Chapter Text
It’s a new year.
Out here, at their secret dwelling in the woods, there will be no cheerful greetings or noisy firecrackers. With bloodthirsty hounds still on their scent, they're lying low, so the safehouse is bereft of the customary red lanterns that bring warmth and cheer. And the inside is no better, with it lacking springtime blooms and the auspicious couplets to welcome the new season.
Feng Xin finds no sign of life under thick layers of frost, with neither budding leaves nor fresh blossoms to herald the arrival of spring. Instead, howling winds rattle the willowy trees whose brittle branches bend under the weight of gathering snow.
In this barren landscape, it’s easy to sink in despair and drown in his misery, but Feng Xin keeps his spirits up. The new year is a time for common folk (like him) to seek blessings from heaven, which is why the markets are always bustling with excited villagers selecting the best decorations and picking out the freshest ingredients for the most important meal of the year.
It was a pleasant surprise to find the array of reunion dishes on the dining table after a long day of busking. Feng Xin had rushed outside to catch a glimpse of their benefactor, but with the falling snow covering their tracks, the trail had long gone cold.
Back inside the cottage, steam was still rising from the pot of winter melon soup, so there wasn’t much else to do but thank the gods for their blessings and gather around to feast on the sumptuous spread of spring rolls, broiled lettuce, braised noodles and a whole chicken too.
The conversation was lively and the food was delicious, but Feng Xin couldn’t help missing the playful bickering and the jostling of elbows that used to be an inevitable part of these gatherings. And all the speculation on the kind soul who's been leaving them gifts of cooked food in the days leading up to the new year only made his eyes linger on the empty stool by his side.
Feng Xin swept his sorrow aside, lest he ruin the happy occasion, smiling brighter and laughing louder as he refilled their little cups with the coarse rice wine, which soon had the others stumbling back to their rooms and into their beds.
Out here, the cold wind cuts into Feng Xin’s aching bones and he feels every worn patch of his threadbare robes. It’s much too soon for the first crow of a rooster to bring an end to what looks to be a long, lonely night, but Feng Xin persists in sitting on the unforgiving wooden steps outside the wooden shack as he waits for the first light of day.
It’s tradition anyway – to stay up on the last night of the year to pray for the health and longevity of elders in the family. And sometimes, when Feng Xin closes his eyes, he can still hear his elder sisters teasing him about the “chicken scratch” he’s “scrawled” over the auspicious red papers and their footsteps as they shuffled from room to room, checking off the tasks on their long list of things to do (instead of sleep).
Home was a spacious mansion on military grounds, furnished with rosewood pieces that had been in his family for generations. And at the heart of it was the courtyard, auspicious red lanterns hanging from the mulberry trees, where they would set off firecrackers to ring in the new year. Food would have been a challenge during the spring festival, when loyal servants returned to their hometown, had it not been for the kind neighbours who toiled away to provide their family with a communal dish.
Aptly named Treasure Pot, it contained a myriad of treasures to delight refined palates and satisfy hungry appetites. Prized delicacies like seafood and roast meat were strategically layered over modest offerings like beancurd skin and mushroom, but even the humble turnip tasted heavenly after soaking in the meat juices lining the bottom of the pot.
The portions were so generous they lasted them way into the festivities. Besides, there was always plenty of fresh food at the gatherings of distant relatives and close friends. While the adults indulged in pastries over raucous games of cards, the children would play with marbles and duel spiders, enjoying themselves so much they often had to be dragged home so as not to burden their gracious hosts.
These are memories that Feng Xin will keep close to his heart, even though there's no denying that those days are over, and there’s no way of going back. One by one, war and sickness had taken his parents and sisters from him, along with beloved husbands and cherished children, some of whom he never got to meet.
Feng Xin glares at the stars beaming brightly down at him from their little clusters, as if to mock him in his solitude, and tries not to think of a time when he hadn’t yet hated these quiet moments between nightfall and daybreak.
Feng Xin shakes his head. He shouldn't just sit here feeling sorry for himself. A new year represents a new beginning. He should make plans for the future or focus on the here and now. With a grunt, he hauls himself to his feet and prepares to patrol the grounds –
When something moves.
“Who is it?” Feng Xin shouts, his voice ringing out sharply in the silent night.
The trespasser disappears behind a tree, but Feng Xin has got an eyeful of black, flowy robes. Long hair is pulled back from his face in a high ponytail, though face-framing bangs and a mask obscures a slim face with delicate features.
Bow drawn, Feng Xin warns, “If you come closer, I’ll shoot.”
The bastard comes closer.
The masked man wields his sword with ease, parrying the loosed arrows with the well-practised movements of a seasoned warrior. And there’s something cradled in his other arm, where one would have a shield, but he’s protecting it instead.
