongue across the expanse he wished to care for and then pressing down with his lips.

Falling into a rhythm, Mu Qing could not help the way his legs squeezed against Feng Xin’s shoulders, keeping them both in place. He stopped covering his mouth, letting his arm fall away to the side. With the heat of Feng Xin’s focus directed away from his face, Mu Qing had a sliver of room to think.

Perhaps this was all he had ever wanted. It felt good to want, and to receive. Feng Xin had been an enigma for so long. A confusing, hypocritical, tempestuous brat. Always assuming the worst, and always eager to construct a vision of Mu Qing as a duplicitous, ill-mannered traitor. They had not been in such throes of conflict for a long while, mending the divide between them with Xie Lian in the center, supporting their heavy halves. Mu Qing was glad for it, though he could not summon the audacity to say so aloud. He had not dared to think, in all that time, that relative congeniality might become something greater. Not since he was a boy working the grounds of Mount Taicang, brought under the wing of Xianle’s darling crown prince and placed beside the willowy archer with a brash tongue, had he dared to think…

Mu Qing shook his head, desperate to return to the physical. Feng Xin had begun to kiss and suck between Mu Qing’s abdomen and hip, where his skin creased over bone. His throat was dry again, aching and tight. His head felt as though it had been submerged in a vat of honey and when Feng Xin’s fingers tugged the drawstring of his pants—Mu Qing shoved against him.

Startled, Feng Xin retreated, wiping at his kiss-swollen lips and inquiring: “Are you alright?”

Surely what followed would be Feng Xin’s return to sense. Mu Qing was doing him a favor, ending things before they traversed a path that could not be untrod. Feng Xin must have been very lonely for quite a while, to have sought company and companionship with Mu Qing. Even though his chest ached and a smaller, kinder voice in his mind longed to believe Feng Xin had longed for him, Mu Qing had already broken their gossamer-thin connection.

Hesitant, Mu Qing lifted his head, bracing himself for whatever he would find in Feng Xin when he dared to search.

Knelt between Mu Qing’s legs, hands retreated back to himself and folded neatly upon his lap, Feng Xin did not appear angry. His brow did not furrow, his eyes did not glint with frustration. His shoulders were untensed and though the sleeves and lapels of his outer robe had cascaded past his elbows, he made no move to correct them. There was no evidence of discontent, or annoyance.

Feng Xin sat, patient, and asked again: “Mu Qing? Are you alright?”

Though the light in his bedchamber was low, Mu Qing could see well, and he noted how Feng Xin’s eyes softened, as though he looked upon a lover. Is that what they were? Perhaps not. But they could be. Mu Qing had prepared himself for the shattering of an illusion, and all he faced, in the end, was the assuring solidity of Feng Xin. Steady as stone, capable of taking Mu Qing in his arms and shouldering that burden.

Mu Qing was overcome, failing to answer Feng Xin properly and instead lifting himself from his position against the table and launching himself towards Feng Xin, barreling the both of them over in a firm embrace. Feng Xin grunted when his back hit the floor, but adjusted to each ridiculous move Mu Qing made, rolling them over and over, like he meant to tackle Feng Xin but was unable to apply force. When they stopped, Mu Qing lay atop Feng Xin and held him close, breathing in the interlaced scents of cinnamon, soap, and hair oil.

“I’m okay,” he said into Feng Xin’s shoulder, sound muffled by fabric and body.

Feng Xin hugged him back, having held onto him from the instant Mu Qing crashed into him, and kissed Mu Qing’s forehead upon hearing that answer, I’m okay.

When both of their limbs began to protest their tangle, they worked themselves into respectable sitting positions. Quick to rectify their sudden distance, Mu Qing seized his fleeting confidence and sat himself on top of Feng Xin—straddling him.

There were many advantages to having the high-ground, and prominent among them was the ability for Mu Qing to cradle Feng Xin’s head with both hands.

“Mu Qing?”

He squished Feng Xin’s cheeks together, forcing the last syllable of his name to come out warped. He let go when the image of Feng Xin in such a silly state became too much to bear.

“Yes?”

When he tried to remove his hands, embarrassed by his boldness, Feng Xin brought his own hands upward to keep Mu Qing’s in place.

“I want to apologize, if, if anything I’ve done has upset you, or, is not what you wanted—”

“I do want,” Mu Qing said. “I want you.”

Feng Xin’s mouth snapped shut, and his eyes shined. “You do?”

Mu Qing nodded, flexing his thumbs where they mirrored each other—pressed to Feng Xin’s beautiful face. He frowned, but not for any fault of Feng Xin.

“I'm not accustomed to it being so…” he prodded both thumbs deeper into Feng Xin’s skin, making dimples, “...strong. And strange. I want you because I—” He turned his head away, abashed.

“Because what?”

It wasn't the trouble of what he wanted, but the trouble of facing Feng Xin once he made himself clear. Mu Qing bit his lower lip, and gave in.

