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At Yong’an Cup, Feng Xin watches Mu Qing take first place in sabre on the locker room flatscreen, still damp from the shower after winning his archery final. Mu Qing is squaring off against Pei Xiu in the open air arena, under the shimmery barrier that protects the audience, and when he finally manages to pin Pei Xiu to the ground and disarm him with a burst of spiritual energy, there’s a faint sheen of sweat on his temple that catches light in the close-up.
Feng Xin turns away, scrubbing furiously at his hair with a towel.
He really needs to get a grip.
It’s been weird ever since Mu Qing came back after over a year of recovering from an injury, especially without the constant buffer of Xie Lian between them. It wasn’t like they never saw each other during that year, in the whirlwind of clearing Xie Lian from the false doping charges and his tentative return to the world of competitive cultivation, but it wasn’t the same as training right beside Mu Qing every single day. He wasn’t there whenever Feng Xin turned around in the locker room out of habit, looking for the familiar face, the flash of pale skin as Mu Qing changed out of his training gear. He wasn’t there whenever Feng Xin forgot himself and brought two cups of coffee with him to the morning session because that was what he used to do, even if Mu Qing would scoff at his choice of coffee place, then drain his cup anyway. Fourteen months of this, and then suddenly Mu Qing was there again, right in Feng Xin’s orbit and at the same time completely out of reach.
He was there, and he was barely speaking to Feng Xin, barely looking at Feng Xin. Like whatever happened in that year changed everything between them for good.
“Wow, Mu Qing really wiped the floor with him,” Lang Qianqiu pipes up from the other end of the room. “I guess he really let that injury heal properly before he came back, huh. What was it, again?”
Feng Xin refuses to look up at the TV again, where out of the corner of his eye he can see the camera operator getting all up in Mu Qing’s face.
“I don’t know.” He shrugs. “He never said.”
That was one of the things that rankled the most. They weren’t really friends back then, but they weren’t not friends, either, yet when Mu Qing left, he never bothered to tell Feng Xin what was wrong with him. He never said anything at all. He was there one day, and then he wasn’t. Feng Xin had to find out from Mei Nianqing, of all people.
He’s still pulling on his joggers when one of the junior disciples from Yong’an assisting in the Grand Prix event comes to find him.
“The medal ceremony is in ten minutes,” he says, giving Feng Xin a customary bow. “Please, don’t be late.”
Feng Xin reassures him quickly that he’ll make it on time and turns to his stall to look for his jacket when the locker room door opens again and Mu Qing rushes inside in a whirlwind of robes. He always opts for traditional dress during the competitions. That, at least, hasn’t changed.
“Congrats on the win,” Feng Xin says, shrugging on his lightweight jacket and tucking his t-shirt into his pants. “You did really great out there.”
Mu Qing gives him a flat look. “Sure,” he says and passes Feng Xin by without a second glance. “Whatever you say.”
The afterparties are always loud affairs in the competitive cultivation circuit. Everyone knows everyone else, and there’s always enough alcohol to go around, which makes for some good fun if one is into that. There’s also, predictably, a lot of hooking up at those events, because they’re all young, extremely fit people with a lot of energy to spare and very little time for socializing outside of their circle of acquaintances, so no one bats an eye when a pair or a larger group disappear mid-party and come back some time later, disheveled and covered in poorly-concealed hickeys.
But Mu Qing doesn’t really drink, and he doesn’t hook up. Feng Xin has no idea what he’s even still doing here, nursing a glass of water with a dour expression right by the refreshments table, in the big, echoey reception room at the hotel that was rented for the occasion. The sponsors and officials are long gone. There’s no one to charm, no one to make mind-numbingly boring small talk with just because they might offer you a spot in an athleisure commercial. Feng Xin was sure Mu Qing would have already left.
And yet, here he is, sitting on his own and fiddling with his phone, an air of unapproachability wafting off him.
Feng Xin doesn’t even know what pushes him to approach Mu Qing. Maybe it’s the desire for normalcy, for a return to what they used to have before—the not-quite-friendship, the bickering, the familiarity. Mu Qing might not like Feng Xin much, or at all, but they used to know each other, after so many years spent in each other’s company, pulled into each other’s orbit by Xie Lian. Now looking at Mu Qing is almost like looking at a stranger.
He's changed out of his traditional robes, at least, but he’s still buttoned all the way up, not a sliver of skin visible below his neck and above his wrists. It’s pretty warm in Yong’an this time of the year, though that doesn’t seem to bother Mu Qing. It’s only when Feng Xin comes closer that he realizes the black turtleneck Mu Qing is wearing is made of some kind of super-fine mesh, thin enough to be breathable but not so revealing that he would look indecent by his own, extremely strict standards. Still, when Mu Qing shifts as he sees Feng Xin approach, the fabric moves in such a way that Feng Xin can see the faint outlines of Mu Qing’s abs, the sculpt of his chest—there one second and gone the next.
Feng Xin’s mouth goes dry at the sight.
He grabs a glass of—something—wine, it turns out, and drains it in one gulp, then reaches for another. Mu Qing gives him an unimpressed look, but he doesn’t leave.
“Fancy some company?” Feng Xin asks, pulling up a chair for himself. Mu Qing doesn’t say anything, but he doesn’t tell Feng Xin to get lost, either, which he will count as a win. “You were really great out there. I meant that earlier,” Feng Xin continues, like some invisible force is prompting him to open his mouth. “Pei Xiu got really good while you were—well, he got really good in the last year. But you just demolished him. I think that was the quickest sabre final I’ve seen in a while.”
“You mean, since I left,” Mu Qing says, then takes a drink of water.
Feng Xin bristles a little at that. “Well, a lot of things have changed,” he says. “It’s not like the whole world was just waiting for you to come back, is it? Some people got better. Some people retired.”
Mu Qing’s face settles into an inscrutable expression. “Right, Shi Wudu,” he says. “I heard the news.”
They lapse into silence for a while after that, Mu Qing still sipping at his water glass while Feng Xin works on his wine. It’s awkward in a way their silences didn’t use to be. Or rather: there didn’t use to be any silences between them, back when they were constantly at each other’s throats or at least bickering all the time, to Xie Lian’s perpetual exasperation.
He really wanted them to get along in the beginning, when Mu Qing first came to study at Mount Taicang Cultivation Academy. At that time, Mu Qing was the scholarship kid, and Feng Xin came from money and was best friends with the son of the school’s owners. Mu Qing never let him forget that fact.
Feng Xin, though, because he was young and stupid, and a bit of a rich tool, didn’t really understand why it mattered so much. It certainly didn’t matter to him. It did to other people, though, and Feng Xin guesses that Mu Qing must have known that, too, and adjusted his behavior accordingly. Even Mei Nianqing was a dick to him back then, despite the patronage of Xie Lian’s parents and Mu Qing’s undeniable talent. So maybe it wasn’t that weird that Mu Qing wasn’t particularly interested in getting along with Feng Xin.
Maybe there was some window in which Feng Xin could’ve done something to help them become friends. He must have missed it, and now they’re left with this weird not-friendship, not-anything these days.
That sucks.
Over the fourteen months that Mu Qing was away, Feng Xin managed to figure some things out, and he understands this: he wants to get to know Mu Qing all over again. He wants to get to know Mu Qing, full stop, because some days it’s like Feng Xin has never understood him at all.
Feng Xin looks at the room, where the party is still in full swing. Xie Lian is not here tonight, and he’s not competing anymore anyway, just coaching and sponsoring people with Hua Cheng’s money. There’s no one here who would be looking for them if they just disappeared.
“Hey,” Feng Xin says, putting the empty wine glass away, “do you want to get out of here and, I don’t know, go somewhere? Like, on a walk, or to a bar or something?”
Mu Qing gives him the kind of look that should make Feng Xin wither and die on the spot, like a potted plant watered with acid.
“What, with you?” Mu Qing asks. “No, thanks.”
Feng Xin grits his teeth and pushes the chair away with a shrill screech, pulling himself up to his feet. “Fine,” he says. “Suit yourself.”
The thing is: they kissed once.
It was at an afterparty just like this one, and Feng Xin, carried by the high of a win in the timed elimination, got more drunk than he’d let on in front of Mu Qing. Three days later, once his mind finally filled in the fuzzy spots from that night, he realized that what he was remembering was the searing heat of Mu Qing’s mouth, the way his tongue tangled with Feng Xin’s, the quiet sounds Mu Qing made at the back of his throat.
So: they kissed, and Mu Qing, who was very much sober because he never drank, has never said anything. He must have gotten over it pretty quickly, though, because the next time Feng Xin saw him, it was like nothing ever happened. Like Mu Qing was the one who didn’t remember anything.
The other thing is that they were both pretty fucked up at the time for completely unrelated reasons. It was soon after Xie Lian had gotten banned for supposedly using unapproved cultivation techniques in competition—soon after his parents had died and he’d dropped off the face of the earth. Mu Qing would never admit it, but Feng Xin can be honest enough with himself to acknowledge that it messed both of them up. So maybe they were both just acting out. Maybe that was all there was to it.
That doesn’t explain the dozens of times Feng Xin has jerked off to the memory of Mu Qing’s mouth over the decade that’s passed since then. Or the times he’d wake up in the middle of the night with his hard cock trapped between his abdomen and the mattress, and remember that he dreamed about the pretty curve of Mu Qing’s mouth stretched around his dick.
But, again, Mu Qing has never said anything, and Feng Xin has decided he’d rather not bring it up just to get shot down immediately. It was just a kiss. Maybe Feng Xin is the weird one, for letting it live at the forefront of his mind for so long.
Feng Xin knows what the press and the fans say about them—how it’s so weirdly fascinating that they have the greatest rivalry in the whole competitive cultivation circuit when they don’t even compete in the same disciplines for the most part. Some people on the cultivation side of Weibo and Douyin are really obsessed with it—Feng Xin has seen the compilations, the memes, even some fanvids he swiped out of as soon as he realized what they were.
It's strange to look at himself from the outside view, seeing what other people see in interactions Feng Xin would never even think to question. The way Feng Xin seems to gravitate towards Mu Qing at all the events and galas, always finding himself in his company halfway through the evening. The way they keep a running tally of all their wins and top three placements at the training center, displayed prominently at the entrance to the training arena. Mu Qing rolling his eyes at something Feng Xin says or does—he knows there’s an account on Weibo that counts them. The current total is at two hundred and sixty-five. Those are only the ones which were caught on camera.
On Monday, Feng Xin arrives at the training center just in time to see Mu Qing updating the scoreboard in his neat handwriting. They have a bet going on—something that Xie Lian, of all people, suggested, in an attempt to get them to bond again, counting on their innate competitiveness. The rules are: the person to come out on top at the end of the season gets to ask the loser for one thing. The exact parameters haven’t been specified, but Feng Xin is pretty sure that if Mu Qing wins, he’s going to ask for something like, don’t speak to me for a week. Feng Xin doesn’t know what he’s going to ask for if he’s the one to win.
Feng Xin was in the lead after the previous competition, but he had to sit out the timed elimination event, and Mu Qing placed second in that, so he’s now leading by a point. It’s still early in the season, though—there are ten other competitions to get through before the finals, and they’re very evenly matched.
“Here,” Feng Xin says, extending a hand holding a cup of coffee from Mu Qing’s favorite place, the one with the mochi milk tea boba. “It’s your usual, triple shot, no sugar, no milk.”
Mu Qing hesitates for a moment, then snatches the cup out of Feng Xin’s hand, like there was ever any doubt. “Thanks,” he says and takes a sip. “By the way, you’re losing.”
Feng Xin laughs. “We’re not even halfway through the season yet,” he says. “Don’t think I’m going to go easy on you just because you’re out of practice.”
Mu Qing raises one eyebrow, clearly unimpressed. “I’m winning.”
“Yeah.” Feng Xin gives an amused huff. “But not for long.”
Xie Lian catches Feng Xin just as he’s walking out of the locker room after the morning training session a few days later. He’s just heading for lunch, then off to do some conditioning at the gym, then back for another training session in the afternoon.
