Work Text:
"I wonder if they would still call you a 'war god' if they saw how often you are injured," Mu Qingfang muses aloud, needle slipping deftly through the edges of Liu Qingge's wound. "Aren't gods untouchable?"
"Who's 'they'," Liu Qingge mutters. Then, after further consideration: "Everything has a weakness."
"Spoken like a true warrior," Mu Qingfang huffs, more amused than he'd like.
He expects no response, and Liu Qingge doesn't disappoint, silent and still as a statue on the medical cot. If the pain of his injury and its treatment cannot force a sound from him, Mu Qingfang's good-natured barb never stood a chance.
"How's the wound on your chest healing?" he asks, both because he needs to know in his capacity as medical caregiver, and because unlike most of Mu Qingfang's work, he fears it will scar.
"Fine."
With a long-suffering sigh, Mu Qingfang glances up, catching Liu Qingge's gaze. "It was poisoned."
"That was last week," Liu Qingge points out, in what Mu Qingfang knows he considers his most reasonable tone of voice. Mu Qingfang doesn't bother arguing; if Liu Qingge is determined to be stubborn, there'll be no moving him.
It's not like it matters. Liu Qingge seems unbothered by scars. It's vanity, really, on Mu Qingfang's part, and perhaps his appreciation of his shixiong's chest prior to it being pierced by a demonic scorpion.
The remainder of the wound is stitched in comfortable silence, Mu Qingfang concentrating on his work, and Liu Qingge on holding still and circulating his qi. Though Mu Qingfang has seen more of Liu Qingge's insides than he would like, he still enjoys these moments of quiet company. He enjoys Liu Qingge.
As he completes his work, disinfecting and bandaging, he thinks. It's been years now, since the start of this soft, achey warmth. Since he began feeling pulled to Liu Qingge in a way he wasn't with others. Even as a child, he had found Liu Qingge beautiful, in the way one might admire a fragrant bloom or a painting, Liu Qingge's coltish youth far more graceful than the lanky awkwardness Mu Qingfang suffered as a teenager. Still, his appreciation held fast at 'aesthetic' until well after they'd ascended to the heads of their peaks.
"All finished," Mu Qingfang murmurs, lost in thought, and turns away as Liu Qingge rises to refasten his robes.
There had been an… instance, several years ago. Mu Qingfang had shared a bit of wine with Qi Qingqi and Shang Qinghua after dinner, and later found himself wandering the forests at the base of the mountain. Muzzy, relaxed, he'd been enjoying the solitude, the fluttering of the breeze in the leaves and scent of the earth at his feet, when he came upon a clearing.
It had been like something from a dream; Liu Qingge, moonlight glowing on his white robes, stood in the center of the open area, flowing through his sword forms. Precise and elegant, his blade made no noise as it sliced through the air, the only sound the soft swish of his clothing and his slightly elevated breath.
Mu Qingfang was no stranger to desire; perhaps unsurprisingly, the disciples of Qian Cao tend toward a more open, pragmatic view of sex, and Mu Qingfang had learned the give and take of pleasure with the same focused diligence he applied to his studies. But this… He had been utterly captivated. Strength, grace, control, beauty; Liu Qingge, at that moment, looked every bit the deity of his title. Something greedy— hungry— had stirred within Mu Qingfang as he watched.
Uninterested in being seen, not wanting to interrupt, Mu Qingfang had slipped away. It hadn't registered as anything groundbreaking at the time; he took himself in hand once he was back in his private room, enjoying the recall, and thought nothing more of it.
Perhaps a bit naive, in hindsight.
"Mu Qingfang," Liu Qingge says, pulling him from his thoughts. He turns, and when his eyes meet Liu Qingge's, it is only his professionalism that keeps him breathing steady. He's had years to come to terms with his own foolish desires, but lately, Liu Qingge…
"Liu-shixiong," he clips out, refusing to respond to the intent in Liu Qingge's gaze. He is working, for heaven's sake. His duty to his peak is paramount.
Blinking at Mu Qingfang's tone, Liu Qingge hesitates. Mu Qingfang aches to know what he planned to say. Perhaps, if the fool-headed man would stick around the peaks long enough for Mu Qingfang to find him when NOT stitching his hide, they could actually have a conversation. It's embarrassing, the amount of time Mu Qingfang has spent slinking from peak to peak, excuses growing ever more flimsy each time someone catches him out, Liu Qingge nowhere to be found.
Lips pressing into a thin line, his shixiong's expression goes carefully blank. "You have my gratitude."