When Feng Xin sees smoke rising into the wintry sky, he frowns. Instinct tells him it’s not an incendiary device, but not one to take chances, he squints into the darkness and sees –
A rock heading for his face.
Narrowly dodging the weaponised pebble, Feng Xin scrambles towards the door as the intruder flies up the steps, huffing loudly when Feng Xin blocks the entrance and stands in his way.
There’s a last-ditch attempt to leave the unknown item on the landing, but Feng Xin lands an arrow beside one black-booted foot – and another. And it doesn’t take more than a few well-placed ones to force his opponent down the rickety wooden steps and onto the snow.
The trees, snow-white from the longest and coldest winter they’ve had in years, fly past in a blur. The other man is fast, but Feng Xin is faster, as they sprint over the frost-covered grass, skip lightly across the frozen ice to the other side of the river and weave between long rows of trees into the deeper, darker woods.
A thrill runs down Feng Xin’s spine and spreads through the rest of his body.
He’s awake now.
He’s wide awake.
All of this is exciting but familiar, like racing a certain someone down the mountain and into the forest, where they would inevitably collapse onto the meadow to catch their breaths. Then, it was a race to get up, to begin sparring anew, throwing punches and trading kicks until one or both of them could no longer move.
“Stop running, you fucking coward!” Feng Xin yells into the silent night, straining his eyes and ears for any sign of movement.
A dagger whistles past his cheek, and Feng Xin traces it back to its owner, who’s found his way behind a towering ginkgo tree that’s stood its ground for centuries.
Biding his time, Feng Xin tracks his target through the little puffs of mist that give him away and sends an arrow through the interlocking branches of smaller trees to nail down one, billowy sleeve.
Feng Xin ignores the muffled cursing and steels his resolve. He keeps the arrows flying until he's got both of those flowy sleeves pinned to the ancient tree from shoulder to wrist, leaving his opponent struggling like a moth in a web.
Feng Xin takes his time to sweep the hair out of his face and rearrange his robes, pausing now and then to retrieve a stray arrow. Nearing his captive, he clicks his tongue, feeling like a hunter stalking his prize. “You’re quick,” Feng Xin says conversationally as he stops in front of the other man and takes the smoking object from his arms. “But it looks like this was slowing you down.”
Now that it’s right in front of him, Feng Xin can see that it’s a pot – warm and heavy, but small enough to hold in one hand. Using his free hand, he lifts the cover and instantly feels the urge to slam it down.
It’s a weapon indeed.
Not an incendiary device.
Nor poisonous gas.
Feng Xin is hit by the overpowering aroma of a homecooked feast. One whiff is all it takes for his mouth to water, his stomach to rumble and his legs to go weak in the knees.
The trail of stars on this moonless night illuminate the culinary delights on offer. “Treasure Pot? You made this? All by yourself?” Feng Xin asks, as he carefully lowers the pot onto the ground. “That’s quite the effort you’ve gone to. I have to say – It’s tempting. This looks good, really good, like something –”
“To die for?” the other man cuts in, and while there is a commendable effort to disguise his voice, it’s not nearly enough.
Feng Xin raises a brow. “Have you poisoned it then?”
The other man glares. “Try it and find out – why don’t you?”
A wry smile plays on Feng Xin’s lips. “And here I thought you were a man of honour and strong principles. Not the sort of person who would resort to poison. Though spitting –”
“Is disgusting. Why would you even accuse me of something like that?”
Feng Xin shrugs. “I don’t know. But you sure as hell added something to the braised noodles. Because they tasted so damn weird.”
“How were they weird? I made them by hand, using the freshest ingredients, just like the spring rolls and the meatbuns!”
“So they were from you.” Feng Xin gloats, gently brushing a stray lock of hair to the side and tucking it behind one pink ear. “Truly, it’s an honour to meet our generous benefactor.”
When Feng Xin reaches for the knot at the back of the other man’s head, there’s a panicked look in his eyes. “Stop. Wait –” His tone is almost pleading.
Feng Xin cups the small face with hands. “Hey. It’s fine,” he hushes as the face covering lands on the snow. “Mu Qing, I know it’s you." Feng Xin runs his fingers over the prominent cheekbones and the sharp lines of his jaw, relieved that he hasn't hurt him. “I have to say – You’ve got guts. I could have had you killed!”
Mu Qing gives him one of those legendary eyerolls that Feng Xin had come to miss, but at least he’s looking at him now. “And how were you planning to do that?” he asks, voice dripping with disdain. “With your skills?”
Feng Xin raises a brow. “Caught you, didn’t I?”
Mu Qing scoffs. “How did you even know it was me? Dressed like this, I could have been anyone. What can you possibly see when it’s all dark?”