Today, Feng Xin grabbed their coffee from a different place than usual, because he was already running late, and Mu Qing made a face after taking a sip, like the coffee personally offended his mother. Feng Xin thought it was quite okay. Maybe Mu Qing should just stop being such a goddamn fucking snob about coffee.
“Ah, Feng Xin, I’m glad I caught you!” Xie Lian says, smiling in a way that means Feng Xin is going to do everything Xie Lian is about to ask him to do. “Can we talk for a moment?”
Ever since coming back and taking over at Mount Taicang Cultivation Academy, Xie Lian has been trying his hardest to live up to the echoes of his parents that still live in these walls. Feng Xin can’t even imagine what it must be like, but it’s good to have him back. Everything was always better with Xie Lian around, even when things sucked otherwise.
“Yeah.” Feng Xin adjusts the strap of his gym bag. “What’s up?”
“In the office, maybe?” Xie Lian suggests. “It will only take a moment, I promise. And San Lang is out today, so…”
Xie Lian’s office at the main training arena has been no doubt decorated by him. As much as Xie Lian was used to being surrounded by beautiful, expensive things once upon a time, his real taste has always tended towards more or less controlled, slightly kitschy clutter, various bits and pieces always out on display.
“Okay, so what did you want to talk about?” Feng Xin asks once they’re seated.
Xie Lian smiles. “Ah, yes. You’ve seen the latest announcement from the International Competitive Cultivation Federation, right? They’re instituting a new discipline at the World Championships this year.”
“The doubles, yeah,” Feng Xin says. It’s a smart move. Two-on-two fights and duels are always popular with the audience. People love watching highly skilled people beat the shit out of each other in a controlled environment.
“I think,” Xie Lian continues, his smile taking on a sly slant, “that you and Mu Qing should team up to represent Xianle.”
Feng Xin’s own laughter takes him by surprise. He’s looking at Xie Lian in disbelief, still laughing, when Xie Lian tilts his head to the side, staring thoughtfully at Feng Xin without a word.
“You know he’s never going to go for it, right?” Feng Xin asks. “There’s no force in the heavens or on earth that would make Mu Qing want to team up with me for anything. You’ve seen how he’s been ever since he came back. What makes you think he’d ever agree to this?”
Xie Lian gives him another considering look and smiles. “Because he already has.”
“What the hell?” Feng Xin catches Mu Qing just as he’s leaving the building. He pulls at the sleeve of Mu Qing’s jacket to get his attention, then takes a step back when Mu Qing whirls around furiously.
“You’ll have to be more specific,” Mu Qing says.
“You told Xie Lian you’d team up with me for the doubles?” Feng Xin asks, incredulous. “You can barely stand to be in my company or talk to me for more than five minutes, and you want us to team up?”
Mu Qing gives him a strange look. “We have a complementary skill set and are evenly matched in power,” he says. “We don’t need to be friends to compete together and win. But if you don’t want to do this, feel free to be the one to tell Xie Lian, because I’m not going to.”
That stops the next protest forming on Feng Xin’s lips.
It’s funny how much their lives still revolve around Xie Lian in some ways, all those years later. How much what Xie Lian wants informs their own decisions. How much they still look at Xie Lian when they don’t think he’s looking back.
The truth is, though, that Feng Xin is confused, for the most part. Competing with Mu Qing instead of against him doesn’t bother him at all, and he wants to be friends with Mu Qing, against his better judgment. But what is Mu Qing getting out of this arrangement? Money, Feng Xin guesses, if they’re as good together as he suspects they might be. Endorsement deals and ad campaigns, maybe—like it’s not enough that Feng Xin has to look at Mu Qing advertising some goddamn red lipstick on a huge billboard across from Feng Xin’s apartment, because the universe has a uniquely shitty sense of humor.
“And are you going to be an enormous asshole the entire time?” Feng Xin can’t help himself from asking, only to be rewarded by Mu Qing’s scoff.
“Are you?” he asks.
Feng Xin bristles. “Hey, I’ve been nothing but nice to you since you came back, and you’re the one always acting like a cat that’s been dropped into an ice bath.”
Mu Qing stares at him with the kind of piercing expression that’s always made Feng Xin run a little hot under the collar. Like everything he’s thinking is out on display. Like Mu Qing is surely going to know he’s been the main source of Feng Xin’s masturbatory fantasies for the better part of a decade. Even when they’re fighting, Feng Xin just can’t stop looking. Maybe that’s the whole problem with him—there’s something not quite right inside him, that mismatched piece of a whole that sticks out just a little bit weird. Maybe that’s what makes him want things that aren’t good for him.
“I’ve been bringing you coffee every single day,” Feng Xin continues, vaguely aware that it’s a weak argument, but he’s doing it anyway. “I always let you have your favorite elliptical even though the other one has the weird sticky handles. If I’m being an asshole, then what does that make you?”
Mu Qing says nothing to that, his lips setting into a thin line.
“Look,” Feng Xin goes on, because he can’t stop himself now, everything spilling out, “I know you probably hate me, or whatever, but you agreed to do this with me, so don’t make it difficult on purpose. I’m not going to be an asshole to you, because why the fuck would I, so don’t be an asshole to me in return, and we’re gonna be fine. And,” he adds, already storming off, “buy your own goddamn coffee next time, if you hate it so much.”
This, Feng Xin admits to himself once he’s sitting in his car, down in the underground parking lot of the complex, could have gone better. He doesn’t know why he lost it so badly at Mu Qing—maybe it’s all the pent-up tension, or maybe the fact that Feng Xin has no idea what Mu Qing even wants from him. Once, despite the rifts between them, Feng Xin was able to anticipate some of Mu Qing’s movements, but now he’s left scrambling all the time, constantly forced to catch up. He’s had enough of it, it seems.
The following morning, though, he walks into the training center with two cups of coffee again, like the pathetic loser he is, and hands one of them to Mu Qing, who takes it without a word and drinks it, and doesn’t make any cutting comments.
Feng Xin will count this as a win.
At Banyue Trophy, Feng Xin’s bowstring breaks on the last arrow and he loses the final by two tenths of a point. Cursing under his breath, he grits his teeth and strides off the archery range to spend the next fifteen minutes drowning himself in the shower.
Second place is not the end of the world, but Feng Xin has been dominating the competition since the start of the season, and he was hoping to continue that streak until the Grand Prix Finale, held in Xianle this year. Mu Qing’s final was earlier today, and he placed first, further widening the gap between him and Feng Xin in their little unofficial ranking.
It’s all riding on the timed elimination and the group hunt, then, and Feng Xin is registered to enter both this time, despite the fact that his wrist has been bothering him for the past few days. He must have pulled a muscle in training or something—maybe it happened while he was racing Mu Qing up the climbing wall and extended himself a bit too much. Or maybe it was his last stint on the weightlifting bench that did him in, since he decided to go in without a spotter and grabbed the bar a little awkwardly at one point. No point crying about it now. He’s had worse strains; he’s going to live.
It's only once he’s flexing his hand before the start of the group hunt event, rolling his wrist to relieve some of the tension, that Mu Qing approaches him to say, “Sit this one out if you’re too injured to shoot.”
Feng Xin, who has more medical tape than is probably wise taped all over his hand and wrist beneath his glove, huffs a laugh. “What, afraid I’m going to beat you again? I already placed higher than you in the timed elimination. Got five more targets than you did, too.”
He can see the moment Mu Qing opens his mouth to say something caustic, then closes it, releases a breath and says, “No, you idiot, but if you go and get yourself injured for the sake of some stupid bet, you’re jeopardizing both of our chances. Don’t pretend you forgot we have joint practice scheduled next week, to start preparing for the doubles competition. If you’re out of commission, that’s just going to get delayed.”
It would be almost touching, if not for the fact that Mu Qing is most likely doing this for purely selfish reasons.
“Don’t worry,” Feng Xin says. “I know how much I can take. It’s going to be fine.”
The group hunt is a bloodbath this time around. They have them out in the desert in an enclosed arena, with cameras whizzing overhead to capture the footage, and if there’s one climate that Feng Xin hates fighting in, it’s the fucking desert. The heat of the day is really doing a number on them, and the prey gathered in the arena is elusive and camouflages well.
By the time there are only a few people left, Lang Qianqiu has broken an arm, and Quan Yizhen is being treated for concussion—and that’s not even counting the other, less severe injuries that have forced several other people to withdraw mid-competition. The only competitors left now are Feng Xin, Mu Qing, the Pei cousins and Yushi Huang, advancing to where the larger prey is waiting for them. So far, it’s been mostly ghouls and various desert-dwelling monsters, but Feng Xin knows there’s something more exciting up the mountain.
Pei Xiu is the first to fold once they reach the top, where a monster that looks like a cross between a tiger and a cobra lunges at them as soon as they pull themselves up the rocky ledge. Feng Xin reaches out to steady him, but he’s too late. Pei Xiu slides down the steep slope, bumping his head on a piece of sharp rock until his temple bleeds. Once he gets his bearings, he immediately pushes the button on his wristband that indicates he’s done, activating the distance-shortening array that will take him out of the arena.
The four that remain represent very different fighting styles. Feng Xin hasn’t gone head to head with Yushi Huang a lot in the past, but she’s a methodical and precise fighter, whereas Pei Ming makes up for his impulsiveness with sheer strength and technique. Mu Qing, though, moves like water, fluid and mesmerizing to watch. He’s fast, too, whirling from stance to stance, from form to form as he sneaks up on the monster from behind.
A swipe of its tail sends Pei Ming and Yushi Huang hurtling against the rocky face of the little canyon they’ve managed to corner the monster in, and then—
“Watch out!” Feng Xin calls, loosing an arrow as the monster turns around in an instant, zeroing in on Mu Qing.
Pain erupts in his wrist, bow clattering to the ground as his fingers go numb.
At the same time, Mu Qing dodges the first blow, kicks off the wall of the canyon and launches himself into the air, slicing half of the monster’s head off in one clean swipe. Tumbling, he comes to a halt next to Feng Xin.
“Didn’t I tell you not to be an idiot?” he says, grabbing Feng Xin by the forearm to feed him some spiritual energy.
The pain lessens immediately.
“I didn’t—” Feng Xin starts to say, but Mu Qing interrupts him with a scoff.
“Don’t bother,” he says. “I’ve already called for the medics.”
“It’s just a sprain,” Feng Xin says once the field medics are done with him. His wrist is in a splint, but with his cultivation-assisted healing, he’ll be out of it in a week, maybe a week and a half.
Mu Qing doesn’t look impressed when Feng Xin relays the news. “You knew you had a strained tendon, and yet you went in anyway,” he hisses while one of the healers finishes up disinfecting a small cut on Feng Xin’s face. “If you’re trying to prove you’re not actually stupid, you’re not doing a very good job.”
Feng Xin bristles. “It was lunging straight at you!” he shoots back with an exasperated huff. “Would you rather—”
“I had it handled!” Mu Qing’s voice rises over the background noise in the room. “And then you had to go and injure yourself at the worst possible moment. Well done. I’m sure Xie Lian will be thrilled to hear this.”
Feng Xin’s jaw snaps so hard that something in it crunches. “Don’t bring him into this,” he grits out. “And it’s not like I got injured on purpose, you asshole. I’ll be fine to start training next week. We’re going to be fine.”
Mu Qing rolls his eyes, but when Feng Xin goes up to his room to get his things, he finds his luggage already packed—much more neatly than his usual job. That can mean only one thing: Mu Qing did it for him. All of his clothes, which Feng Xin usually stuffs haphazardly into the suitcase fifteen minutes before checking out, are neatly folded and taking up far less space than usual. The toiletries have been packed as well, and the electronics are sitting in Feng Xin’s backpack with their chargers separated, the cords tightly wrapped around them instead of a jumbled mess at the bottom of the bag.
“Thanks,” Feng Xin says when he pours himself into the seat next to Mu Qing on the bus to the airport. “For the—you know.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Mu Qing says, then turns away from Feng Xin to stare out the window. He stays like that for the entire ride.