“You've become someone I l-l-like very much!” He rushed the words. Then: “I like you. I didn't even realize you'd done it, I didn't realize I'd let you. I would like to…with you I would…”

“I like you, too!” Feng Xin winced, shocked by the volume of his voice. Mu Qing swept some of the hair that had cascaded to frame his face back behind his ear. Grounded by the touch, Feng Xin settled again, his hands tightening where they’d come to rest on Mu Qing’s hips. “I want you because I like you, too. I like you because…” His grip became more intense, causing Mu Qing to shift in place on his lap, drawing hitched breaths from the both of them. Feng Xin continued on valiantly: “I like you because you came to the door.”

Mu Qing rolled his eyes. “What does that even—”

“I like that you came to the door, and that you let me in. I like that you let me in, and let me stay. I like the way your voice rasps in the evening, and that you keep wine hidden beneath your floorboards. I could not tell you exactly when I first realized it, a year ago, earlier, later, I don't know. Only, once I knew I could like you, all I saw from then on were more reasons to do so. I like that you like me, I like that you want me, I like—mmph!”

Any other frightening words Feng Xin had to say were muffled by the hand Mu Qing brought to his mouth. His face felt as though it were tinder beneath a flame, only capable of spurring the dreadful heat on.

“If you say anything else, I won’t—I won’t know what to do with you. Don’t say anymore.” His heart, which rarely deviated from its exact, perfect rhythm, pounded against the constraints of his chest. It was going to burst from him, and the disaster would be Feng Xin’s fault.

Under his palm, eyes alight with good humor, Feng Xin nodded. Mu Qing released his hold, but as soon as he’d pulled away Feng Xin brought one of his own hands up to capture Mu Qing’s wrist and bring his palm back, just for an instant, to kiss. The action caught him off guard, and for far too long his hand hovered between them.

Removed from the logic of his movement, Mu Qing redirected his hand away from Feng Xin’s smug mouth to hold a side of Feng Xin’s face. His thumb settled upon a firm, high cheekbone. Feng Xin was too handsome…how could he have survived being so close to him all this time?

Suddenly shy, Mu Qing lowered his head, resting in the crook of Feng Xin’s neck. His hand remained in place, and Mu Qing felt content enough to keep it there. He closed his eyes, feeling the pace of Feng Xin’s pulse where it beat against him.

While he hid, Feng Xin brought the hands at his hips up, gliding them along the expanse of Mu Qing’s back. Eyes still shut, he tried to move in closer, to bask in the warmth of Feng Xin’s body. As he did so, one of Feng Xin’s hands came to press against his lower back, urging Mu Qing to arch against the pressure and cant his hips downward.

He gasped and Feng Xin tensed.

Had he just—

Was that—

After repeating the motion twice, Mu Qing was certain. While their previous activity had been arousing, they were both far beyond the excited, unfortunate trials of youth. Even as a young man, Mu Qing had been trained to dismiss all desire. And Feng Xin, he had to presume, was not easily swayed by suggestions of physical intimacy, so inundated and numbed as he was by the thousands of prayers to his…Ju Yang. When they’d been bound passionately together moments prior, Mu Qing had been too nervous that each kiss would be the last he ever received from Feng Xin to bother recognizing and validating his body’s additional reactions.

He tilted his hips again, chasing the feeling—

The hand Feng Xin had placed on his lower back remained, and began to follow his movement, urging him closer still, increasing the friction between—

Mu Qing did it again, and was rewarded with a stutter in Feng Xin’s breathing. It felt good, and he smiled into Feng Xin’s neck, letting his lips catch on Feng Xin’s skin, kissing without kissing. Once again—

He shortened the gaps between each undulation, the exertion causing him to pant—to pant—

“Mu Qing,” Feng Xin sighed. His idle hand had slipped lower to spread across the side of Mu Qing’s right thigh. Mu Qing could feel the fingers of that hand squeeze his thigh and release with every—squeeze, release—squeeze, release—squeeze—

“Anh,” Mu Qing forced the nonsense syllable from his mouth, though it felt like it was coming from his nose. He refused to classify it as a moan, he was not one to get worked up over the mere act of—

He exhaled, loud and labored. It felt good to—to—

Mu Qing forced himself to stop, hovering over Feng Xin’s lap. The fabric of his pants failed to hide his erection, and without the friction brought on by rubbing against Feng Xin’s equally attentive cock he was left with nothing but the discomfort of its swelling. Pressure had begun to build, but whatever precipice they’d started to near faded as their movement ceased.

He was breathing hard, as though they’d been sparring. With one final, grounding inhalation, Mu Qing lifted his head.

Feng Xin was in no better shape. The hair Mu Qing had diligently tucked into place was askew, his chest was heaving, and his mouth was open, just hanging and taking in air like he’d been deprived of it.