Feng Xin shrugs. “I would know you from your footsteps alone.”
“Then why didn’t you just let me leave the Treasure Pot? Why chase me down – and unmask me too?”
“Yeah. I wonder,” Feng Xin mumbles, but before another disparaging word can tumble out of that mean, little mouth, Feng Xin seals it tightly with his own lips.
Feng Xin doesn’t know what’s come over him, but now that he’s started, he can’t really stop. He’s dreamed of this moment more times than he can count. And while these circumstances are vastly different from his wildest dreams, Mu Qing tastes just like he’s always imagined. Like a cup of honey green tea, he’s warm, but refreshing, just enough to whet his appetite but not quite enough to quench his thirst.
Dark eyes fly open as Feng Xin deepens the kiss. “What the fuck are you doing?” Mu Qing demands through gritted teeth. He turns away, but it does nothing to hide the blush spreading across his face. “Let. Me. Go.”
“And what if I don’t want to?” Feng Xin teases. “What if I like you like this – pinned to a tree so you cannot run?”
“A-Xin!” Mu Qing hisses, and there’s a wide, panicked look in his eyes. “Stop playing! Hurry up!”
“All right, fine,” Feng Xin relents, and as he extracts his arrows, he muses aloud, “You know, if you were planning to escape, you shouldn’t have worn these robes. Why do all your robes have such big sleeves?”
“What’s it to you?” Mu Qing snaps. “They’re comfortable! I like them. And I better still like them when you’re done. Stop being so rough, you fucking brute! Slow down!”
Feng Xin does exactly that – slowing to rest his hands on his hips. “Hurry up! Slow down!” he says in an imitation of Mu Qing’s voice. “Which one is it? Do you want me to let you go or not?”
Under the heat of Mu Qing’s glare, and the constant breathing down his neck, it’s amazing how Feng Xin completes the task without tearing the fabric (too much).
“There,” he says proudly. “All done n – ow!!!” he yells. “What was that for?”
"That was for throwing rice at me!” Mu Qing snaps. “And this is for chasing me away – with a broom!”
It really was the crown prince who had thrown it, and only because it was the closest thing within reach, but Mu Qing isn't listening.
Feng Xin doesn’t interrupt the tirade or dodge the blows that punctuate each point that Mu Qing makes. Tonight, he’s going to listen to all of Mu Qing’s grievances, ranging from minor slights to major transgressions, the strong words and loud shouting like music to his ears.
“This is for the time you accused me of stealing.”
“When you broke your arm.”
“For shooting at me.”
“Ruining my robes.”
“And kissing me,” Mu Qing grits out, his face all red.
“And these are for all -”
“The –”
“Times –”
“You –”
“Made –”
“Me –”
“Cry –”
“That’s a lot,” Feng Xin mumbles hoarsely as the last of Mu Qing’s blows land weakly against his back – because they’d found themselves in an embrace at some point, the same way they used to post-battle, weary and bloodied, typically after they’d taken turns to yell at each other for reckless things they’d done.
While the clearing in the forest is no battlefield, Feng Xin has endured what feels like the frostiest of cold wars. He’s more than ready to make an offering of peace. “I’m sorry.”
Mu Qing sniffs. “What for?”
“I’m sorry for throwing rice at you,” Feng Xin says. “We needed it badly then and after you left, we picked up every last grain we could find.”
“I wish I had come sooner,” Mu Qing mumbles and his voice is heavy with what sounds like regret. “I didn’t know things had become so bad.”
“But you did come – and we – I’m sorry for what we did.” Feng Xin takes a deep breath, trying to compose himself and his thoughts. “When you left, it hurt. And I didn’t think I could deal with it all over again. So, I thought that if I made you go, you couldn’t hurt me again by leaving first.”
Mu Qing stares. “That is the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard. Even concubines in a harem don’t have thoughts as twisted as this!”
Feng Xin balks at the comparison, but chooses to ignore it, because he's not done. “And I’m also sorry for making you cry.” Several times too, going by the number of punches Mu Qing hadn’t pulled.
Feng Xin half-expects Mu Qing to hit him again, or leave, but he stays where he is, peering closely at Feng Xin's face. “You’re not sorry for kissing me.”
Feng Xin’s lips are warm from the kiss and now the rest of his face is burning. It's far from his best moment, but he doesn’t feel a tinge of regret. “No, I’m not sorry for kissing you. And if you let me, I’ll do it again.”
“Again.” Mu Qing shudders. “No, thank you.”
“Come on,” Feng Xin says, half-laughing. “It can’t be that bad.”
“How was it not that bad? You had me pinned to a tree!”
“Yeah – that wasn’t nice, but you're free now," Feng Xin points out. "Want to go again?”