The knock on the door pulls Feng Xin out of a shallow sleep. He must have dozed off, because the TV is still on, tuned into some variety show Feng Xin doesn’t remember putting on.
The knocking repeats, more insistent this time, and Feng Xin trudges to the door, trying and failing to pull his hair into a ponytail. Turns out, having one hand in a splint really fucking sucks, which Feng Xin’s had to learn the hard way over these past few days. Funny, how so many things he’s taken for granted, like picking stuff up with both hands or washing himself, have now turned into feats of ingenuity and perseverance.
Eventually, Feng Xin gives up and lets his hair run free down his back instead, then opens the door just to find Mu Qing on the doorstep, clutching a takeout bag in his hands. He looks like a model, which is really unfair, because Feng Xin hasn’t showered today and he’s suddenly intensely aware of each and every small tear in his t-shirt.
“Xie Lian sent me,” Mu Qing says in a tone that suggests that he’d rather be anywhere else. “So you don’t starve out here.”
The food smells suspiciously like Feng Xin’s favorite minced pork noodles from that one tiny restaurant in the hutong district by his apartment complex. Xie Lian has no idea it’s Feng Xin’s regular takeout spot, but Mu Qing does.
“Right, sounds like Xie Lian,” Feng Xin says, stepping to the side to let Mu Qing in. “Come in, come in. Have you eaten?”
Mu Qing shakes his head and then, reluctantly, steps inside. He shoves the takeout bag into Feng Xin’s uninjured hand before kneeling down to take off his shoes. Mu Qing is the only person Feng Xin knows who actually unties his shoelaces before he takes his shoes off, even if he’s wearing sneakers.
The kitchen is mostly clean when Feng Xin leads Mu Qing there, very much aware that this is the first time Mu Qing has ever stepped foot inside Feng Xin’s apartment—well, this apartment, at least. There are just a few dishes left in the sink to soak, and the cleaners have been by while Feng Xin was away, so the counters and appliances haven’t managed to accumulate much dust yet.
Mu Qing looks around the space, taking it in, but it’s hard to tell what he thinks about it, because his face retains his usual cold, slightly unimpressed expression. Feng Xin wants to know what goes through his mind, but he knows better than to ask, because Mu Qing is not shy about stating his opinion, and if he’s keeping it to himself this time, there’s probably a reason.
Instead, Feng Xin busies himself with pulling out bowls and chopsticks one-handed.
“There’s some tea in the fridge if you want,” he says, balancing the utensils on his way to the kitchen island. “Or beer, but you don’t drink, so I didn’t want to—”
“Just water is fine,” Mu Qing says, sliding off the barstool to rummage through the cabinets in search of a glass. “Do you want a beer?”
Feng Xin stares when Mu Qing has to get on his tiptoes to reach the highest shelf that even Feng Xin has trouble getting to sometimes—one of the perks of high ceilings—and his shirt rides up. The sliver of skin that peeks out between the waistband of his jeans and the hem of the top he’s wearing is milk-white and makes Feng Xin go hot under the collar.
“Yeah,” he says weakly. “Beer’s fine.”
When they sit down to eat, Feng Xin digs into his noodles immediately, but every time he looks up, he finds Mu Qing staring.
“What?” he asks eventually, once he’s almost done with his meal. “Is there something on my face?”
He reaches for a napkin and wipes at his mouth, his cheeks and chin, but nothing comes off.
“No,” Mu Qing says. “It’s just—your hair. It didn’t use to be so long.”
Feng Xin grins. “What, do you like it?”
Mu Qing rolls his eyes. “Don’t flatter yourself. I was just wondering when was the last time you brushed it.”
“Yeah, well,” Feng Xin says. “I can’t really do shit with it with just one hand, so if you want to have at it, be my guest.”
He expects Mu Qing to just roll his eyes again and tell him to get lost, but instead Mu Qing puts his chopsticks away with a quiet clink and says, exasperated, “Just give me the brush.”
Now it’s Feng Xin’s turn to stare. “Wait, are you serious?”
Mu Qing arches one brow. “Would you rather keep walking around like this?”
The words are at the tip of Feng Xin’s tongue—he wants to tell Mu Qing that the way he’s been walking around is just fine, thanks, but then he remembers his ineffectual struggle against the hair tie on his way to the door, and he just settles for: “It’s in the bathroom. I’m gonna go get it.”
They relocate to the living room for this, and Feng Xin sits cross-legged on the carpet in front of his coffee table, with Mu Qing sitting behind him on the couch.
“What do you even do with your hair?” Mu Qing asks once he starts brushing through the ends, separating the hair into sections because that’s apparently something people do.
“Nothing?” Feng Xin says defensively.
“Yeah,” Mu Qing scoffs, “I can tell.”
“No, I mean, I wash it and put some conditioner in just like everyone else,” Feng Xin parries, still offended. “Wait, what do you do with it?”
The movements of the brush never stop all the while, surprisingly gentle.
“You don’t really want to know, do you?” Mu Qing says after a moment.
It’s nice, Feng Xin has to admit, to have someone do this for him. He expected Mu Qing to be too rough with the brush just to make a point, but he actually makes an effort to brush out all the kinks and moves with the kind of effortless precision that means he probably does this at least twice a day like some kind of haircare freak.
“Who says I don’t want to know things about you?” Feng Xin says, hoping his voice sounds sincere. “I asked, didn’t I?”
He could swear that Mu Qing laughs—it’s more of a quiet huff of air, but it’s still there.
“Beat me to the top of the climbing wall next time and I’ll tell you,” he says, then, “Sit still.”
Feng Xin frowns. Just a moment ago he was sure the whole thing was over, since they’ve been at it for at least fifteen minutes, and there must be a finite amount of time one can spend brushing hair, but then Mu Qing starts to gather the hair at the top of Feng Xin’s head to put it into a braid.
“Here,” he says once he’s done. “It should last you a day or two.”
“Thanks,” Feng Xin says as he climbs to his feet, still a little poleaxed by the sudden shift in Mu Qing’s behavior.
“Sure.” Mu Qing uncrosses his legs and stands up as well, then heads back towards the kitchen to gather his things on his way to the door. “Don’t be an idiot and don’t strain yourself. We have training sessions scheduled for the end of next week.”
“I know,” Feng Xin says. “I’ll be there.”
The thing is, they’re surprisingly good in a fight together. Mu Qing wasn’t joking when he said they have complementary skill sets and are pretty evenly matched overall, and it shows by the time the first joint training session arrives.
The talisman-powered dummies designed by Hua Cheng that they use for combat training are pretty good, Feng Xin has to begrudgingly agree as Mu Qing strikes the last of them down before the end of the round. They’ve been giving them a good workout, and without sparring partners available, they’re the next best thing.
“You need to watch my sword arm next time,” Mu Qing says, heading to the bench for a drink of water. “I can’t go as wide as I want sometimes because you’re there. Either keep to my left or give me more of an opening.”
“That’s stupid,” Feng Xin protests. He watches the jut of Mu Qing’s throat move when he drinks. “You can’t know that we won’t have to fight in close quarters, and we should be prepared for that, too. Whoever we end up against won’t be stupid enough to give us the run of the whole place.”
Mu Qing’s jaw clenches, but he just huffs, then nods.
“Fine,” he says. “Let’s go again.”
Despite all the bickering, they move well together across the arena, pinning the training dummies under the onslaught of their strikes. After so many years, there’s a well-worn familiarity to their movements, an ease of anticipation that makes them lethal with their forces joined.
It’s the easiest they’ve been able to communicate with each other. It’s exhilarating.
They end up going four rounds against the dummies, and when Feng Xin is about to head back to the locker room, Mu Qing says, “No. Again. Just you and me this time, hand-to-hand.”
Feng Xin wipes the sweat off his neck and puts his bow away. He rolls his shoulders, then turns to rummage around his bag for a roll of tape. If Mu Qing thinks Feng Xin is going to back down from the challenge, he’s dead wrong.
“Sure,” Feng Xin says, taping his hand with practiced movements. “You’re on.”
He used to spar a lot with some of the younger kids around the place in the year Mu Qing was away. But with them, he always had to make sure he had his spiritual powers under control. None of the younger disciples at the school were at his level, and he could never forget that. But with Mu Qing, Feng Xin can really let go.
They start out slow, circling each other, until Feng Xin is the first one to move in. He manages to get one punch in, followed by a kick that Mu Qing blocks, locking Feng Xin’s shin in his grip. Mu Qing twists, trying to knock Feng Xin off-balance, but Feng Xin is already kicking off, pulling his leg out of Mu Qing’s grasp. He arcs backwards through the air and pushes himself off the wall, then back at Mu Qing.
They trade blows once they meet again, blocking and parrying, neither of them giving ground, until Mu Qing spins, then kicks Feng Xin just below the sternum, the momentum knocking the wind out of him. Mu Qing follows that with another strike, then twists one of Feng Xin’s arms around until it hurts and pins him against the wall, pushing down on Feng Xin with his own body.
They stay like that for a moment, breathing heavily. Feng Xin can feel Mu Qing’s warm breath on the sweaty back of his neck.
“I’m not one of your junior disciples,” Mu Qing pants into the skin of Feng Xin’s nape. “Don’t hold back on me.”
“Fuck you,” Feng Xin says, grinning. He frees himself from Mu Qing’s grasp and whirls around, coming eye to eye with Mu Qing, who looks truly alive for the first time since his return. “Come on, no screwing around this time.”
They break away, watching each other the entire time.
The next time Mu Qing comes in close enough to grab, Feng Xin yanks him by the front of his shirt, trying to trip him.
“You’ll have to try better than that,” Mu Qing says and narrows his eyes.
This time, Feng Xin waits for Mu Qing to make the first move, trying to find an opening in his stance. He manages to land two clean hits, one to the sternum and one to the ribs, before he ends up on his back with Mu Qing pinning him to the ground with his knee.
“That’s pathetic.” Mu Qing laughs meanly. “And I’m the one who missed an entire season.”
Feng Xin pretends to go lax in his grip.
He can feel the exact moment Mu Qing loosens his hold on Feng Xin’s wrists. It takes half a heartbeat to flip them around, and then Feng Xin is sitting on Mu Qing’s thighs, holding him down.
“Not so funny now, huh?” he whispers, his lips almost brushing against the shell of Mu Qing’s ear, and feels the moment Mu Qing goes rigid under him. “Don’t worry, I’m playing the long game here.”
Mu Qing pushes Feng Xin off with a huff, then dusts himself off and stalks away to take his stance. There’s color high in his cheeks, a bright red flush that makes heat flash in Feng Xin’s stomach. He knows Mu Qing hates how easy it is to tell when he blushes.
A thrill of satisfaction runs down Feng Xin’s spine. It’s fun to rile Mu Qing up like that. Maybe he deserves it a little bit, for all the shit he’s given Feng Xin these past few weeks.
The next time they clash, Feng Xin ends up with his cheek pressed against the floor and Mu Qing’s knee digging into his back between their shoulder blades.
“I think I win,” Mu Qing says triumphantly.
Feng Xin laughs, a little out of breath. “First to three wins takes it all?” he chances.
“I’m already at two,” Mu Qing says, finally letting go of Feng Xin. “What am I getting out of it?”
“Loser buys dinner?” Feng Xin says as he climbs to his feet.
Behind Feng Xin, Mu Qing laughs. “Sure,” he says. “If you want to pay for my dinner that badly.”
This time, Feng Xin doesn’t let himself be surprised. He holds back nothing, meeting Mu Qing’s strikes blow for blow as they move around the room. There’s sweat running down the column of his spine, and his hair is coming loose from his ponytail, but Feng Xin doesn’t stop until he has Mu Qing cornered. He cuts Mu Qing off at his knees, evading the blocking attempt, and throws him to the ground, then holds him down as Mu Qing tries to struggle, pinning him in place.
“How’s that?” he asks, grinning.