Without overthinking it Mu Qing took Feng Xin’s bottom lip between his teeth, sucking on it lightly before pulling away. The hand on his thigh dug in again, urging Mu Qing to pull back further.

“Feng Xin,” he said. “I want you to stay.”

Feng Xin watched him closely, then nodded. “I want to stay.”

He moved beneath Mu Qing, and with haste Mu Qing scrambled off of his lap, giving Feng Xin room to stand. Mu Qing kept track of the way Feng Xin’s legs wobbled at the knees when first getting his bearings.

Then, Feng Xin’s palms were in his line of sight, offering Mu Qing support.  Not one to rebuff offered humility, Mu Qing used Feng Xin to pull himself up.

They separated from each other's hold once Mu Qing was standing, and the tug near his heart that came from their parting was enough for Mu Qing to step back further. Without that attempt to claim his dignity, Mu Qing could never hope to retrieve it again.

The sound of clothing rustling to the floor caught his wandering attention, and Mu Qing stared, enraptured by the sight of Feng Xin shedding his outer robes and stepping out of his pants, leaving him cloaked only in a plain, thin inner layer.

Mu Qing did consider berating him for tossing his clothes in such haphazard disarray, but really, how was he meant to form any coherent thought when Feng Xin was there, nearly naked, in his own bedchamber?

His head was still buzzing when Feng Xin took his right hand, guiding him over and soothing the ridges of his knuckles with a thumb.

“The bed,” Mu Qing said, with nothing to clarify the statement.

Feng Xin understood well enough, however, and began to beckon him forth, their fingers interlocked. Mu Qing followed, letting Feng Xin make their path until he stopped before the bedside.

Mu Qing frowned when he dropped their hands, but was put to task not to cry out when Feng Xin settled behind him.

“Arms out.”

Mu Qing turned his head, but found nothing in Feng Xin’s expression that hinted at his intentions.

“Arms out,” Feng Xin repeated, placing his hands at Mu Qing’s elbows and nudging. Without further prompting, Mu Qing did as he was told.

Once his arms were in place, Feng Xin returned to face him, acting like a buffer between Mu Qing and the welcoming, comfortable expanse of his bed. If he wished to, all he’d have to do to send Feng Xin sprawling out across that mattress would be to walk forward and push. Despite that possibility, Mu Qing waited, arms spread out at either side of his body.

In a mirror of his earlier fumbling actions, Feng Xin began to work the ties keeping Mu Qing’s undershirt closed. The effect was not the same, though, as within three beats Feng Xin had loosened and unbound the first knot. He made efficient work of the second and soon enough he was pressing on Mu Qing’s arms, guiding them down so that he might begin the process of sliding the undershirt off.

Mu Qing’s breath hitched, but not for pleasure. He felt as though he might sob if he didn’t claw back control over his emotions. The thing was…when he had ended his time in Xie Lian’s service, when he had severed their connection and brought to close all that had been between them, when he had attempted to return and been pushed away, he had made several assumptions.

He'd assumed that no longer would he be required to make anyone’s bed but his own, no longer would he be put to work cleaning, cooking, mending, or accounting. No longer would his hands be tasked to brush over fine mulberry-silk robes and pretend to be indifferent; no longer would he dress and undress another with the distinction that to do such a simple task was his duty, and nothing more.

Feng Xin would have made a terrible attendant. His hands lingered too long and his touch was too bold. When he removed Mu Qing’s undershirt, he let it fall to their feet without a second glance. He even dared to brush across Mu Qing’s nipples, teasing one of the brown buds with a thumb-nail. Mu Qing resolutely and conclusively did not yelp when he did so. His eyes took in the exposed skin of Mu Qing’s torso without shame and without modesty.

 Truly, a terrible attendant.

Feng Xin’s hands settled again on his hips, and with their applied pressure Mu Qing was urged to turn around. He did as he was guided, and waited for Feng Xin to return to him. Keeping one hand on Mu Qing’s waist, Feng Xin circled around him until their places, standing before the bedside, had switched.

“General Xuan Zhen,” he said, performing a perfect tone of deference. He began to kneel. “You said so earlier, I’m in your temple. Allow me to—”

“The temple is outside of this palace,” Mu Qing corrected. He couldn’t help it, falling back on his base need to berate Feng Xin was how he managed to cope with the extraordinary image of a divine being falling to their knees before him.

“Then, Mu Qing, will you let me finish undressing you?”

 He put a hand to the side of Feng Xin’s head, never too shy to cradle the latter in such a way.

“Finish what you start, Feng Xin.”

There was no need to reiterate. Feng Xin took his time undoing the ties which kept Mu Qing’s pants up across his hips, and proceeded to drag out the process of pushing them down until—until—

Until the action was done, and Feng Xin was helping to steady him as he removed one foot from one leg, and then the other. All said, Feng Xin kept remarkable composure, despite the blatant presence of Mu Qing’s erection mere inches from his face.