“Go away!” Mu Qing yells and slaps his arm several times. “Have you no shame?”
“No, not really. None at all when it comes to you – Ah! Ow! Ow!” Feng Xin hisses, pulling Mu Qing closer to limit the force behind his blows. “Will you stop? You’re going to break my arm at this rate! Or wake someone up. Is that what you want? For them all to see us like this?”
“Like what?” Mu Qing demands.
Feng Xin shrugs. “Oh – I don’t know – two grown men, alone in the woods, in the middle of the night, their arms around each other. Whatever will they think?”
“No one will see anything,” Mu Qing huffs, although he stops hitting Feng Xin and slowly pulls away to leave a gap between them. “They’re too busy celebrating – or fast asleep.”
“His highness is a light sleeper,” Feng Xin reminds him. “Who knows if he’ll choose to come out for a walk?”
At the mention of Xie Lian, Mu Qing stiffens. “How is he?”
“Not that great, to tell you the truth. He sees things, hears voices and constantly looks like someone is after his life. He’s rarely home, and when he is, just locks himself inside his room and refuses to speak to anyone.”
Mu Qing's eyes soften. "It’s been hard on you – taking care of everyone all by yourself.”
“I missed you.”
“Of course, you did,” Mu Qing mutters under his breath. “You miss having someone to cook for you and do your chores.”
Feng Xin groans. “Don't remind me. I don’t know how you did it. My digestive system has gone to hell and back. And this elusive thing called sleep is literally closing my eyes and counting to ten before dragging myself to the next thing I need to do. It’s been a difficult year, but what’s made it truly unbearable is not even getting to look forward to this at the end of a long day.”
Mu Qing frowns. “What?”
Feng Xin shrugs. “Playing, fighting, playfighting, I don’t know, just – this.” Feng Xin gestures to the space between them. “
Mu Qing opens his mouth and closes it again. “Oh,” he mumbles, and stares blankly at Feng Xin as he racks his brains for a response. “Is he – uh – still mad at me?”
Feng Xin snorts. “He. And here I thought we were having a moment – but all you want to talk about is him. Tell me the truth – do you even care about me at all?”
Mu Qing’s lips form a straight line. “Why should I care? I’m selfish, ungrateful, have no loyalty –”
“Wait, stop,” Feng Xin interrupts. “I said that only because I was angry and hurt, but when I really thought things through, I think I would have done the same.”
“No, you wouldn’t,” Mu Qing argues, “because you’re just like his highness, and that’s why you like him more.”
“I – what?” Feng Xin can’t help the indignation bursting forth from his lips. “You’re the one who likes him more. You’re the one who left without saying goodbye.”
“I said goodbye.”
“Only to him!”
“That’s because –” Mu Qing pauses. “What would have been the point of telling you? Would it have changed anything? Would you have come?”
Feng Xin has no answer.
“You see,” Mu Qing says, and there’s no hiding the hurt in his eyes. “I’d just be putting you in a spot. You two have each other. You always have. My mom didn’t have anyone else.”
“Mu Qing…”
“Anyway, it’s not like there was anything serious,” Mu Qing adds bitterly, batting Feng Xin's hand away. “You seem to have moved on pretty fast. I saw you the other day – with that girl from Peony Court.”
Feng Xin frowns. “She’s my friend,” he explains. “She’s a good listener – and from Xianle too.”
Mu Qing's expression is cold and hard, almost like it's made of stone. “What do you talk about?”
Feng Xin shrugs. “Whatever happens to be on my mind – mostly you.”
“Me?” Mu Qing snorts. “No wonder you looked like you were about to cry.”
“I was miserable. Who wouldn’t be – after losing a friend, and knowing that they've moved on and found some better ones?”
“They’re not terrible," Mu Qing says after a bit of a pause. "But they’re not my friends.”
“And me?”
Mu Qing blinks. “What about you?”
“Am I your friend?”
Mu Qing is looking at Feng Xin like he’s a bothersome pet, but there’s a fleeting softness in his eyes. “Of course not. You are the most annoying person in the world.”
Feng Xin bites back a grin. “And yet – you’re here, with food, on New Year’s Day, when you could really be with your mom instead.”
“Feng Xin – my mom –” It’s that look again, and this time, it’s accompanied by a distinct strain on his voice. “A-Xin – she –”
“Oh god. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry,” Feng Xin whispers as he pulls him close. “I didn’t know.”
And now he does, because Mu Qing tells him everything about her final days and the fateful night she went to bed and never woke up, finally free of the bodily pains that had afflicted her for years.
As always, it’s the living who continue to suffer.
“I’m sorry I wasn’t there.”