He’s sitting astride Mu Qing, and in the middle of their scuffle, as he presses down against him, Feng Xin realizes that Mu Qing must be getting hard. There’s no mistaking the hot line of his cock digging into Feng Xin’s abdomen.
Mu Qing must realize it, too, if the wide-eyed look on his face is anything to go by. He pushes Feng Xin off, scrambling to his feet in a rare display of ungainliness, then says, “I’m done for today. I guess it’s a draw.”
This time, Feng Xin knows better than to push. He just stands there like an idiot, right in the middle of the training room, watching Mu Qing’s retreating back.
Feng Xin is not particularly proud of the fact that the moment he gets back home, he walks straight into his shower and jerks off to the memory of the way Mu Qing looked, flushed and flustered, lying on his back under Feng Xin.
There was a part of him that wanted to lean forward and kiss Mu Qing in that moment. This wouldn’t have been the first time they did this, after all. It was a stupid instinct, and one Feng Xin resisted, because he wasn’t a complete idiot, but the memory of that one kiss has been etched into the darkest recesses of his mind. It comes back to him every once in a while in vivid flashes and leaves Feng Xin wondering what would have happened if he’d said something once he remembered everything.
He ends up lounging on the couch, trying to follow a palace drama, but his mind keeps slipping, until, in a fit of what is most likely spectacularly bad judgment, he messages Mu Qing.
still up for that dinner? — he sends over WeChat, not really expecting an answer.
The silence from the other side continues for a while, until Feng Xin puts the phone away, shaking his head at himself. Then, the screen lights up with a notification.
Mu Qing’s message reads, Are you paying?
Feng Xin laughs, then texts him the address.
They end up at a Korean barbecue place nearby Feng Xin’s apartment, sitting at a table in the corner with slices of pork belly sizzling between them.
“You’re really good, you know,” Feng Xin says, pouring himself a glass of soju. Mu Qing is drinking water as always. “I mean, I bet it would’ve taken me a lot longer to bounce back from an injury that kept me from competing for the whole season.”
When he glances up, Mu Qing is looking at him strangely. As soon as he notices Feng Xin’s eyes on him, though, he turns his head to the side, stubbornly refusing to meet his gaze.
“And you were really good earlier, too,” Feng Xin continues, careful not to say too much. “It was fun, not having to hold myself back.”
Mu Qing reaches for a perilla leaf and dips a slice of pork in the spicy sauce, then says, “You get distracted too easily, but I wouldn’t have teamed up with you if I didn’t think you could hold your own.”
From Mu Qing’s mouth, it almost sounds like a compliment.
Feng Xin drinks the last of the soju in his glass, then pours himself another one. “Have you ever wondered what would’ve happened if Xie Lian never—”
“No,” Mu Qing cuts him off sharply. “I didn’t come here to talk about that.”
Feng Xin regards him for a moment. “What did you come here to talk about, then?”
Mu Qing glares, but it’s not as effective as usual. “I came here to eat,” he says. “Because you owed me dinner.”
“Oh, really?” Feng Xin teases. “I thought it was a draw.”
They’re teetering dangerously close to acknowledging what happened earlier, but Feng Xin lets it hang there, not pushing it any closer to the brink.
“And yet you’re the one paying,” Mu Qing says. “So what does that say about you?”
Feng Xin laughs, loud enough that some of the people sitting at the neighboring tables take notice.
“That I’m a sucker, I guess,” he says. “Or that I wanted to treat you to dinner.”
Mu Qing looks at him with suspicion. He wipes his hands on a napkin and reaches for his glass. “Why are you being so nice to me?” he asks.
“Why do you always think I’m going to be an asshole?” Feng Xin leans back in his chair, crossing his arms defensively over his chest. “I’m not! Is it really so weird that I want us to get along better, especially now that we’re training together, too?”
For some reason, that’s the wrong thing to say, because Mu Qing’s face shutters. It’s like a ripple goes through it, washing away any kind of playfulness and leaving behind just the smooth surface of a mask.
“Right,” Mu Qing says, then pushes himself away from the table. “I’ll be right back. And I want some beef when I do.”
With a sigh, Feng Xin flags down the owner to order another tray of meat, a fresh glass of water for Mu Qing and another bottle of soju for himself.
Sometimes he really fails to understand the mercurial moods that govern Mu Qing. It’s like Feng Xin is saying all the right words, doing all the right things, and then, just like that, Mu Qing is once again pissed off about something and expecting Feng Xin to know what’s wrong.
By the time Mu Qing comes back to their table, Feng Xin’s mood has turned sour. He keeps fiddling with his soju glass, but he’s not really hungry anymore. The smoke from the grill is starting to make his eyes water.
“I got you the beef,” he says, then gestures towards the front of the restaurant. “I’m just gonna…”
He slinks away from the table and goes to pay, swiping his phone quickly, then heads straight for the door, where the evening is still warm despite the hour.
Feng Xin doesn’t smoke, but he’d kill for a cigarette right now. Instead, he ends up pacing in front of the restaurant for a while, back and forth, back and forth, until he’s had enough of his own indecision. He should probably just head home and leave Mu Qing to enjoy the rest of his meal in silence, since he apparently hates Feng Xin’s presence so much.
Before he can make up his mind, though, the restaurant door opens with a quiet squeak of the hinges.
“Are you serious?” Mu Qing’s voice sounds from behind Feng Xin’s back. “Were you just going to leave like that?”
Suddenly furious, Feng Xin spins around on his heel.
“Can you make up your fucking mind?” he spits out. “First you agree to come eat with me, but then you look like you’d rather be anywhere else. One minute we’re joking, then you get all huffy and just shut me out completely. You don’t have to treat me like an absolute asshole when I’m just trying to be friends with you! I’ve had enough of trying to figure out what you want from me, so just—” Feng Xin sighs, running a hand down his face. “Will you just tell me what the fuck do you want from me?”
Mu Qing is staring at him, his eyes wide. “You think we’re—” he stutters. “You think we’re friends? But you hate me.”
Feng Xin gapes. “Where the fuck did you get that from? I don’t hate you. Why would I hate you?”
“Because of what happened with Xie Lian?” Mu Qing parries. “You only ever tolerated me because of him, and then I—”
“I wanted to be friends with you, back when we were kids!” Feng Xin raises his voice, startling a couple of pigeons. “But you made that fucking impossible! You always acted I was offending you just by existing, and then you—”
Mu Qing laughs, sharp and mean. “Go on, say it,” he goads. “Say what you’re thinking. And then I betrayed Xie Lian. Wasn’t that what you were going to say?”
They’re still in front of the restaurant, and when Feng Xin peers inside through the window, it looks like they’re starting to attract attention. Some people have their phones out, and Feng Xin would rather not end up as a hot search on Weibo tonight.
“Can we not do this here?” he asks. “Come on, let’s just—let’s just go, let’s walk, okay?”
“Why?” Mu Qing says, wary.
“Because you’re wrong.” Feng Xin runs a hand down his face. “Come on, let’s just—let’s just go to the river, okay? To the bridge. You know which one.”
Mu Qing’s eyes go wide when he realizes. It’s where Mu Qing saved Feng Xin’s life years ago.
Once, they were stupid kids making stupid bets in the middle of the night out of spite. All it took was some rainwater that didn’t quite dry after the downpour, a narrow railing, a slip of the foot. But before Feng Xin went crashing down into the rocky bottom of the river below, Mu Qing was there, clutching him in his grasp, breathing heavily against the side of Feng Xin’s neck.
“You fucking idiot,” Mu Qing said. He was shaking.
Now, when they reach the river, there aren’t too many people walking by. The bridge has been closed to car traffic for years, and when they stop in the middle to lean against the railing, there isn’t anyone who could overhear.
“So what now?” Mu Qing asks. He refuses to look at Feng Xin, staring instead into the glimmering play of the city lights on the surface of the water below them.
“I don’t hate you,” Feng Xin says. Maybe it’s time they got some things straight, because Mu Qing seems to have everything completely backwards. “I’ve never hated you. You can be an annoying asshole and sometimes you piss me off, but that’s not the same. I know you don’t like me, but that’s—whatever. I can’t tell you how to feel. I’ve gotten used to that, don’t worry. I just kept wondering, you know. Why you never showed to that hearing.”
Even in the dark, Feng Xin can tell that Mu Qing immediately stiffens at that. Xie Lian’s disciplinary hearing in front of the Competitive Cultivation Ethics Committee has been a sore spot for all of them, for different reasons. But Mu Qing, who was supposed to testify with Feng Xin in Xie Lian’s defense, never showed up on that day and then refused to talk about it for years.
Mu Qing is silent for so long that Feng Xin starts to think he will never say anything. Then, Mu Qing says, “They—he told me all of my sponsors would drop me if I testified.”
Anger roils in Feng Xin’s stomach, sudden and vicious. “So you did this for fucking money?” he asks, incredulous.
Now, Mu Qing turns to face him at last, his expression dripping with cold fury. “Fuck you,” he spits out. “What the hell would you know about money, rich boy? When your sponsors dropped you after you testified, you still had your family’s little fortune to fall back on. I’m not going to apologize for keeping my mother alive, you judgmental prick.”
“What?” Feng Xin gapes. “What do you mean, keep your mother alive?”
Mu Qing scoffs. “Don’t pretend like Xie Lian never told you.”
“Never told me what?”
“About my mother,” Mu Qing says, like it explains everything. “She’s been sick since I was a teenager. She got worse around the time the whole thing with Xie Lian went down. I was nineteen and I panicked, because she couldn’t work anymore, and I had to support her, and if my sponsors had dropped me back then, we would’ve been left with nothing. So fuck you and your high horse for looking down on me for that. Because I’m not going to apologize for doing what needed to be done.”
“Shit,” Feng Xin says. He doesn’t know what to feel; his ears are ringing like he’s been clobbered over the head with something heavy. “I had no idea—about your mom, I mean. Xie Lian never said anything. I’m really sorry. If you’d said anything, back then—I would’ve helped.”
“I don’t need charity,” Mu Qing says, but he sounds like some fight has gone out of him. “I can take care of her by myself.”
“Yeah, but…I could’ve helped,” Feng Xin insists. “There’s nothing shameful in asking for help.”
Mu Qing rolls his eyes. “Spare me the platitudes. You sound like a motivational poster.”
“Maybe I do.” Feng Xin huffs out a laugh. “But I’m serious. I had no idea that was happening. And is she—”
“They can’t cure it. They can only try to manage it,” Mu Qing says and then remains quiet for a long moment. Then, through his teeth, he admits, “I wasn’t injured for a year. I had a light sprain that healed in two weeks, but then… She got worse. I had to stay behind and take care of her. It was easier to pretend I was too injured to compete, because then at least no one was asking any questions.”
Feng Xin has no idea what to say to that. What does one even say to that?
“I’m sorry,” he tells Mu Qing in the end, but even that feels inadequate.
“What for?” Mu Qing asks sharply. “You didn’t make her sick.”
“Yeah, but I could’ve—I don’t know,” Feng Xin says. “I could’ve done something. I could’ve figured it out somehow and—I don’t know. Helped.”
Mu Qing scoffs. “Don’t flatter yourself. I’m a very good liar when I want to be.”
“Yeah, but—” Before he can finish, a thought crosses Feng Xin’s mind. “Wait, didn’t you get dropped by some sponsors one right after the other just before your break?”
This time, when Mu Qing laughs, it sounds jaded, bitter. “That’s what I get for digging up old dirt,” he says, like that explains everything. At Feng Xin’s confused expression, he adds, “Let’s just say that I started digging into Xie Lian’s old case and found some stuff that Jun Wu didn’t appreciate.”
It’s then that Feng Xin understands. Xie Lian’s exoneration, the evidence that finally brought Jun Wu down, surfacing after all those years—they all have Mu Qing to thank for that, at least in part.
“Why didn’t you ever say anything?” Feng Xin asks, incredulous.
Mu Qing turns away from him once again. “And what would that have changed? Would you have been nicer to me? Is that it?”