Mu Qingfang salutes, as does Liu Qingge, and the man sweeps from the room with his usual grace. This is the third time Mu Qingfang has decisively shut down… whatever Liu Qingge is attempting. His clinic, without a doubt, is an inappropriate setting for the hope—the eager, nervous tension—in Liu Qingge's eyes, but the anticipation is torture. Mu Qingfang toys with the idea of following, briefly, but he's just started his shift. He is far too disciplined to go chasing a (willing, Mu Qingfang is becoming more and more certain) piece of ass when there is work to be done.
If he's lucky, maybe he'll run into the man in more forgiving circumstances. Mu Qingfang is desperate to know what words might follow such an openly hungry expression.
*
Less than two months later, Mu Qingfang gets his answer.
"I said, I would like to court you."
Gods above.
"I heard you the first time," Mu Qingfang sighs, pressing harder than he needs to on the bandage he's wrapping around Liu Qingge's calf and earning himself a rare hiss of pain.
Despite his best efforts, he'd NOT had opportunity to speak to Liu Qingge again, outside of the man's regular visits to his peak for treatment. And as Mu Qingfang absolutely should have predicted, Liu Qingge has grown impatient. It isn't like Mu Qingfang doesn't understand, but for gods' sake! There is a time and a place...
"I am working, Liu-shixiong," he says, as much a reminder to himself as to Liu Qingge. "Perhaps we could discuss this later?"
Stubborn. Stubborn, the set of Liu Qingge's jaw, the tilt of his brows. Mu Qingfang watches his shixiong clench a fist in the fabric of his trousers, hiked up to give Mu Qingfang access to his wound. Mu Qingfang prepares himself for an argument. It never comes.
"When is 'later'," Liu Qingge eventually concedes, eyes molten and never leaving Mu Qingfang's face. Inexplicably embarrassed, Mu Qingfang can feel bloodflow warming in his cheeks. When was the last time he blushed?
Dragging himself to his feet, Mu Qingfang swivels to tidy up his tools, mind racing. Courting is… not what Mu Qingfang was expecting. Falling into bed once, or even an arrangement for something more regular—for that, Mu Qingfang is ready and willing.
But it appears their conversation is going to be more complicated than that. He glances to the window, marks the sun, and turns back around, meeting Liu Qingge's eyes.
"Two shichen. I will be done with my duties here, and can meet with you then."
Liu Qingge nods, standing. "I will be waiting." He spends a moment straightening his garments, then strides from the room, seemingly unbothered by being put off. Gods, to be like that; to view the world so starkly, to be so straightforward in action and thought. It is not the first time Mu Qingfang has envied Liu Qingge for this, but it is the first time the feeling has rankled so deeply. How can the man be so damned sure of himself?
"Ridiculous," he mutters under his breath. No sense in wishing his fundamental nature to be anything other than it is; self-pity is distasteful, and he has more important things to contemplate. He organizes his workspace, considering. Is Liu Qingge someone Mu Qingfang could love? Certainly, there is affection, when Mu Qingfang looks for it. Warmth. Interest—room in his heart he hasn't necessarily been saving for Liu Qingge, but… Perhaps that emptiness has more to do with Mu Qingfang's cowardice than his honest desires. He's never dared to entertain the idea of a deeper connection.
Even setting aside the possibility of bedding the man, Mu Qingfang finds himself curious. What might it be like, to be the focus of such an intense and forthright affection? He wonders if his curiosity will be enough for Liu Qingge. If saying 'I am willing to try' will be met with understanding, or if his shixiong will view his equivocation as weak.
Only one way to find out. He'll finish his work here, then head home to bathe and spend a little time on his appearance. He's never been vain, in the way of Shen-shixiong or some of his other martial siblings, but if he is going to be discussing his first courtship, he'd at least like to have freshly combed hair and not smell of blood.
In a move Mu Qingfang again should have seen coming, when he steps from his clinic, sun setting and washing everything in purple-gold, Liu Qingge is waiting for him by the door. He sighs, and lets his shixiong lead the way to Bai Zhan.
So much for his bath.
*
"I apologize," Liu Qingge says the moment he closes the door behind them, and gestures to the low table in his main room. He's set out sweet cakes, cups, and tea in a pot with a warming talisman. It's… thoughtful. Cute, even, as odd as the thought is.
"I did not intend to put you in a difficult position," Liu Qingge continues as they seat themselves across from one another. "I was under the impression my interest was returned."
Ah. So Mu Qingfang has not been as circumspect as he thought. His eyes are drawn to Liu Qingge's hands as the man pours Mu Qingfang's tea, then his own. Elegant fingers; sturdy and competent motion. Calluses. Scarred knuckles. A swordsman, yes, but a brawler, too. Mu Qingfang's mouth ticks up at the corner.
"You are not… incorrect," Mu Qingfang allows, once the pot has been settled back to the table. Eyes snapping up, Liu Qingge stills, and Mu Qingfang tries to find the right words. "I expected you to suggest something more—" He can't bring himself to continue; he'll sound like an asshole no matter how he finishes the sentence.