Eager to shatter that unflustered countenance Mu Qing shifted his weight from one foot to the other—that was all, he would tell himself, just a shift of weight—and incidentally slapped Feng Xin’s face with his cock.

Feng Xin broke, though not in the way Mu Qing had anticipated he would. Though surprised by the slap—it was more of a tap, really, Mu Qing assured himself—Feng Xin remained undaunted, and even tilted his head, granting easier access to his cheek should Mu Qing choose to repeat the indignity.

He would not have dared! Flustered in his own right, Mu Qing cleared his throat.

“My pants are already discarded, you can come up from the floor.”

Feng Xin shrugged. “I’m comfortable.”

Mu Qing doubted that, but Feng Xin was too stubborn, and he saw no point in quibbling against that resolve. Instead, he pinched Feng Xin’s ear. That would show him.

It only spurred him on. Feng Xin eyed Mu Qing’s cock, and leaned in—

A soft pair of lips, smoothed from prior activity, met his upper thigh. Mu Qing gasped, and bit his cheek to distract from the shudder which ran through him. Moving with slow reverence, Feng Xin mouthed at his thigh, occasionally bringing the vulnerable skin in between his teeth, but letting go before any mark could take. He was going to drive Mu Qing mad.

Mu Qing could feel the tension in Feng Xin’s jaw as he kissed, and could feel a few errant strands of Feng Xin’s loose hair brush against his leg.

“Please,” he whispered. Feng Xin heard him and gave one more kiss, tucking it close to the turn of Mu Qing’s inner-thigh.

Without wasting time, Feng Xin directed his attention where Mu Qing longed for it most. His tongue, that clever muscle he’d used to devastate Mu Qing earlier, swept the length of Mu Qing’s cock.

“Mmh!” Mu Qing’s hand twisted, its fingers interlacing with Feng Xin’s hair.

Feng Xin stimulated the shaft with his tongue a moment longer before pulling back, positioning his face properly, and taking Mu Qing into the warm, wet heat of his mouth.

There was no other way for him to have learned Feng Xin knew how to satisfy a cock orally aside from experiencing it first hand, but Mu Qing still cursed himself for not having any prior awareness with which to equip himself.

Feng Xin did not try to take the entirety of him at first, but Mu Qing already knew the man possessed a talent for stuffing his face—with food, he knew insofar as it applied to food—without gagging or stopping to breathe. As though answering the ridiculous direction of that thought, Feng Xin bobbed his head, mindful of his teeth, and did not stop moving forward until the tip of his nose prodded the base of Mu Qing’s cock.

And Mu Qing would, despite his pride, deign to admit that he shouted out, softening the cry with a weak moan. Not that Feng Xin took pity on him, he only continued to take Mu Qing in, adjusting his patterns towards what drew the most reaction.

Terrible attendant—decent lover. Perhaps more than decent, but Mu Qing could only bend so far from one admission to another.

Feng Xin retreated after some time, leaving Mu Qing at the exact moment his groin had begun a flurry of contractions. Refusing to finish without Feng Xin on him, Mu Qing attempted to steady his breathing, implementing techniques in control he had not utilized in centuries. He was able to hold off, and looked down at Feng Xin, who, in turn, gazed up at him.

The rims of Feng Xin’s eyes had reddened, but his face was otherwise glowing, excitement and earnest affection radiating from him. Mu Qing suffered through the discomforting weight of his still-erect cock and unwound the fingers he’d tangled in Feng Xin’s hair, bringing that hand back down to cradle.

“Feng Xin—”

“I want to fuck you.”

If there were greater sentiments to express the desire, Mu Qing did not care for them. Feng Xin’s got the point across well enough. Too well. His eyes widened, and the soft back-and-forth caress of his hand across Feng Xin’s cheek stilled. Before he could muster any sort of reply his knees buckled, and Mu Qing tripped backwards onto the bed.

Feng Xin shouted in surprise, scrambling from his place on the floor and surging up to check on Mu Qing.

Though their movements were uncoordinated, in some manner they managed to settle with Mu Qing against the bed and Feng Xin hovering over Mu Qing, one knee braced on the mattress while his other leg extended to the floor. Annoyed to be the only one lying down, Mu Qing used what remained of his petty sense to kick Feng Xin’s grounded leg, causing Feng Xin to collapse on top of him.

“You’re crushing me!” Mu Qing whined, as though it were not his fault in the first place.

Feng Xin laughed, lifting himself up with the strength of his arms. Though they could face each other as a result, their bodies were still compressed together. Mu Qing had never been more aware of their nakedness than he was at that moment. He couldn’t help but wriggle a bit.

Without a care for the state of them, Feng Xin asked: “Would you want that, too?”

“Hm?” Mu Qing dug his fingers into Feng Xin’s forearms, curious if he could cause the other to fall again.

“Would you want me to—”

“Fuck me?”