“I—” Saying, I could’ve helped for the third time feels woefully inadequate. Instead, Feng Xin asks, “Why did you come back, then?”
Mu Qing laughs again, the same quiet, breathy huff. “Well, that’s the funny thing about savings. When you try to live off them long enough, you eventually eat through all of them.”
Feng Xin frowns. “And your mother? You said you had to—”
“She’s fine,” Mu Qing cuts him off. “They’re trying a new experimental treatment and she’s better than she was a year ago. She doesn’t need round-the-clock help anymore, so I could come back, earn some more money to pay for her treatments.”
Feng Xin shakes his head. “I had no idea.”
“Good.” Mu Qing gives him a look. “That was the plan.”
“Fuck, you’re just…so proud, huh?” Feng Xin says. “Do you always care so much what people will think of you?”
Mu Qing narrows his eyes. “Do you always care so little?” he counters. “How comfortable in your own position do you have to be to afford that?”
Feng Xin doesn’t know what to say to that. It’s not like Mu Qing is wrong, exactly, but all of this is just so ridiculous. So much strife and resentment could’ve been avoided if Mu Qing had just opened his goddamn pretty mouth at any point in the last fucking decade.
Feng Xin knows better than to try to argue with him, though.
“Is there anything I can do now?” he asks instead.
“Yeah,” Mu Qing says. “Help get us to the first place in doubles at Worlds.”
It’s not quite like flipping a switch, but something shifts between them after that conversation. Mu Qing doesn’t change much, because that’s just the kind of person he is, but with the newfound, tentative understanding between them, it’s easier for them to navigate the murky waters of their relationship. The energy between them feels different, too, but no less charged—just in a different way.
Unfortunately for Feng Xin, it also makes him incredibly horny. He wouldn’t say the current running between them is sexual, but there’s something—a tension, a kind of electricity that jolts him every time they touch during practice. He’s been attracted to Mu Qing ever since they were teenagers, but now it’s like and Feng Xin is seventeen all over again, feeling the heady buzz of hormones when he looks at the pretty, mean boy from across the room..
These days, he jerks off every morning in the shower before rushing out for their joint training sessions, and then again after he comes back, like he’s going for a very different kind of record. He barely even watches porn anymore, because his mind keeps replaying the way Mu Qing brushed against him at practice earlier, or the way Mu Qing’s baby hairs stuck to his nape with sweat, and that’s somehow enough to get him going. Just before he comes, his mind inevitably strays to the hazy memory of the kiss from years ago and that gets him over the edge, making a mess of his stomach and underwear.
They dominate the rest of the Grand Prix season—the newfound understanding further fueling their rivalry in competition.
In Xiuli, Feng Xin wins the archery contest and comes second in timed elimination, then gets to deal the final blow in the group hunt. In Yushi, Mu Qing snatches three victories in all the disciplines he enters. At Yu Jun Mountain, Feng Xin beats him by two hundredths of a second in the timed event and comes first again in the group hunt. By the time the Grand Prix finale approaches, they’re almost tied on their unofficial scoreboard.
They’re seeing each other a lot outside of training, too. In the past, it was because Xie Lian would look at them with pleading eyes and neither of them could say no to him, but now Feng Xin will drag Mu Qing out for food after practice or message him to go equipment shopping. One weekend, they spend over an hour at a specialty sports store while Feng Xin tries on archery gloves. As punishment, Mu Qing makes him pay for boba afterwards.
It's…weirdly nice. They still bicker all the time, because that will never change, but the viciousness is gone from Mu Qing’s voice. He’s still an asshole, but he doesn’t spit venom anymore any time Feng Xin approaches him.
“I’m glad to see you’re getting along better,” Xie Lian tells Feng Xin one day when it’s just the two of them. They’re sitting in the cafeteria as Feng Xin guzzles down his protein smoothie, getting looks from some of the junior disciples who still haven’t gotten used to Xie Lian’s presence. “I was a little surprised when Mu Qing first approached me with the idea for the team-up, but—”
“Wait, wait, wait, hold up.” Feng Xin puts his smoothie down. “What do you mean, when Mu Qing approached you with the idea? You told me it was your idea!”
Xie Lian laughs breathily like he’s embarrassed at being caught, but the smile he gives Feng Xin is downright sly. “Well, I thought it was a good idea!” he says. “And it worked, because you agreed, so it all worked out well, didn’t it?”
There’s static in Feng Xin’s ears. He shakes his head, but the ringing doesn’t subside.
“So you mean that Mu Qing—he wanted to team up with me from the start?”
Xie Lian smiles again. “Why don’t you ask him yourself?”
For a moment, Feng Xin actually considers it. Then he says, “No, thanks, I’d rather live.”
Afterward, the thought won’t leave him alone. It’s there as Feng Xin does his morning coffee run and as he comes home after practice. It burrows itself deep into Feng Xin’s mind and refuses to be extinguished.
He wanted to work with you.
He wanted you, specifically.
He wanted you.
That is a risky road to go down. A dangerous train of thought. Feng Xin has to keep reminding himself this only means Mu Qing thought they would fight well together, and he was right. That’s all there is to it.
On Friday before their first free weekend in forever, Feng Xin walks into the gym in the morning to find Mu Qing stretching on the mat.
“Come, help me stretch,” Mu Qing says as soon as he spots Feng Xin. “And I hope you brought me some coffee.”
“Are you always this fucking high maintenance in the morning?” Feng Xin asks without thinking. “Are you this high maintenance before you leave the bed, too?”
Mu Qing sends him a glare. Feng Xin realizes immediately what he’s just said and goes hot all over, because—well, that’s the other thing about his new Mu Qing-related horniness.
Mu Qing doesn’t hook up. Ever. With anyone. Feng Xin is pretty sure the one kiss they shared was Mu Qing’s first and last one. Back when he first came to Taicang Academy, in a fit of misplaced gratitude, Mu Qing had decided to cultivate following the same path as Xie Lian, and by the time his foundation was set, it was obvious that Mu Qing was committed. He’s never drank or smoked since. He’s never dated. As far as Feng Xin knows, he’s never so much as held hands with anyone else.
In the meantime, Xie Lian has found other ways to keep his spiritual powers flowing even after Hua Cheng appeared—or rather reappeared—in their lives and the two of them started very indiscreetly fucking. And yet, Feng Xin has never seen Mu Qing express the slightest interest in straying from his original path.
“Sorry,” Feng Xin says. “I know you don’t…do that. Whatever. I got you your coffee.”
Mu Qing goes into a deep stretch forward, his nose almost touching the floor. “Thanks,” he says, still not looking at Feng Xin. “Now come help me stretch.”
It’s just a normal thing people do, Feng Xin tells himself as he makes his way over to where Mu Qing is sitting. It’s a bit more difficult for him to lie to himself when he gets his hands on the back of Mu Qing’s left calf and the touch almost burns.
Feng Xin has always known, in a distant, absent-minded way, that Mu Qing is flexible, but it’s a completely different thing to watch his leg go all the way up to touch the floor right by his head. They go slowly, because Mu Qing says he’s been feeling some stiffness in his joints these past few days, but Feng Xin just grows hotter and hotter under the collar the further Mu Qing’s leg goes. It’s perfectly straight, too, his toes pointed.
Feng Xin’s stomach does a little flip.
And then the worst happens. Feng Xin pushes a little more, and Mu Qing makes a little sound—something halfway between a whimper and a gasp.
Feng Xin lets go like he’s been burned. His dick is making a valiant effort to go all the way to hard in under ten seconds.
“What?” Mu Qing asks, frowning at Feng Xin from the floor.
“Sorry,” Feng Xin says, barely conscious of what he’s saying. “Sorry, I thought I hurt you.”
“I said I was feeling a bit stiff.” Mu Qing sits up. “It’s fine, I would’ve told you otherwise.”
“Right,” Feng Xin says, then swallows thickly. “Right, yeah. I’m just being stupid.”
Mu Qing rolls his eyes. “You’re fine. I’ll tell you if something is wrong. Now come on, I wasn’t done.”
There’s a part of Feng Xin that wants to bolt right there, right now. But instead, he grits his teeth and sternly tells his dick to calm down. Then, he spends the next fifteen minutes assisting Mu Qing with stretching and trying not to imagine him naked under Feng Xin, spreading his legs for him.
“How the fuck are you even so flexible?” Feng Xin grumbles once Mu Qing leans into the last stretch. “This is ridiculous.”
“You would be, too, if you did yoga three times a week.” Mu Qing gives him an unimpressed look, then pulls himself up to his feet and dusts himself off. “It’s not some magic.”
Feng Xin laughs weakly. “Well, whatever it is, it’s working, because that was fucking wild. Stiff, my ass.”
Mu Qing gives him a flat, unimpressed look.
“Any plans for the weekend?” Feng Xin asks faux-casually as they set up the training arena.
“Yeah,” Mu Qing says. “Driving my mother to a hospital a hundred miles away for an experimental treatment.”
“Oh.” Feng Xin snaps his mouth shut. He was going to suggest going out somewhere, but that’s clearly not happening. Understandably, Mu Qing’s mother comes before anything else. “Well, I hope it works and is worth the hassle.”
This is the most forthcoming Mu Qing has ever been about his family situation. There are some things Feng Xin has always known, like the fact that Mu Qing was brought up by his mom, or that his dad wasn’t in the picture at all, or that they used to live in a big apartment block in the less upscale part of the city back when Mu Qing was still in high school. Now, Feng Xin isn’t even sure where Mu Qing’s place is these days. If they meet up, they always meet up at Feng Xin’s or somewhere in the city, never at Mu Qing’s apartment. Feng Xin doesn’t even know if Mu Qing’s mom lives with him, or if she has her own place. The latter, he imagines, especially considering the kind of irregular lifestyle Mu Qing leads. But maybe they had to downsize when Mu Qing went through his savings, and now they live together again? Whatever it is, Mu Qing never talks about it. Feng Xin can admit that he’s curious, too, but he knows better than to ask.
“I’m not really doing anything,” Feng Xin offers when it’s clear that Mu Qing won’t ask, either. “Catching up on sleep, maybe. So if you’re back early and want to come over, just message me or whatever,” he adds like the pathetic, lovesick fool he is.
“Sure,” Mu Qing says. “We’ll see.”
To Feng Xin’s surprise, Mu Qing actually messages him on Sunday evening.
People in this country can’t drive, is what he opens with, and Feng Xin can only imagine the disgusted expression on his face. Then Mu Qing follows it up with, I’m coming over. Order Thai.
No questions, no making sure Feng Xin hasn’t changed his plans. He can’t even be mad, though, as he places their usual order at the Thai place they both like and gets up to clean a little bit.
Mu Qing gets there twenty minutes later, followed by the delivery guy not even five minutes later. Feng Xin goes to open the door, and by the time he returns, plastic bags in both hands, Mu Qing has already made himself comfortable on the couch. He’s barefoot and dressed in loose, comfortable clothes that make him look like he’s right at home here, relaxing after a long day.
Something tightens in the pit of Feng Xin’s stomach.
It’s a stupid thought, nothing worth entertaining seriously. Instead, Feng Xin hands Mu Qing his stir-fried glass noodles and plops himself down onto the couch next to him, changing the channel to the idol elimination show Mu Qing likes to watch just to eviscerate the trainees over their dancing skills.
It’s pretty funny, listening to Mu Qing, when that caustic tone is for once not directed at Feng Xin. They don’t really talk much, just exist in each other’s space, and it feels pretty nice. Like they should be doing it all the time. Like Mu Qing belongs here, in this space.
Danger, the tiny voice at the back of Feng Xin’s mind says.
And then it starts to rain. Except it’s not so much rain as it is a downpour, thudding against the windows, accompanied by the howling of the wind.
“Oh, great,” Mu Qing says with a deep sigh. “I’m gonna have to call a DiDi.”
“You could always stay here,” Feng Xin says before he can fully register the words coming out of his mouth, and then it’s too late, because Mu Qing is staring at him, incredulous. “I mean, I have a guest bedroom?”