"Ah." Liu Qingge's hands clasp carefully in his lap. "So just sex," he says, blowing Mu Qingfang's eyes wide with his casual tone. Scoffing, Liu Qingge turns, gaze alighting on the cakes. "You do not care for me, then."
"That isn't—"
"I've been watching you for a while," Liu Qingge remarks, and Mu Qingfang's jaw snaps shut. "I respect how you handle your disciples. Your work ethic is unmatched. All of Cang Qiong knows you are kind but fair, and unrelenting in your convictions."
My disciples? Mu Qingfang thinks, bewildered. When would he have seen—
"You are patient. Wise. Strong. Fierce and determined when correction is warranted, even with your elders, but always quick to offer help."
Mu Qingfang is BAFFLED. They do not see enough of each other for Liu Qingge to have developed these opinions, surely. 'I've been watching you for a while' floats through his mind, and Mu Qingfang's jaw goes slack. Suddenly, his inability to find Liu Qingge outside his clinic makes far more sense.
"You've been… stalking me?"
"My intentions were righteous," Liu Qingge agrees without a hint of shame. "I found you physically compelling, but didn't want to involve myself with someone dishonorable."
The guffaw that tears from Mu Qingfang's chest is completely beyond his control, and once he starts, he can't stop. Of course the man would do his own reconnaissance! Gods and devils, imagining the Bai Zhan War God creeping around Qian Cao, hiding in trees and bushes, peering from the shadows of pillars, ducking behind curtains… Maybe Mu Qingfang should be unsettled, but he can't help finding the idea endearing—and wildly hilarious.
Still, Liu Qingge is growing more agitated the longer Mu Qingfang laughs, so he does his best to calm himself. "My apologies," he pushes out, a bit breathless, but otherwise settled. "I was not laughing at you; just at the situation." With a quick sip of tea, Mu Qingfang orders his thoughts. "I understand your motivations, and do not think ill of you for it."
Liu Qingge's scowl is one Mu Qingfang thinks of as 'neutral'; it's his standard expression at peak lord meetings, at parties or other functions, anywhere he might be required to interact socially without a clear mission. Oh, of course. His shixiong is feeling unsure. He can hardly be blamed; Mu Qingfang has met his honesty with very little of his own.
"Liu-shixiong," Mu Qingfang murmurs, leaning forward, easing his hand across the table, palm up. "I do care for you." Eyes falling to Mu Qingfang's outstretched fingers, Liu Qingge's lips part. "Courting is a commitment, and one I hadn't considered until now. I'm… I'd like to be certain of my affections, before I agree."
"But you would bed me without hesitation."
Warmth surges to Mu Qingfang's cheeks. He laughs, self-deprecating. "I'd imagine there are few who would not."
He expects, or at least hopes, Liu Qingge will take his hand. He does not expect Liu Qingge to drag him across the table by said hand, the other landing at the back of Mu Qingfang's neck as his shixiong pushes their lips together. By some stroke of luck, he does not spill his tea.
Despite the abrupt motion, the kiss itself is soft, Liu Qingge's mouth open and eager. It's sloppy. Artless, in a sweet way. It feels a little inexperienced. A little hungry. Mu Qingfang, crotch wedged painfully against the table and body straining, is helplessly charmed.
"Have mercy on this shidi's back," Mu Qingfang laughs at last, and Liu Qingge releases his hold, startling backward with eyes wide.
"I'm— My apologies, Mu—"
Mu Qingfang cuts him off with a sharp gesture and a smile. "Don't apologize; just come here."
The man is a fighter in his prime; he moves faster than Mu Qingfang can track, and before Mu Qingfang can draw a full breath, his lap is full of Liu Qingge, the man toppling him backward and capturing his lips once more.
"Oh fuck," Mu Qingfang gasps into Liu Qingge's mouth, Liu Qingge making a soft, eager noise in reply. "We shouldn't— Liu-shixiong."
"What," Liu Qingge snaps, pulling back far enough Mu Qingfang can see his pinched brows, his frown. "I thought this was what you wanted."
"What?" Mu Qingfang's swallow feels deafening. "I want— Yes, but—"
Mu Qingfang chokes to a stop when Liu Qingge grinds their hips together. Holy shit, his shixiong is hard. The realization lands like a punch, and he pushes Liu Qingge away, grasping for clarity of mind. They could fuck, but what then? Liu Qingge, for his part, goes without a fight, sitting back on his heels and looking for all the world like a disciple being punished.
"I apologize—"
"Liu-shixiong," Mu Qingfang rushes out, because nothing Liu Qingge has done warrants an apology. "If you take me to bed right now, any rational thought I might have mustered about your offer of courtship will vanish. Please, give me some time."