Feng Xin bit his bottom lip inward and nodded. It was such a silly thing to do, and after such an audacious statement it seemed rather…cute.

Mu Qing angled his fingers such that his nails bit into Feng Xin’s skin. Feng Xin did not falter, taking the exchange between them with intense sincerity. Mu Qing eased his grip and settled contentedly into the pliant mattress beneath him.

“I’ve hoped you might do so the entire night. You’ve kept me waiting,” Mu Qing said.

His words were sure, but his face burned. He eased his hands over the crescent-shaped divots he’d left upon Feng Xin’s poor forearm.

Feng Xin beamed. “Then, I must ensure your wait was worth it.”

“Aren’t you too pleased with yourself?”

Mu Qing pushed against Feng Xin’s chest, forcing their bodies to separate so that Feng Xin knelt between him as he rose to sit. It occurred to him then that he had yet to properly assess Feng Xin’s…or, would it be Ju Yang’s…

He looked down and took in the sight—of a perfectly normal penis. Bigger than normal, perhaps, though Mu Qing's metric on such things wasn't extensive. Well-shaped. Stiff and erect upwards.

A noise of muted confusion broke between them, but it did not come from Mu Qing.

Reluctant though he was to part from the sight of Feng Xin’s cock, Mu Qing found it worth it in the end to catch the surprise blending throughout Feng Xin's expression, mixing with his open brows and parted mouth.

“It’s…mine,” Feng Xin said, baffling Mu Qing completely.

He stretched his memory for any clue and recalled a bawdy tall tale he had once heard in the mortal realm.

General Ju Yang, with his power to grant sons and his sway over bedroom affairs, had been represented a thousand different ways through the centuries. What such a divine being of passion and marital bliss would best look like changed by the hand of the sculptor, the beliefs of the village, and the wants of the state. Idols of the infamous appendage were common for a time, and none looked quite similar to another. How Ju Yang appeared in dreams or in stories depended on the teller’s preferences, morphed to suit their desires and ideals for the great Heavenly General of Perfect Satisfaction.

As the unfortunate god attached to such mythic precedent and expectation, Feng Xin must bear a twisted sort of relationship to the mortal’s notions of him and his cock. Mu Qing suspected that, if his conclusions were sound, the shape and size of Feng Xin’s penis would depend on the exact wants and presumptions of his partner.

All Mu Qing longed for was, of course, Feng Xin himself. However he was when he was only Feng Xin—that was what Mu Qing most desired. Thus no part of Feng Xin would be altered, augmented, or arranged in any way separate from how he truly existed. They did not speak of it, but Mu Qing knew it to be true.

Clear, viscous fluid had begun to pearl and gather at Feng Xin’s cockhead, and, back to the matters at hand, Mu Qing considered the best way to get them both where they wished to be. He brought the fingers of one hand to Feng Xin’s lips.

“Suck, then spit.”

Needing no further instruction, Feng Xin accepted the intrusion of Mu Qing’s fingers, rolling and curling his tongue along their solid form to induce a greater production of saliva. He was careful not to swallow, allowing the spit to gather in his mouth and wet the fingers held within.

Feng Xin tried to mumble around them and Mu Qing was quick to admonish: “Don’t talk when your mouth is full.”

The ridiculous quip made Feng Xin smile around him, scraping the knuckles of Mu Qing’s fingers with his teeth.

When they’d pursued the action to Feng Xin’s limit, Mu Qing pulled his fingers out of the warm, damp heat of Feng Xin’s mouth and turned his hand palm-side up. Eager to dispel the accumulated saliva, Feng Xin spit into the cup of that offered hand.

Mu Qing’s nose scrunched, and he felt the back of his throat tighten in mild disgust. There would be use for the fluid in his palm, no matter how distinctly awful the feeling of it was.

He focused on the lines of Feng Xin’s face to distract him. He watched the flex of Feng Xin’s jaw each time he spat, noted the dried tears caught where his crow’s feet would have been, and adored the way his hair would not stop getting in his way, causing Feng Xin to stop proceedings twice to push it back behind his shoulders. If the spitting was procedural, Mu Qing could bear it for that sight alone. Such a small task, really.

Once Feng Xin emptied his mouth, he leaned back and swallowed, having been denied the release of that simple action for too long.

Mu Qing was quick to return all that Feng Xin had given him. He bit his cheek as he worked, trying to make it both productive and pleasurable. Though he'd always been a bit artless when it came to handling another’s cock, Feng Xin made no complaint and in fact rewarded his effort with sweet, cut-off sighs and occasional punched-out moans.

What they’d gathered from Feng Xin's mouth did improve the state of things; Mu Qing’s hand began to glide and no hint of uncomfortable friction came to surface. But, Mu Qing knew himself. No matter how he breathed through it, no matter how relaxed he was, all the spit which currently slicked Feng Xin’s cock wouldn't last. Feng Xin may not have been as egregious in size or girth as certain depictions of Ju Yang proposed, but he wasn’t small.