“And how do you imagine this happening?” Mu Qing asks.
“What, would you be missing your fifteen-step skincare routine?” Feng Xin laughs, except Mu Qing’s expression indicates that he most likely would be. Right. Of course. It’s no wonder his skin is always so nice. “Look, there’s some of that stuff lying around that I get from my sponsors, so you can take your pick, and I can loan you something to wear, and—” His brain stutters on the image of Mu Qing wearing his clothes. “So, yeah. Do whatever the hell you want, but don’t say I didn’t offer. It’s fucking awful out there, I wouldn’t turn Qi Rong away.”
“Oh, wow,” Mu Qing says, faking a shocked expression. “Ringing endorsement.”
“Fuck you, you know what I mean.” Feng Xin shakes his head.
“No,” Mu Qing says, “I think I’m going to—”
A flash of lightning, and then thunder rolls across the sky—rumbling, deafening. Feng Xin snorts. Talk about timing.
“Fine,” Mu Qing grits out. “Give me something to change into.”
The entire time Mu Qing is in the shower, Feng Xin is having a stern talk with his libido. The bathroom has a huge walk-in shower, and it would be so easy to just walk in there and press Mu Qing against the tiles. It would take no effort at all for Feng Xin to sink to his knees and suck him off right there until Mu Qing’s knees give out under him. It would be so easy to turn him around and open him up and fuck him right there, with their breaths fogging up the glass.
But Feng Xin won’t be doing any of this, because he’s not a complete idiot. Mu Qing is out of his reach, and Feng Xin knows that. He’s not about to make a fool out of himself.
It’s a near thing, though, when Mu Qing walks out of the bathroom wearing Feng Xin’s clothes. They’re almost the same height, so at least the pants fit, but Feng Xin’s frame is broader, his shoulders wider, and it shows in the way the collar of the t-shirt almost slips off Mu Qing’s frame.
“I’m just gonna…” Feng Xin points with his thumb towards the bathroom, then bolts inside and spends five minutes furiously jerking off as soon as he gets under the spray.
He’s not particularly proud of it, but at least he doesn’t have to face Mu Qing with an erection when he leaves the bathroom. Instead, he walks barefoot back into the living room, running a towel through his hair to find Mu Qing lounging on the couch, looking comfortable and so pretty it hurts.
“What?” Mu Qing asks, and Feng Xin realizes he’s been staring. “The skincare stuff your sponsors have been sending you is mostly shit, by the way. Explains your ugly mug.”
“Fuck you,” Feng Xin says. “I’m putting you up for the night. You should be nicer to me.”
“That’s not a rule, and you were the one who offered,” Mu Qing counters, untangling his legs to stand up from the couch. “Anyway, I’m going to bed. Goodnight.”
In the morning, Feng Xin makes breakfast, and Mu Qing complains about the coffee, and then they take Feng Xin’s car down to the training center.
It’s weird—the strange tension between them, now made all the more pronounced, thrown into stark relief by the reality of their little sleepover sinking in. It would take so little for that tension to break.
The truth is, Feng Xin wants Mu Qing to stay over again—and again, and again, until all of his stuff ends up in Feng Xin’s apartment. They might just kill each other, but if they don’t, they would be so good together.
Feng Xin knows better than to propose that, though—not with the Grand Prix final next week, and Worlds two weeks after that.
After three hours of hunting, it’s just the two of them left, sweat pouring down their faces as they climb the steep slope, looking for the last of the yaoguai. Mu Qing is in the lead, because he’s always been a quick fucker on the climbing wall, but Feng Xin is gaining on him fast even though his muscles scream in pain every time he pulls himself up.
Come on.
Just a little bit more.
Just a little bit, and then—
When Feng Xin checked the rankings earlier, lying in wait to spring a trap onto one of the yaoguai that had been released into the arena, they were tied for first overall, and what are the fucking odds? But this also means that whoever gets to deal the final blow is going to take the whole thing—win the event, win the entire Grand Prix.
It’s the big one, the one no one wants to lose. The fact that it’s Mu Qing that Feng Xin is competing with makes him want to win even more. It’s no fun winning against a weak opponent, but Mu Qing is the furthest thing from weak.
Feng Xin knows that this race is what will actually determine who wins. They’ve cornered the yaoguai here, with no way to hide, and whoever gets over the ledge first will have the best position to attack.
Come on. You’re almost there.
Almost…
With the last of his strength, Feng Xin pulls himself up. His fingers are starting to get slick with sweat and he’s losing his grip, but he pushes on, up-up-up, and then he’s there, neck and neck with Mu Qing. He reaches and reaches and reaches, sweat pouring into his eyes, stinging, but Feng Xin grits his teeth and finds the next point of purchase, and then—
He’s there, right at the edge of the outcropping, pulling himself up, flinging a binding talisman at the yaoguai and calling for Fengshen to line up his shot.
Behind him, he can hear Mu Qing heaving himself over the edge.
Breathe in.
Breathe out.
He closes his eyes once he looses the arrow. Opens them again. At his side, Mu Qing is leaning with his palms resting on his knees, breathing heavily, but he’s not leaping to strike. The yaoguai lies in an unmoving heap in front of them.
Feng Xin has won. He’s won it all, for the first time. He came in second last year, and third the year before that. Always just almost within reach, but never close enough. Until now.
He feels a little dizzy.
“Congrats,” Mu Qing says between one heaving breath and another. “Now figure out what you want from me.”
Oh, right, Feng Xin thinks. Their little side-bet.
He laughs. “Ask me again after Worlds, okay?”
“No way,” Mu Qing says, leveling the hotel receptionist with a look. “Absolutely not.”
Feng Xin sighs and pulls Mu Qing away from the reception desk, dodging a couple with far too many suitcases. “Look, it’s not their fault that a pipe burst and flooded an entire wing. They’re giving us a bigger room already. Spending three nights in the same hotel room with me won’t kill you. Besides, everyone has to double up. It’s not just us. Don’t be an asshole.”
“I don’t mind sharing with someone else,” Mu Qing says. “I just don’t want to share with you. You snore.”
Feng Xin inhales indignantly. “I don’t fucking snore!” he protests, lowering his volume when he notices some people looking over their shoulders.
Mu Qing rolls his eyes. “Please, when I slept over that one night, I couldn’t even fall asleep because you were snoring so hard. Just because you’re in denial doesn’t make it any less true.”
Feng Xin makes a face. “Oh, fuck you very much. Do you want me to call Jian Lan? Because I can call her, and she can tell y—”
“Fine. Whatever. I don’t care anymore,” Mu Qing spits out, stomping back towards the reception desk to get the key cards. “I’ll just buy some earplugs.”
To Feng Xin’s surprise, he looks even more pissed off than he was just a moment ago—almost like he used to be before their conversation on the bridge. With the Worlds about to start, Mu Qing’s fuse has been particularly short, but this outburst is just baffling. It’s just a few nights, and Feng Xin does not snore. He has no idea what Mu Qing’s actual issue is.
The room is nice, at least. The hotel must have placed them in one of their more expensive suites as a sorry for the inconvenience, because there are two king-sized beds—one closer to the entrance and one hidden away in a raised nook—and an enormous bathroom with two sinks facing a giant mirror. There’s a large, comfortable walk-in shower, too, and all the counters are granite. In the sleeping area, one wall is just ceiling-to-floor glass.
“See?” Feng Xin says, settling down on the bed Mu Qing didn’t pick. “This is not so bad.”
This is also what he keeps telling himself once he realizes fully what three nights in Mu Qing’s company really mean. Three nights of watching Mu Qing walk straight out of the shower, hair still damp, plastered against his back. Three nights of listening to all the little, quiet sounds Mu Qing makes in his sleep. Three nights of trying really, really hard not to spring an ill-timed boner, because Feng Xin’s hormones and libido still revert to his teenage years whenever he’s with Mu Qing.
“I guess,” Mu Qing says.
Feng Xin doesn’t have his individual event until the day after tomorrow, but Mu Qing’s sabre competition falls on the following day. In theory, Feng Xin could get some additional practice hours in, since the archery range is open to competitors round the clock. Instead, though, he imagines Mu Qing’s face when he sees Feng Xin out in the audience, watching him compete.
“Who do you think you’ll be going against in the final?” Feng Xin asks, stretching his legs out on the bed.
“I have to get through the qualifying rounds first,” Mu Qing counters, giving him a flat look.
Feng Xin snorts. “Please. You could take those people on with your eyes closed. In fact, they should probably blindfold you, just to even out the odds.”
Across the room, Mu Qing turns away, busying himself with unpacking, because he’s apparently a total weirdo who refuses to live out of a suitcase for a few days and hoards all the closet space.
Whatever—it’s not like Feng Xin is unpacking anything apart from basic toiletries.
“I don’t know why you’re trying to flatter me, but it’s not working,” Mu Qing says.
Feng Xin bristles a little. “Can’t you just take a fucking compliment for once?” he asks. “We’ve been training alongside each other for months. Is it that difficult to believe I genuinely think you’re that good?”
He expects more resistance from Mu Qing, who instead says nothing for a moment, then, “You too. You’re not…the worst.”
Feng Xin laughs. “I’ll take it.”
Mu Qing wins his sabre final, of course. This time, Feng Xin watches from the audience instead of the locker room, which always happens in the Grand Prix circuit, because the organizers always schedule the archery final and the sabre final at roughly the same time.
Out of the corner of his eye, Feng Xin sees some people taking photos of him on their phones when they think they’re being stealthy, but there’s no rule that says you can’t support your doubles partner, so Feng Xin is not doing anything outwardly suspicious.
Sure, he’s here in part because watching Mu Qing wipe the floor with a string of people while barely breaking a sweat is really hot, but he’s also here because it’s the decent thing to do. And, of course, there’s also the fact that Feng Xin can’t unknow that it was Mu Qing who requested to team up with him. It feels weird, almost like Feng Xin owes him something—a debt that can only be paid with a similarly unshakeable belief in Mu Qing’s abilities.
It's not that difficult, though, when Mu Qing is genuinely this good.
“Congrats,” Feng Xin tells him once Mu Qing emerges from the arena after the press conference. There are cameras trained on them, but Feng Xin doesn’t really care. “Not that there was ever any doubt.”
“Treat me to dinner, then,” Mu Qing says. “I’m starving.”
They end up at some hole in the wall place that Pei Ming recommended, stuffing themselves full of seafood until they’re ready to burst. Even now, having just won the gold, Mu Qing sticks to water when the uncle behind the counter asks what they’d like to drink.
No one recognizes them here. To the rest of the world, they’re just two guys sharing a meal.
Eventually, though, they need to get back. The qualifying rounds for the archery contest start early in the morning, because clearly someone at the top has it out for Feng Xin personally, but the two of them manage to walk back to the hotel at a leisurely stroll, enjoying the cooler night air.
Feng Xin walks right next to Mu Qing—close enough that their arms brush a few times. It feels like a jolt of electricity every time.
“You better not make an idiot out of yourself tomorrow,” Mu Qing says apropos of nothing in particular, kicking a small stone that skids across the pavement with a quiet clack-clack-clack sound. “I’ll be watching.”
It’s as much of an admission as Feng Xin is ever going to get. But still, it’s something, and it makes some small, pathetic part of Feng Xin’s ego very pleased.
“Don’t worry,” Feng Xin says. “I don’t intend to miss.”
It’s a close thing—closer than he would’ve liked—but Feng Xin wins his archery final. He rides the high of the victory as he showers and changes his clothes, only to fall into Xie Lian’s embrace as soon as he steps out of the locker room.
“Congratulations!” Xie Lian says into the crook of Feng Xin’s neck. When he pulls away, his eyes are a little wistful, and Feng Xin wonders if Xie Lian sometimes regrets his choice not to return to active competition. He seems happy now, but maybe they will always wonder what could have been from time to time.
They go out together as a group this time, and Xie Lian of course drags Hua Cheng along with him, but Feng Xin can’t begrudge him that. Not today. And especially not when it’s Hua Cheng footing the bill. Heavens know he can afford this, with whatever shady ways he’s acquired his fortune down in Ghost City.