“It’s fine.” Mu Qing pats his back like he’s comforting him now. “There wasn’t anything you could have done.”
“You wouldn’t have to be alone.”
“What does it matter?” Mu Qing says quietly, resting his head on Feng Xin's shoulder. “In the end, I will always be alone.”
“You have me," Feng Xin reminds him. "You have us.”
Mu Qing makes a sound that's half-chuckle and half-sigh. “You know what? That’s exactly what she told me you would say.”
“And she’s right. Because your mom was a very smart lady. Did she say anything else?”
Mu Qing pulls away to look at him. “You want to know if she talked about you?”
“Never mind,” Feng Xin mumbles, his face heating up under Mu Qing's curious gaze. “Forget I even asked.”
Feng Xin had always seen the resemblance between Mu Qing and his mother, but when he looks at him like this, his eyes all soft and warm and bright, it almost feels like she’s still here with them.
“She was very fond of you. But then again – who isn’t?” he mumbles under his breath. “Always asked when you were coming over and just in case you showed up at her door at some point, she stopped adding shallots to her noodles or chives to her dumplings. She also – uh – noticed that your ribbon was fraying at the ends and said that if her eyes were better, she would make you a new one, so…”
Feng Xin stares at the strip of silk Mu Qing places on his palm. It’s gold, like the sun, with dark blue charms embroidered down its length. The thing about silk embroidery is – it’s fucking difficult and Feng Xin doesn’t know anyone else who could pull off the intricate needlework without botching the delicate material. “You made this for me?”
Mu Qing looks at him like he’s lost his mind. “Of course not! I made this for her – to give to you. Otherwise, she would – oof!” he says, breaking off when Feng Xin pulls him into a hug. “How is it?” he mumbles into the crook of Feng Xin's neck.
“It’s nice,” Feng Xin says, because it’s Mu Qing, and he’ll be courting death if he tries to tell him how very, very much he loves his gift and that he’ll never take it off, not in a hundred years, or a thousand, if he ever lived that long.
“Put it on for me.”
Mu Qing looks at him in surprise. “Here? Now? Do you have a comb?”
“It’s back home – somewhere.” Feng Xin says as he sits down on the stump of a large tree.
“You don't even know where it is. Explains why your hair is a fucking mess,” Mu Qing grumbles lightly as he unties the old ribbon and wraps it around his wrist. “A grown man and you can’t take care of your own mane – or robes.”
Feng Xin glances at his lap, where the silk ribbon contrasts starkly against the worn muslin of his tunic. “It’s not going to match, isn’t it?”
“Not with those robes,” Mu Qing agrees, already beginning to tease out the knots in Feng Xin’s hair. “But it suits you. Besides, it’s the new year. You ought to be wearing something new.”
Feng Xin knows how shabby he must look next to Mu Qing, who’s dressed in these resplendent robes of black silk that make him look like the heavenly official he is. “I like yours,” Feng Xin tells him.
‘Yeah?” Mu Qing mumbles absently. “I wasn’t sure if they were too – too –”
“Black?”
“Why do you say it like it’s a bad thing?”
“I like black, and it looks good on you, but it’s the new year. Surely you should be wearing a more auspicious colour instead.”
Mu Qing makes a face. “Like what? Red? That’s the colour for obsessive maniacs and dark overlords. The only time you’ll see me in red is the day I get marr –”
Mu Qing's face is so red that it matches the robes Feng Xin has begun to imagine around him, complete with auspicious dragons and phoenixes embroidered in gold.
“Will you ever – someday?” Feng Xin asks, so quietly that he can barely hear himself over the pounding in his chest.
“Maybe – with the right person,” Mu Qing answers, after what feels like forever.
“How would you know if you’ve found them?”
“You just do,” Mu Qing tells him quietly, in a voice that sounds like it's coming from far away. "Because they make you mad and drive you crazy, but you can never stay away for long – even if they happen to be the most annoying person in the world.”
There's a satisfied smile on Mu Qing's lips as he surveys his work and pulls out several loose strands to frame Feng Xin’s face. “All done now, my princess.”
“Not a princess,” Feng Xin protests, and if he's pouting, it’s only because his lips are yearning to be kissed.
Mu Qing throws his head back when he laughs and starlight falls on the snow jade skin of his neck.
Feng Xin doesn’t dare to look away or even blink, afraid that like a dream, Mu Qing and all of his ethereal beauty will vanish in front of him. “I can’t believe you’re here.”
“You said it yourself," Mu Qing says as he sits down beside Feng Xin. "It’s a day of gatherings and family reunions. Where else should I be?”
Feng Xin bites down on his lower lip, hard, but it doesn't stop the words from slipping out of his mouth. “Marry me.”