“It’s not enough yet,” he said, removing his hand from Feng Xin and letting his arm settle.

Feng Xin took a moment to come down, but agreed. “It’s not. I have an idea.”

An altogether rare occurrence. Mu Qing waited for him to explain, and with that silent permission Feng Xin continued: “That elm bark gel of yours.”

Mu Qing opened his mouth, then closed it. Opened it again to berate Feng Xin, but shut it before he could. How Feng Xin had even come to the notion was a mystery of thought and process he could never hope to untangle, but. Well. It was slick, composed almost entirely of water but given structure by the elm. It wasn’t sticky, and Mu Qing could appreciate that. It was an utterly absurd, inappropriate, and untested idea.

He nodded. “Get it.”

Feng Xin nearly fell off the bed in his haste, and stood without any semblance of grace. He was too excited, and that made Mu Qing smile. He watched as Feng Xin ambled to the vanity, and suspected the pace was intentional, allowing Mu Qing a very generous view of his ass. He bit into his tongue so hard that it bled.

Embarrassed by his reaction, Mu Qing tore his eyes away from Feng Xin and busied himself with the task of positioning. He had his own preferences, and no matter how they wound up, Mu Qing was sure it would be the best he’d ever experienced. In every other way, it already was.

What it came to, in the end, was Mu Qing turning his body over to await Feng Xin on his hands and knees. At least to start, he knew he could not risk seeing Feng Xin’s face while the other man fucked into him. One glance would send him careening off of a cliff he had tried very ardently to remain only at the edge of. Besides, hearing a crash and shatter from Feng Xin stumbling into the low table on his return to the bed was enough of a justification.

Mu Qing thought back briefly to the thud he’d heard when striding to his bathing pool earlier, and delighted at the idea that Feng Xin had been just as affected at the sight of Mu Qing then as he was at present.

“Will it work?” Mu Qing let the question drift over his shoulder, soothing the awkward transition on Feng Xin’s behalf as he went from standing to bracing himself behind Mu Qing. The mattress dipped while he settled, and Feng Xin hummed.

“It should. At the very least, no harm will be done even if it doesn’t.”

Mu Qing adjusted himself to rest more comfortably, letting his body arch as it willed. He trusted Feng Xin, and though the solution he’d arrived at was humorous, the logic which dictated it was firm. Enough for them, anyway.

They were divine beings, and the actual chance of coming to harm from something as mortal and fleeting as sex was miniscule, but it was nice to operate as though every detail mattered. It soothed some ache in his heart to be with Feng Xin and concern himself over issues like relative comfort, ease, and so forth.

Feng Xin brought a hand to hold the taper of Mu Qing’s waist while the other remained with him to, as Mu Qing could conclude from the intermittent squelching that sounded from Feng Xin’s direction, lubricate his cock.

He deepened the valley of his spine, resting one side of his face onto the bed beneath them. He practiced breathing, seeking to control the passage of air in, and out, and in. His efforts came to naught when the tip of Feng Xin’s cock met his rim.

Mu Qing’s shoulders heaved, his hands bunching the sheets. As he tensed, Feng Xin stilled. He inhaled, taking in all the air he could, and relaxed against Feng Xin’s touch.

“Okay,” he said. “Keep going.”

Feng Xin listened, and began to tease Mu Qing relentlessly, cock ghosting over his rim and giving the satisfaction of contact before pulling away to begin again. Without being able to see Feng Xin, every touch was unexpected, almost too intense for him to endure.

“Feng Xin.” The name poured from his treacherous mouth as a moan. He furrowed his brow, eyes shut and face pressed against the mattress. He'd gotten used to the feeling of touch back there, and he needed to tell Feng Xin. He tried again: “Don’t just—just—”

This time, when Feng Xin returned to him, he made contact with Mu Qing’s rim and pushed, ever so slightly, in. Then out.

At the limit of his patience Mu Qing stuttered out a plea: “Keep—keep going—keep going, don’t—” He sighed when Feng Xin returned and stayed in place. “Don’t stop.”

The first move Feng Xin made was slow, letting Mu Qing adjust to the feeling and relax around him. Mu Qing appreciated the consideration and took advantage of the offer. Desperate as he was, he knew not to rush things. He concentrated on those funny muscles of his, breathing in deep and attempting to empty his mind of any impulse to contract and tighten them. Feng Xin put his hand on Mu Qing’s hips—Really, what was his fixation with them?—and pushed further still.

They continued that pattern of give, breath, take, breathe, and wait, until Feng Xin bottomed out and sighed over top of him.

“Was that it?” Mu Qing asked, his voice was muffled by the half of his face still pressed into the bed.

Feng Xin laughed, though it was more of a breathy huff, and pressed the hands at Mu Qing hips upward to rub at Mu Qing’s waist. “You’re such a brat.”