Eventually, though, the two of them have to get back to their hotel, leaving Xie Lian and Hua Cheng to their own devices.
It’s another warm night, and the hotel is not so far that they have to get a DiDi. Instead, they walk side by side, shoulders touching every once in a while, the backs of their hands brushing once or twice. Then, the sky overhead rumbles and opens, the downpour coming down on them all at once. Feng Xin has his jacket with him, at least, but Mu Qing is only wearing a thin, half-translucent shirt.
Fuck it, Feng Xin thinks, taking his jacket off and dragging Mu Qing closer, then pulling the jacket over both of them.
“Come on, we’re running!” he calls out over the noise of the downpour.
They go, heels splashing against the pavement, and by the time they get back to their hotel, their pants are wet up to their knees. They track water all over the lobby and into the elevator, out of breath and full of the pleasant rush of a sudden sprint. Feng Xin feels light, buoyant, carried by that feeling down the hallway and into their room.
Feng Xin takes one look at Mu Qing, who looks so aggrieved, so indignant in the face of this minor inconvenience, and he bursts out in a breathless laughter, bracing his palms on his knees for a moment, bent nearly in half. His jacket is dripping water all over the carpet in their room, and Feng Xin reaches to put it on the hanger, where at least it will be dripping in just one place. They’re still standing in the doorway, not even two steps between them. Mu Qing is breathing heavier, too, his chest rising and falling rapidly. His lips are so red against the pale skin of his face. It would be so easy for Feng Xin to lean in and kiss him.
A shadow of something crosses Mu Qing’s face, like a ripple across the surface of a pond.
“The competition,” he says. “We should turn in early. The qualifying rounds start in the morning.”
Just like that, the moment bursts like a soap bubble. Feng Xin shakes off the strange mood that has overtaken him, turning away from Mu Qing.
What the fuck is wrong with him?
He’s just almost kissed Mu Qing. What a way that would be to fuck everything up just before the competition. Maybe Mu Qing has been right all along, and Feng Xin is just that unfathomably stupid.
“Right, yeah,” Feng Xin says. “Do you want the bathroom first?”
Once Mu Qing is in the shower, Feng Xin lies down on his bed and closes his eyes, listening to the sound of the water hitting the tiles.
He needs to get a grip. There’s too much riding on this for both of them—and Mu Qing in particular—for Feng Xin to go and mess things up because he’s very horny for a man who has begrudgingly tolerated him for most of their acquaintance. Just because he’s warmed up to Feng Xin recently doesn’t really mean what Feng Xin would like it to mean. They’ve put old grudges to rest, cleared the air between them. It doesn’t mean that Mu Qing will give Feng Xin what he really wants.
And yet, when Feng Xin comes out of the shower a while later, toweling off his hair, Mu Qing’s eyes keep slipping off the naked skin of Feng Xin’s chest. Mu Qing is in bed, pretending to read, but Feng Xin notices the stealthy little glances he keeps giving him.
He almost wants to challenge Mu Qing, but there’s that strange undercurrent again, like Feng Xin has just licked a battery. The energy crackles between them and makes the back of his mouth taste funny, makes the hairs on his forearms stand up.
In the end, then, he says nothing as he flips the switch on his bedside lamp, then tosses and turns long into the night.
It’s just nerves, he tells himself. It’s just nerves, that’s all.
By the time they win the semi-finals, Feng Xin is pretty sure he could get drunk on this feeling alone. Fighting next to Mu Qing is exhilarating, the rhythm they have going seamless and punishing, forcing their opponents to retreat until they have no choice but to surrender.
They defeat Quan Yizhen and Yin Yu in the qualifiers, triumph over Lang Qianqiu and Qi Rong in the quarterfinals and square against Shi Qingxuan and He Xuan in the semifinals, once again coming out on top. The crowd cheers when their victory is announced.
It’s a good story, admittedly. The two of them have dominated the Grand Prix season, and now they’re going for the crowning glory of it all. Feng Xin has seen all the stuff people write about them on social media, the memes and compilations. It’s all over the hot searches and they’re trending across multiple platforms.
When Feng Xin shows it to Mu Qing as they rest before the final, Mu Qing just makes a dismissive sound.
“It’s worthless unless we win,” he says.
“Yeah, but…we’re gonna.”
Mu Qing gives him a sideways look. “Don’t underestimate Pei Ming or Pei Xiu. They’re in this final for a reason.”
Their strategy is simple, but it has been effective up until now. The key is keeping both of their opponents away from Feng Xin, giving him a wide range of movement and an appropriate distance. The way the arena has been built, there’s some elevation for him to perch on, but that doesn’t mean a lot when everyone involved can leap across great distances and launch themselves into the air at will. It gives him an advantage, but it won’t keep him safe.
Just as Mu Qing predicted, it’s not an easy fight. Pei Ming is a beast in the arena, and Pei Xiu is no slouch, either, making it harder for Feng Xin to keep himself at a distance. They seem to have clocked their strategy early on, and they keep hounding Feng Xin, chasing him from place to place. It’s a shit time all around, and Feng Xin can shoot with his eyes closed, but he’d rather have the freedom of movement he needs for some of his more risky maneuvers.
“Oh, come on!” he grunts when Pei Ming vaults right over Mu Qing’s head, charging straight at Feng Xin.
Feng Xin boosts himself off the wall of the arena, loosing two arrows while still in the air and landing right next to Mu Qing.
“Time for a new strategy,” he pants out. “Keep close to me, we’re going to force them into an arm’s range. I’ve fucking had it with their little stunt.”
He won’t have as much space to maneuver like this, but they practiced for this eventuality, and the sudden change of pace seems to give the Pei cousins a pause.
“Okay, now,” Feng Xin says, rushing in, Mu Qing at his heels.
The next bout drags on forever and passes in the blink of an eye at the same time. Feng Xin and Mu Qing stand back to back, moving as one, perfectly lethal in a fight. Now that Pei Ming and Pei Xiu are forced to come to them, they’re fighting the fight on Feng Xin and Mu Qing’s terms.
Mu Qing is a whirl of robes and hair, striking out just to pull back a moment later, goad Pei Ming into coming closer. They switch at the last moment, and by the time Pei Ming moves in to attack, anticipating Mu Qing’s sabre, he’s met with the force of Feng Xin’s repelling arrows.
Pei Ming is thrown back, pushed against the walls of the arena, a cloud of dust rising into the air as the force of impact rams him into the stone. Before he can move, Feng Xin switches to the other side of his quiver and pins him in place through his clothes with half a dozen piercing arrows, and then another one right through the center of his topknot.
From behind his back, he hears the dull thud as Pei Xiu is forced to the ground, and then the clang of metal as Mu Qing disarms him.
They wait. A second, then two, then five, and then the gong sounds, announcing the end of the round.
Feng Xin turns to the roaring applause of the audience ringing in his ears and stares right into Mu Qing’s face as a smile turns the corners of Feng Xin’s lips up. Then he yanks Mu Qing forward and envelops him in a crushing hug, breathing heavily into the crook of his neck.
“See, just like I said,” he says a little smugly, low enough for the microphones not to pick it up. “We did it.”
There are lights flashing in their eyes, a thousand photos being taken all at once. Feng Xin knows they’ll be all over Weibo in a matter of seconds—the still pictures of the two of them hugging like their lives depend on it.
Feng Xin is getting a little choked up with happiness. Up until this moment, he didn’t really realize how much he wanted this. And now he has it. They have it.
“Shut up,” Mu Qing says. “You’re ruining the moment.”
They beg off the celebrations well past midnight. Feng Xin is a little tipsy, but they decide to walk back to the hotel again, and by the time they close the door to their room behind them, he’s mostly sobered up.
There is something, though—some kind of nervous energy he can’t seem to shake off, a giddy sort of arousal coursing through his veins. All throughout the evening, he kept staring at Mu Qing, and more than once he found Mu Qing looking back.
The lights are low in the room, but they can see the neon glow of the city streaming in through the windows.
Now that the buzz of the alcohol is nearly a faint memory, Feng Xin grows a little wistful, a little nostalgic. He slumps onto the floor, right next to the step that leads up to Mu Qing’s bed, letting his head loll from side to side.
“Hey,” he says, barely louder than a whisper. “I know what I want. For winning the bet.”
Mu Qing stares at him, still standing a few paces away. “Really? You want to do this now?”
“I told you I’d figure this out after Worlds.” Feng Xin laughs quietly. “It’s after Worlds now.”
“Fine.” Mu Qing capitulates. He sits down next to Feng Xin, just far enough that they don’t touch, but Feng Xin can still feel his body heat. “What do you want?”
“I want you to tell me why you never said anything after we kissed at that afterparty.”
Mu Qing breathes in sharply. “No,” he says. “Pick something different.”
Feng Xin frowns. “Hey, that’s not what we—”
“I said, pick something else,” Mu Qing grits out through his teeth.
“Okay.” Feng Xin’s jaw clenches. The combination of wine and exhaustion must have made him at least a little bit stupid, because what he says next is, “Then I want you to kiss me again.”
Mu Qing recoils, an icy, “What the fuck?” on his lips. “Do you think this is a joke?”
“What, are you chicken?” Feng Xin goads, because Mu Qing can never back down from a challenge. “One or the other. You pick. But that’s what I want.”
Mu Qing scoffs. “I should’ve known you’d just make fun of me, you fucking asshole.”
He moves to stand, but Feng Xin stops him with his hand around Mu Qing’s wrist, tugging gently. He doesn’t know what he’s saying—what possessed him to say all these things in the first place, but he’s in it now, standing with both feet in the shallows. The only thing to do now is take the leap.
“I’m not making fun of you,” he says, imploring. “I can’t stop thinking about your fucking mouth. Do you have any idea how fucking hot you are? I’ve been staring at you for months. Hell, years. You have no idea how many times I’ve jacked off to the memory of that kiss, okay? You have no goddamn clue what you do to me, and I—”
“What?” Mu Qing is staring at him again, eyes wide. “What do you mean, you—”
“I’m fucking crazy about you, okay?” Feng Xin says, words spilling out of his mouth before he can think. “It’s like I’m a goddamn teenager again, jerking it every day, twice a day, just thinking about the way the back of your neck looks when it’s all sweaty and your hair clings to it. This is not normal, okay? I just—it’s never been like this, and I don’t know what’s happening to me to make me like this, but I keep dreaming about kissing you all the time, and then I get hard, and then I get off, and then I think about you again, and— It’s like some fucking horny lunatic has taken over my body and I’m just a fucking servant of my dick! So excuse me if that offends your delicate sensibilities or whatever, but I think you’re incredibly fuckable, sorry!”
They’re both on their feet by the time Feng Xin’s little diatribe comes to an end. Feng Xin is breathing harshly, and Mu Qing is pale and wide-eyed.
And then—he kisses Feng Xin. He pulls Feng Xin forward and slots their lips together in a desperate, bruising kiss, opening his mouth immediately to lick at the seam of Feng Xin’s own.
“I swear to god, if this is some kind of cruel joke…” Mu Qing trails off once they break apart for a moment, whispering the words against Feng Xin’s mouth.
Feng Xin kisses him again. It’s everything he’s remembered, and more. So, so much more. He doesn’t know if Mu Qing has kissed anyone else since, but he’s not shy about it, and it feels so, so good.
“It’s not, I swear, it’s— Look,” Feng Xin whispers frantically, taking Mu Qing by the hand to press it to the front of his pants, already getting tented out by his hardening cock. “This is what you do to me, okay?”
Mu Qing gasps, surprised, and Feng Xin can’t help but feel a little smug. The size of his dick has been a subject of many whispered locker room conversations, but Mu Qing always looked away, rolling his eyes, like he thought it was too childish and undignified a topic to entertain. It stirs something in Feng Xin to know that Mu Qing is not completely unaffected by the touch.
“Yeah,” Feng Xin says, and it comes out much more breathy than he’s anticipated. “Can I—can I look at you?”