Mu Qing turns to stare at him, open-mouthed. “What?”
It's not the best timing, but the words are out there, and Feng Xin isn't going to take them back. “You heard me.”
“What do you even want to marry me for?”
To this, Feng Xin has no answer, at least not one that adequately addresses the swirl of emotions inside, but there's this one thing he hasn’t stopped thinking about since their reunion tonight. “So I can kiss you anytime I want.”
“That’s not going to work for me," Mu Qing says, biting his lip to keep a straight face. “I’m sorry – but you’re terrible at it.”
It sounds mean, but there’s no malice behind Mu Qing's words. And over the years, Feng Xin has learnt to read between the lines. “Are you saying I need practice?”
“That’s not what I'm saying!” Mu Qing coughs, his face getting pink when he notices the way Feng Xin is leering. “And I never said to practise with me!”
“Then who should I practise with?” Feng Xin teases. “His highness? Or one of the girls at Peony Court? Ow!” he grumbles when Mu Qing slaps his arm.
“Don’t you dare,” Mu Qing mutters between gritted teeth, his jaw clenched, and he reminds Feng Xin of a dragon, all red and fuming, and puffing out steam with each breath he takes.
Feng Xin hasn’t laughed so much and so hard in a very long time. Busy wiping the tears of laughter from his eyes, he doesn’t see the hand snaking around the back of his head or feel the palm cupping his cheek – until Mu Qing’s lips are on his –
And the laughing stops all at once.
Because Mu Qing is kissing him.
Mu Qing is really kissing him.
And Feng Xin thinks he’s about to die.
He loses track of mouth and tongue and long, tangled limbs. One moment, they’re sitting on the stump of a tree, lips locked and arms around each other. And then they’re on the icy ground, with Mu Qing lying on top of him, holding him down with one hand.
More than once, Feng Xin has to crack an eye open just to check that it’s Mu Qing attached to that demanding mouth instead of some hungry ghost or ravenous beast.
“Wait. Slow down,” Feng Xin gasps as their breaths intermingle and rise into the night sky. “If you keep doing that,” he pants, struggling to catch his breath. “I won't be able to hold myself back.”
Gently, Mu Qing plants kisses up his jawline and stops at the lobe of Feng Xin’s ear. “Who said anything about holding back?”
Feng Xin shudders. Having been apart for so long, it's too easy for them both to get carried away, but Mu Qing is the one with more to lose and will only end up regretting tonight and resenting him forever.
Laughing nervously, Feng Xin catches Mu Qing’s wrist to keep the wayward hand from slipping inside his robes. “Why do you deputy gods have so little self-restraint?” he teases. “First you beat up mortals and then you have your way with them. What are the other officials going to say? What is the heavenly emperor going to think?”
Mu Qing scowls. “I don’t give two fucks what any of them think. You kissed me first, so don’t talk to me about being forward, and having self-restraint. I am not losing you to his highness or some girl you just met.”
“All right, all right,” Feng Xin says in what he hopes is a soothing voice, but Mu Qing’s hand is already roaming down his body in search of his belt.
Feng Xin needs to breathe. He’s weak and dizzy and about to faint. Or die. He makes a garbled noise in his throat, where all the words are stuck. “Wait! Stop! We - We - we’re not married!” he blurts out.
Mu Qing stares at him for a moment. “So what? Didn’t stop you from kissing me just now.”
“Kissing is kissing. This is something else.” Primly, Feng Xin folds his arms in front of his chest. “Besides, it’s cold. And I’m freezing.”
Mu Qing gives him an incredulous look. “It’s cold.”
“And I’m freezing,” Feng Xin repeats and makes his point by wrapping his frigid fingers around Mu Qing’s neck.
Mu Qing’s breath hitches, but he only wraps his own hands around Feng Xin’s numb fingers. “Why are you so cold?” he asks, his eyes brimming with concern.
“It’s winter?”
“Your spiritual powers?”
Feng Xin shrugs. “Used a lot of it just chasing you down.”
Mu Qing heaves a sigh and slowly rolls off to lie on the freezing ground on his back, eyes closed. For some time, they say nothing to each other, content just to listen to the sounds of their breathing.
When Mu Qing opens his eyes, they’re no longer burning with desire, but still warm. “I know what you’re trying to do,” he tells Feng Xin. “And I know what I’m doing too. But if you’re not ready, I will wait.”
“Wait for me.” Wait for me to be stronger, more powerful, to be your equal. Because the last thing Feng Xin wants to do is hold Mu Qing back, or drag him down from his meteoric rise towards his rightful place. “Immortality though? Isn’t that something?”
“It’s a lofty goal,” Mu Qing agrees as he looks up at the stars in the sky. “But what’s the point of living forever if you can’t have a night with the one person you can’t live without?”