Eyes squinting, Liu Qingge stares him down like he's a beast to be slaughtered. It's terrifying. And—Mu Qingfang notes without surprise—inappropriately arousing. Of course, the color rising high on his shixiong's cheekbones isn't helping. Liu Qingge drops his gaze and pulls in a slow breath. "Am I so alluring?"
"Gods, yes." The words come out half-laugh, half-sigh. "I've wanted a taste of you for years."
Liu Qingge's eyes dart up. "Years?"
Mu Qingfang shrugs. He's suddenly exhausted; it's been a long day, and this… Well, it's taken its own emotional toll.
With a dancer's grace, Liu Qingge rises to his feet and returns to his cushion. "I have a gift," he says, straightforward as ever, reaching into his sleeve. Welcoming the distraction, Mu Qingfang arranges himself with as much dignity as he can. Perhaps he's simply caught up in the mood of it all (ignoring the small part of him pointing out this has been the opposite of romantic, that there is no 'mood' at all), but he finds himself nervous as a teenager when Liu Qingge sets a small wooden box on the table between them.
"No matter your decision, I would like you to have this."
Silent, Mu Qingfang slides it to himself, allowing himself a slow exhale before opening it. Nestled within is a leather band the width of two fingers, carved and worked to look like woodgrain, a single willow branch stretching the length as decoration. There's writing as well, pressed and beautifully stained into the— it's a bracelet, Mu Qingfang realizes, noting the leather ties at each end. His fingers feather over it, and he feels a spark of qi.
"It's a talisman," Liu Qingge offers, shifting in his kneel, obviously nervous. "It is meant to be worn around the wrist, and it will warm when the wearer is unrested or unwell."
"Shixiong," Mu Qingfang whispers, a bit overwhelmed, eyes lifting to meet Liu Qingge's own. "I…" A sudden laugh bursts from his throat. "I never get enough sleep."
"I'm well aware."
"But I will wear it."
Petulant, Liu Qingge crosses his arms, turning away. "I should hope so. At least it will serve as a reminder." He darts a glance Mu Qingfang's direction. "You care for others all day; you should care for yourself."
"It's beautiful," Mu Qingfang says, lifting it from its silk bedding. "Did you make this?"
Liu Qingge nods, then sits forward, an eager spark in his eyes. "The skin is from a pitted saltwater skink; they're said to have healing properties, though I'd imagine that's more pertinent when they're eaten." He pauses, gaze flicking up, then leans closer, pointing at the designs. "I… The wood and willow should be obvious." His swallow is loud, hitting Mu Qingfang's ears as a wet click. "The spell is also my work, though I required help. If you would prefer—"
"Liu-shixiong," Mu Qingfang interrupts, curling his fingers around Liu Qingge's. "It is a wonderful gift." Their eyes meet. "Will you tie it on, for me?"
Liu Qingge, of course, immediately does. Mu Qingfang is admiring how it looks on his outstretched arm when Liu Qingge tugs his hand, pressing his lips to the bracelet, then to his bare wrist. Mu Qingfang takes back every uncharitable thought he's had about lack of romance; Liu Qingge will be the death of him, he is now certain.
"Shixiong." Oh mercy, he sounds breathless.
"It's already warm," Liu Qingge snaps, pinning Mu Qingfang with an exasperated glare. "When did you last sleep?"
"You didn't seem worried about my rest—or lack thereof—when you were in my lap," Mu Qingfang deadpans. He waits for a scowl, or a pissed-off click of the tongue, but Liu Qingge laughs. Has Mu Qingfang ever seen Liu Qingge, Peak Lord of Bai Zhan, War God, laugh? He cannot help his answering grin.
"Get out." The words, easily mistaken as rude, are so full of warmth Mu Qingfang has to stifle a laugh. "Go," Liu Qingge insists, settling back on his heels. "And take the cakes; I purchased them for you."
Mu Qingfang, feeling more than a little smitten, stands obediently and bows. "As my shixiong wishes," he murmurs, smiling. "Does this mean I cannot kiss you again?"
"Demanding," Liu Qingge remarks, but he rises as well. Mu Qingfang feels a breath shudder from his chest when Liu Qingge's hands land on his waist, pulling him close. "Know this," Liu Qingge whispers against the shell of Mu Qingfang's ear. "I would not deny you anything."
"Gods above, Liu-shi—"
Mu Qingfang is cut off, sweetly, by a kiss. The thrill that races through him—sparking along his skin and warming his gut—doesn't dissipate until he is back in his own rooms, daydreaming and finally readying his long-overdue bath. He falls asleep with his wrist propped on his pillow, eyes on Liu Qingge's warm, handmade, beautiful gift, until he can no longer keep them open.