Mu Qing would have to summon a proper feeling of offense later, when the pressure and presence of Feng Xin’s cock inside of him was not so all-consuming. In the meantime, he eased a crick in his neck by settling his head in the cradle of his arms. Mu Qing supposed he could have just changed the way he lay, but the leisure of his position contrasted to the effort Feng Xin was exerting was too rousing to convince him of an alternate course. There was just one more thing.

“Move.”

It was when Feng Xin began the process of dragging his cock out and fucking back in, still cautious with his pace and slow enough to make Mu Qing's toes curl, that Mu Qing realized—he really cherished the fool.

There were likely better times for the realization to occur, but Mu Qing's revelations had never been known to adhere to the courtesy of ‘time and place.’ It was just that, he really did. For every profound reason and several absurd ones, he quite adored Feng Xin, whose affection was infectious and open and naive and fragile and entirely his to claim. He hid his face as best he could and let the acknowledgement cloak him.

When Mu Qing was fully comfortable with the way Feng Xin felt and moved inside of him, he clutched at the wrinkled sheets and steadied himself. Feng Xin started to thrust properly, and with each push inward Mu Qing’s breath cut itself off into soft panting—hha, hha, haa.

Their position allowed Feng Xin to stimulate him in turn, hitting that spot within him and beginning to build pleasure. Mu Qing bit into his cheek.

Feng Xin settled into a rhythm, pulling further out each time, only to slam back into Mu Qing and prevent him from taking a proper breath, leaving him with no other option but to moan. Of course, it wasn’t really Feng Xin’s fault Mu Qing’s breathing techniques were so thoroughly thwarted, but rather the unpredictable tensing and release of his groin. Still, he had habits to cling to if nothing else, and it made him smirk to blame Feng Xin and his arrogant co—

“Unh!” Mu Qing whined, facing the dual torture of Feng Xin thrusting back in whilst also daring to plant a kiss between Mu Qing’s shoulder blades.

Mu Qing deepened the arch of his back and held on for his life as Feng Xin started to fuck him in earnest. The sound of their skin slapping together was one thing, but the smell of their sweat, intertwined with the artiface of their pleasant cometic scent, was a particularly heady delight. Mu Qing was not too far past his senses, however, and though he savored every move Feng Xin made, he could not praise the pleasure so easily.

It felt good—of course it felt good! Feng Xin, the terrible attendant, was a prodigious lover. But Mu Qing was still Mu Qing, and he could understand something without shouting it out for all of heaven and earth to hear.

“Ah!” As if to prove him wrong, Feng Xin thrust into him again, hastening his hips and bringing forth all sorts of moans, wails, and whines from Mu Qing. He was entirely too sure of himself! Or worse, entirely oblivious to his skill and still in command of it.

The moment Mu Qing adjusted to Feng Xin’s maddening pace the man pulled out completely.

Mu Qing grunted, and before he could make sense of the emptiness within him Feng Xin pressed his body flush against Mu Qing’s back and kissed his shoulder.

“Will you turn around?” Feng Xin asked.

Mu Qing huffed. “With you pinning me down like this, I can hardly breathe, nevermind turning around.”

He understood what Feng Xin meant, but if there was a hard time to give Feng Xin, who would he be to let it pass by unsung? Eventually, Feng Xin lifted himself back up, freeing Mu Qing to do whatever he so pleased.

Feng Xin was a lucky bastard, for all the fondness swelling in Mu Qing’s chest, bravely fending against familiar pinpricks of irritation.

Though his legs shook when reintroduced to his weight, he did not have to kneel on them for long before he was back to lying prone. Of his own accord, Mu Qing spread his legs to give Feng Xin room.

“Mu Qing,” Feng Xin murmured. “You are really, really so beautiful…” He trailed off, beyond the point of coherence. It was that awed gaze and statement of his beauty that made Mu Qing flush above all else.

Feng Xin nudged Mu Qing’s legs further apart. He spared a thought to retrieve the pillow that lay at the head of the bed, sliding it under the small of Mu Qing’s back, elevating Mu Qing’s hips and, in doing so, regaining his access to Mu Qing’s hole. Without further delay Feng Xin re-entered him, pushing in without restraint.

As he had feared, being able to see Feng Xin, to watch his lips part and to observe the sweat which shone upon his skin—sent Mu Qing right off the precipice of that cliff and into a certainty that, regardless of his own fallible pride, he never wanted to be without Feng Xin again.

To let go of their intimacy, to send it away into the night to be forgotten by morning, to pretend their evening of drink and conversation had not been one of the best he’d wiled in his eight centuries of life, would be futile. He was gone, and there was nothing else for it.

Struck with the need to hold Feng Xin, Mu Qing hooked his arms underneath Feng Xin’s own and fanned his hands across Feng Xin’s back. The skin there was smooth, though a bit sticky from perspiration. Mu Qing’s grip tightened with each thrust inward, and he threw his head back.