It’s that feeling again, and this time, Feng Xin can't seem to shake it off. His heart clenches and his eyes sting. He sits up abruptly and hugs his knees in a pathetic attempt to hide his face.
It's too late.
“Hey,” Mu Qing whispers, looking mildly alarmed as he sits up with him. “No crying. You hear me?”
Feng Xin bites his lip. He isn’t crying. He’s just doing a manly shaking thing that gives him sweaty eyes. “Why?” he croaks.
“Because I’m going to kiss you again, and I don’t want my face to get wet," Mu Qing tells him, as he dabs at the corners of Feng Xin’s eyes. “Kissing is okay, right?”
Feng Xin laughs wetly. “Kissing is okay.”
Okay, he's lying.
Kissing is more than okay.
Kissing is amazing.
The kiss is meant to deliver the much-needed heat that Feng Xin lacks, but it doesn’t mean he doesn't enjoy the way Mu Qing's spiritual energy trickles into his body, streaming through his meridians until all his fingers and toes are all tingling with warmth.
Even with his eyes closed, Feng Xin can sense the purple dome forming around them to keep out the cold winds. In times of peace, the spiritual shield was an escape from stuffy banquets full of fucking fake politicians. In times of war, it was where Mu Qing sheltered him are he treated his wounds, his harsh words a stark contrast to his gentle touch.
It mattered little where they were. Feng Xin always felt safe, warm and loved when he was here, almost like he was home. As to show its agreement, his stomach lets out a weird, unfortunate noise unfit for polite company.
Mu Qing’s eyes fly open and he breaks the kiss. “What the hell was that?” he asks before dissolving into giggles.
“Sorry,” Feng Xin mumbles, and would have laughed along if he wasn't so busy being mortified. “I think I might be hungry too.”
“I’m cold. I’m hungry,” Mu Qing teases, his eyes shining so brightly they eclipse all the stars. “Are you sure you’re not a princess?”
“Fine – I’m your princess. But are you going to serve this famished one or not? Or do I have to eat your Treasure Pot?”
“Don’t. I brought you something else.”
Feng Xin smells them before he sees them – dumplings, panfried a golden brown to last the long journey. They’re crispy at the bottom, but silky smooth on top, with tiny little pleats and neat little folds.
When Feng Xin bites the corner, the warm broth slips inside his mouth, followed by minced pork that’s been simmered so long it melts on his tongue. “You made these,” he says amidst various sounds of appreciation.
Yeah,” Mu Qing answers, and sits back to watch Feng Xin devour the dumpling with a pleased, almost indulgent smile.
Feng Xin narrows his eyes. “What are you smiling about?”
“Just thinking that you can sometimes be rather pleasant.”
“Like now?” Feng Xin says dryly, in between bites. “When I’m eating?”
Mu Qing shoves another dumpling inside. "Yes, because then you don’t talk so much.”
"Yhshh!"
Mu Qing cups his hands around Feng Xin's bulging cheeks. “Don’t talk with your mouth full.”
It takes a few solid chomps to break down that extra-large dumpling and gulp it down. “Then stop stuffing my mouth!" Feng Xin protests. "There are other ways to shut me up, you know?”
"I know," Mu Qing says, shrugging nonchalantly as he does it yet again. "But we’re not married, remember?"
"Yohshshsh!"
Someday though,” Mu Qing adds, with a kiss to his nose. “I’ll shut you up for good.”
Feng Xin sputters and coughs and chokes so violently that Mu Qing drops the bag of dumplings to pound his back, working hard to dislodge the offending morsel of food.
“Okay – stop – you can stop now,” Feng Xin gasps, as a panicking Mu Qing continues to pummel him through his pleas like he hasn’t heard.
Feng Xin’s arms and shoulders and back are all sore. His only consolation is the bag of dumplings that Mu Qing drops onto his lap, for him to eat at his own, (slow) pace.
“Why do you have to make everything sound so threatening?” Feng Xin complains, still catching his breath, unable to get the ominous words out of his mind.
“That wasn’t a threat,” Mu Qing tells him quietly. “It’s a promise.”
It really is, now that Feng Xin has had the time to mull over the words. Mu Qing might not be the easiest person to understand, but after going through so much together, they’d come to develop their own vernacular consisting of rough words punctuated by the occasional smack, that nobody else but them could ever understand.
“I thought you were hungry,” Mu Qing says, when he notices Feng Xin slowing down.
“I am hungry, but I don’t – I don’t want to finish them so soon. I don’t know when I’ll get to eat them again.”
The thing about these dumplings that Mu Qing makes so well is that they’re robust and flavourful, but still light on the tongue. Feng Xin eats them as slowly as he possibly can, letting the taste linger in his mouth before craving another and another –
Until they’re all gone.