“Feng Xin!” He cried, sharpening his hold on Feng Xin’s back while the cumulative build of all they’d done together worked in time with Feng Xin to send him into a fit, every muscle in his body seeming to contract, pushing forth faster, and faster—

Mu Qing dropped his arms, the muscle therein shaking too badly to remain in place at Feng Xin’s back.

“Mu Qing,” Feng Xin moaned his name, altogether worsening the state of him. “You're so—you're really—I, angh—I really, towards you I—”

They met again and again, breathing into one another and suffusing the air between them with subtle notes of peach blossom wine, staring, daring the other to blink until—

Feng Xin squeezed his eyes shut, his rhythm erratic and his thrusts coming desperately. Mu Qing urged him on, opening his mouth to invite Feng Xin into him again with a kiss. There was no method to it, just a collision of tongue and lip and teeth until Feng Xin went rigid. He came, and Mu Qing felt it as it happened, the warmth of his spend spilling out into Mu Qing’s body.

Mu Qing gasped, eager to crest his own peak and spurred on by the sensation of Feng Xin coming inside of him. With the last of his good sense, Feng Xin spit in his own palm and let it be enough to take Mu Qing’s cock in hand and stroke. Mu Qing was already near to coming, having been teased and tossed and tussled all fucking night, and so, before the friction of Feng Xin’s hand could become an issue, he was sent into his own bliss, clawing at the bed as he came with a loud, broken moan.

There was no singular ‘after,’ but there was the instant wherein Feng Xin had pulled out, Mu Qing had thrown that pillow out from under him, and all they could do was cuddle close to each other, still trying to catch their respective breaths.

They were a tangle of limbs, and Mu Qing could not readily tell where he ended and Feng Xin began, but in such a moment, how could he care?

Later, he watched Feng Xin watch him, and the corner of his mouth curved upward.

“One of your nostrils is smaller than the other,” he said.

Feng Xin’s nose twitched. “One of your eyebrows sits higher than the other.”

Mu Qing snorted. They had been speaking such nonsense back and forth for at least half a shichen, staring into one another’s souls and returning from the journey with nothing more than mundane observation.

He let his mind drift, still grounded by the various points of contact between his and Feng Xin’s bodies. A short while later Mu Qing groaned, hiding his face against Feng Xin’s bare chest.

“What is it?”

Mu Qing shook his head, not wanting to voice the thought. Feng Xin waited, and though he did not ask again Mu Qing could feel the weight of an unspoken question.

He heaved a sigh and returned to the world as it apparently existed beyond Feng Xin.

“I have to change the sheets. They’re disgusting. And then make the bed.”

He also had to switch the duvet, the pillow, and likely rewash his sweat-sticky, well-filled body. He had to do all of the work by himself, because he always did.

And, if he was to commit himself to tidying up and cleaning the remnants of their passion…it meant that his evening with Feng Xin was ending. Mu Qing scowled.

“Alright,” Feng Xin said.

Mu Qing bristled, but before he could spit venom, Feng Xin went on: “If you want to gather these sheets, I can find a new set and make your bed. We can get it done fast and then rest. Where do you keep your spares?”

He wasn’t shocked, that would imply Feng Xin had spent the entire night being brusque and curt only to turn and shower him at the last moment with a sort of domestic kindness Mu Qing had thought lost to him eight hundred years ago. Instead, Mu Qing was moved.

Feng Xin would make a terrible attendant, had made a bitter rival, and had proven more and more that he made a decent friend. But with such a simple assumption—that Feng Xin would naturally be a part of the tidying and would, upon its completion, naturally join Mu Qing to rest—Mu Qing could be assured: Feng Xin was a wonderful lover, and, more dear to his heart, Feng Xin was a partner.

He supposed, through various tricks of fate and humiliations of circumstance, they’d been paired together all along, but what meant nothing then would come into a newer, sweeter light once Feng Xin had sought the gift of his heart.

“I’ll show you,” he said, though as he said so he strained to kiss Feng Xin and hold him tighter still.

When they were settled once more, curved bare around each other, Feng Xin hid a kiss atop Mu Qing's head, into his hair, and began to hum that same little folk song.

Mu Qing held him closer, relieved to be resting on fresh sheets and, of more import, relieved to still have Feng Xin to cling to.

“Will you tell me,” he began, “what's the story of the song?”

Feng Xin finished a refrain, his pitch shaky but his voice sure, and interlocked their fingers.

“It's simple, really. It's just about love. Some love comes too late, some love comes too soon, some love waits, but all love stays. Not in place, but in time.”

What a horrifically saccharine sentiment. Mu Qing shook his head, brushing Feng Xin’s chin as he did so. He smiled.

“Just about love, hm?”

Feng Xin nodded, picking up the tune once more and using his free hand to twist and play with a lock of Mu Qing’s hair.


Ah, well. Love would do.