“I’ll make more next time,” Mu Qing promises as he watches Feng Xin chewing on the last one.
“When? Is this going to be something we do once a year?”
“Twice a month. The first and fifteenth.”
Feng Xin smiles. Because the first and the fifteenth (days of every lunar month) were when mortals flocked to the temples to offer incense, believing those were the best days to have their prayers heard and answered.
“You really ought to be more careful,” Feng Xin says. “You’re a heavenly official. It won’t look good on you to be seen interacting with mortals.”
“Didn’t stop His Highness back then.”
“He had his reasons.”
“I have one.”
When Feng Xin interlaces their fingers together, Mu Qing gives his hand a reassuring squeeze. “I’ll come at night."
That would be the best under their circumstances. Besides, it had been at night, during the quiet hours between dusk and dawn that their love had blossomed under the light of the stars.
Feng Xin's body is still working hard to digest the hearty meal, but his sleep-addled brain keeps going back to food. “It will be the Lantern Festival next,” he mumbles. “If you’re bringing dumplings, shall I make tangyuan?”
“You don't have to, you know? This isn't about reciprocating. It's not like we’re strangers.”
“No, we’re not," Feng Xin agrees, with a dazed, sleepy grin. "We’re the opposite of strangers. But doesn't that make it even more important to have tangyuan together?”
Mu Qing huffs but the corners of his lips are twitching, as if he's holding back a smile. “Do you know how to make them?”
“Think so,” Feng Xin slurs. “Watched you do it a number of times. I just hope you won’t mind if they’re not as pretty as the ones you make.”
“I won’t mind.”
With them, it has always been needs over wants, substance over appearance. Because they both valued genuine friendship and tough love over the flimsy alliances that crumbled like gold foil palaces as soon as times got rough.
Mu Qing tells him not to overfry the sesame and says something about the dough. Adding flour if it was too stiff and water if it was too sticky –
Or was it the other way around?
It's been a long day, and Mu Qing’s mellow voice and rhythmic speech are making his eyelids heavy.
“A-Xin?”
Feng Xin blinks and tries to focus on Mu Qing’s face. It’s hard to look at anything else with how pretty Mu Qing is – be it riding into battle, his long hair flying behind him or frying up a storm over an open fire. Tonight, he learns that Mu Qing is the most beautiful right before he goes to bed.
“Happy New Year, Feng Xin.”
“Happy New Year.”
🧧🧧🧧🧧🧧🧧🧧🧧
The morning sun filters through the long, willowy branches of the gingko tree, forcing Feng Xin to raise a hand to shield his eyes. Right beside him, there’s a patch of flattened grass, and Feng Xin rolls over in search of warmth.
Feng Xin knows he’s had dumplings, but it’s honey green tea that lingers on his lips and tongue. And if he closes his eyes, he can feel the gentle swish of black sleeves against his face and fingers in his hair.
Combing his tousled hair, Feng Xin sees the gold ribbon around his wrist. It’s even more beautiful in the day, with the soft rays of the sun illuminating the intricate blue embroidery that goes down its length. They’re charms, carefully selected and imbued with the spiritual energy of a heavenly official – to bless its wearer and keep them safe.
Indeed, Feng Xin feels wonderfully blessed. And despite the soreness in his shoulders and arms, he's invigorated and energised, like he’s had more sleep in one night than the rest of the year added together.
The treasure pot is cool to the touch, but it will warm up easily enough over a fire. As much as he wishes to tell someone, what they’ve got going between them has only begun and like the auspicious dish he carefully tucks under his arm, they’ll have to keep a lid on it to give it all the time it needed to brew.
Until then, there was the promise of snacks – and little treats like the small basket of mandarin oranges waiting for him on the freshly-thawed grass, a red envelope hiding inconspicuously among them.
Feng Xin grins when he spots the words etched on the trunk of the ginkgo tree. Just because they didn't have a door to their makeshift house doesn’t mean they cannot have the couplets to welcome blessings into their home.
With heaven’s blessings, no paths are bound.
One day, their love will be blessed and celebrated by heaven and earth. Feng Xin will build them not a house, but a palace and decorate it with three thousand lanterns or more. He’ll place flowers on every table and paste spring couplets on every door. Someday, dressed in red, they will meet in the bridal chamber to formalise the pledges they’d long made in their hearts.
It must be getting warmer, because all the frost in the forest seems to have evaporated. Feng Xin sees a single green leaf sprouting on one of the lower branches of the ancient tree. His heart is swelling with so much joy that it almost bursts. It’s been a long, hard winter –
But spring is here.
🍊🍊🍊🍊🍊🍊🍊🍊