The truth is, he could probably come just from watching Mu Qing strip. For all the training they’ve done together over the years, Feng Xin has never seen Mu Qing naked. Glimpses and flashes, sure, but never the whole thing. He’s imagined it plenty, but he already knows even his wildest dreams wouldn’t compare.
“Can I touch you?” Feng Xin continues, then groans when the pressure of Mu Qing’s fingers against his cock increases. And then—he realizes something. “Fuck, your cultivation. You—you can’t, right? This was stupid, I—”
“I recultivated my foundation in the year I was away,” Mu Qing confesses. “I’m not—I don’t need to be…chaste, anymore.”
Feng Xin goes a little weak in the knees. “Fuck, I like you so much,” he says, his face burning with the honesty of that admission. “You’re the most irritating asshole on earth, and I fucking adore you. You drive me crazy every day, but I want to wake up next to you every morning and make you breakfast, and do all kinds of things with you all the time, and I just— I want to fuck you. So bad. I want you to move in with me. But right now I mostly want to eat you out.”
Feng Xin can feel the shaky exhale as all air leaves Mu Qing’s lungs all at once.
“Please,” Feng Xin continues to babble, barely aware of what’s coming out of his mouth. “Please, let me just—I’ll make this good for you, okay? Have you ever…?”
Mu Qing gives him a glare. “What do you think?”
Feng Xin takes a deep, calming breath. “Okay,” he says. “Okay, that’s good. I mean, that’s fine. I’ll take care of you.”
“Stop it,” Mu Qing says, pushing Feng Xin with the flat of his palm in the center of the chest. “You’re being weird. I’m not made of glass, I can take it.”
Feng Xin flashes him a smile. “Oh, yeah?” He grinds into the heel of Mu Qing’s palm. His cock is most of the way hard now, and it’s starting to leak. “You sure about that?”
Mu Qing kisses him in retaliation, biting into Feng Xin’s lower lip. “Don’t flatter yourself. It’s not that impressive.”
Feng Xin laughs at that—a loud, full-on belly laugh—then laughs harder at Mu Qing’s unimpressed expression.
“Okay,” he tells Mu Qing. “We’ll see about that.”
“Shut up,” Mu Qing says, then pulls Feng Xin in for another kiss.
If Mu Qing has never done this except that one time with Feng Xin, he must be a natural, because the way he kisses is filthy. It makes Feng Xin lightheaded, just a little bit, and the slide of lips against lips, tongue against tongue drives him to the brink. It’s wet and loud, and holy fuck, where did Mu Qing learn to do that thing with his tongue?
As with many other things, Mu Qing kisses to conquer, leaving scorched earth behind. He’s desperate and insistent, dragging his hand against the bulge in Feng Xin’s jeans at the same time, and then he squeezes, and Feng Xin groans right into Mu Qing’s open mouth.
“Come on, come on,” Feng Xin urges, pulling Mu Qing up the step and in the direction of his neatly made bed. If he doesn’t get to eat Mu Qing out right this second, he’s going to die. He hesitates, though, with his hands hovering at the hem of Mu Qing’s black turtleneck—the same half-translucent piece he wore to the afterparty at Yong’an Cup. “Can I?”
“If you ask me again, I’m walking out and bunking with Xie Lian and the asshole,” Mu Qing says. “Now will you shut up and do something already?”
Feng Xin doesn’t need to be told twice. He grabs the hem of Mu Qing’s top and pulls, getting it over his head in a surprisingly smooth move, then gets to work on Mu Qing’s neck. There’s all this milk-pale skin on display, lean muscle shifting underneath, and Feng Xin barely knows where to touch. Mu Qing is so, so hot, and seeing him naked even from the waist up is a lot. He’s perfectly sculpted from years and years of sword training, his body strong and unyielding under Feng Xin’s touch.
“Come on, off,” Feng Xin says, already fiddling with the button of Mu Qing’s slacks. He pulls them down, along with Mu Qing’s underwear, and watches him step out of his clothes. Mu Qing’s cock is already hard, pretty just like the rest of him, flushed a deep pink at the tip and wet with precome. Feng Xin wants it in his mouth.
He pushes Mu Qing down onto the bed and follows, undressing down to his underwear as he goes. His grey boxer-briefs are already damp, a dark stain blooming where the slit of Feng Xin’s cock presses against the fabric.
With dark, hungry eyes, Feng Xin watches as Mu Qing’s eyes flicker down and then he licks his lips, pink tongue peeking through for a fraction of a moment.
“Do you want to suck my cock?” Feng Xin asks, half-delirious with want. “You’d look so good like this. Please.” Then he realizes what he’s saying and adds, “You don’t—you don’t have to, though, I just—”
“Shut up,” Mu Qing says, punctuating the words with a sharp kiss. “What, you think I can’t do it? I’m going to, just watch me.”
Mu Qing flips them over, then crawls over Feng Xin with a ravenous look in his eyes. He kisses him once, then drags his fingernails down Feng Xin’s chest and abdomen, leaving pink lines behind. Mu Qing lets his fingers trail even further down, down the trail of hair that leads from Feng Xin’s navel down to his groin. The touch alone makes Feng Xin’s toes curl, like he’s seventeen all over again and about to get his first blowjob.
If Feng Xin thought that Mu Qing would look hesitant or like he didn’t quite know what to do, he’d be sorely mistaken. Instead, Mu Qing wraps his hand around the base of Feng Xin’s cock without any reluctance, fingers struggling to meet around the girth. Feng Xin’s cock twitches in Mu Qing’s grasp, trailing more precome that dribbles down the shaft to pool in the hollow between Mu Qing’s thumb and forefinger. And then, with his heart in his throat and the sound of his blood rushing in his ears, Feng Xin watches as Mu Qing leans in to lick it off his hand, and then up the length of Feng Xin’s cock.
“Oh fuck,” Feng Xin gasps out. It’s going to be so fucking quick and embarrassing if it keeps going on like that, because Feng Xin is ready to lose it at any moment, with only the slightest touch of Mu Qing’s mouth.
“Really? Already?” Mu Qing says, a little mocking, and it shouldn’t make Feng Xin so hot under the collar.
“I wasn’t joking when I said I think about this all the time,” Feng Xin says. “I’m not—” He gasps when Mu Qing licks at the underside of his shaft again, tongue curling around the curve of Feng Xin’s cock. “I’m not going to last, but that’s—ah, fine. I can go more than once.”
Mu Qing looks up at him, a challenge in his gaze. “If you can hold out for ten minutes while I blow you,” he says, “you can do whatever you want to me.”
Even now, Mu Qing is so fucking competitive. Feng Xin is crazy about him.
“Fine,” he says, a little too breathy for his liking. “You’re on.”
It’s possible to tell that this is Mu Qing’s first time giving head, but it’s not blowing Feng Xin’s mind any less because of that. Sure, his movements are a little halting at times, a little unpracticed, but the way he keeps lapping at Feng Xin’s cock, flicking his tongue out to lick at the slit, makes Feng Xin want to claw at the walls.
He’s already breathing heavily, but his whole body jolts as if struck by lightning the moment Mu Qing wraps his lips around the head of Feng Xin’s cock and starts sucking.
“Oh my god,” Feng Xin groans. “Fuck, yeah, like this. Can you—can you go down a bit more?”
In response, Mu Qing looks up to lock eyes with Feng Xin, then visibly loosens his jaw and sinks down, down, down, until the tip of Feng Xin’s cock hits his soft palate. He gags a little, with a filthy, throaty sound, but he stubbornly doesn’t pull off and just keeps going. The inside of his mouth is impossibly tight and furnace-hot, and Feng Xin feels like he’s dying. He fists his hands in the sheets, pulling at them to stave off the orgasm he can already feel building in the bottom of his abdomen.
It hasn’t been ten minutes yet. Feng Xin is fairly sure Mu Qing wouldn’t just leave him here like this if Feng Xin came now, but the promise of getting to do anything he wants to Mu Qing is too tempting to pass up.
“Come here, come here,” Feng Xin whispers frantically, trying to pull Mu Qing up in a ploy to last longer, but Mu Qing pulls off only for a moment.
“Nice try,” he says, then goes back to sucking Feng Xin’s cock.
It’s so fucking good there are tiny black specks dancing in front of Feng Xin’s eyes. The world around him feels blurry, like someone slowed it down and sped it up at the same time, and there’s nothing apart from the two of them, suspended in the moment. There’s nothing else in this room that’s real.
Because Mu Qing is really fucking stubborn, eventually he manages to go down low enough for his lips to touch the hand he keeps wrapped at the base of Feng Xin’s cock, jerking him off in time with the movements of his mouth. Eventually, he gets a good rhythm going, lips slipping up and down the length of Feng Xin’s cock in a slick slide. There’s spit pooling at the corners of Mu Qing’s mouth, dripping down onto his hand, but he just keeps going like he’s trying for a world record in dick-sucking.
Well, fuck, maybe he actually is.
Then something beeps quietly, and that’s when Feng Xin realizes that Mu Qing has set a goddamn timer on his smartwatch, and ten minutes must have just passed. It seems impossible, because time contracts and stretches out at the same time, but then Mu Qing makes a quiet sound, like he’s half-impressed, half-disappointed with Feng Xin for lasting this long, and in the end, the vibration from Mu Qing’s lips is enough for Feng Xin to finally lose it, too fast to push Mu Qing away or warn him.
Feng Xin keeps coming for what feels like forever. Mu Qing startles at first, then pulls away, coughing, spitting into his palm. There’s Feng Xin’s jizz all over his mouth and his chin, dripping down to the hollow of his collarbone, and he looks so obscene that Feng Xin doesn’t even begin to soften—his dick just goes straight back to rock hard.
“Oh fuck, you have no idea how good you look like this,” Feng Xin says, breathless, trying and failing to get his faculties back.
“You asshole, warn me next time before you do this,” Mu Qing grits out, then spits again, leaning over to the side to pull a tissue out of the box.
“I won, though.” Feng Xin grins, pulling himself up on the pillows. “I did, didn’t I? Also, did you set a fucking timer on that? For real?”
“Shut up,” Mu Qing says, pulling Feng Xin closer to kiss him. Like this, Feng Xin can still taste himself on Mu Qing’s tongue. Then, when they break apart after a moment, Mu Qing asks, “And how the hell are you still hard?”
Feng Xin laughs. “Cultivator stamina. I can go at least three times before I get fully soft. Do you know how much fucking effort it takes for me to get off?”
“I don’t know,” Mu Qing muses. “Seemed pretty easy.”
“You’re so goddamn mean,” Feng Xin says, leaning in to kiss Mu Qing again. It feels very much like cuddling a misbehaving cat—not very likely to get him to stop whatever he’s doing and only reinforcing the bad habits with praise and affection. “Now get on your front. I’m claiming my reward. C’mon, you promised. You’re gonna like this, I swear.”
Mu Qing goes, a hint of suspicion in his eyes, and then Feng Xin knocks his legs apart to settle between them.
He starts slow, pushing Mu Qing’s hair away from his nape and kissing a trail down the graceful curve of Mu Qing’s spine. Feng Xin takes his time as he runs his hands all over Mu Qing’s body, marveling at the smoothness of his skin, the way it seems so pale in comparison with Feng Xin’s.
“Does this feel good?” he asks, pressing another kiss to the underside of Mu Qing’s ribcage. “I want you to feel good.”
“It’s…good,” Mu Qing says, a little more out of breath than he was just a moment ago.
It’s just two words, but hearing them from Mu Qing’s mouth makes Feng Xin want to soar.
Eventually, Mu Qing starts to get impatient. He squirms a little under Feng Xin’s touch, shifting on the bed and spreading his legs a little wider, so it takes no effort at all for Feng Xin to reach out and spread his ass, revealing the tight furl of his hole. Just as Feng Xin expected, Mu Qing looks pretty down there, too.
Feng Xin takes a deep breath and leans in, pressing kisses to the swell of Mu Qing’s ass. Spreading him a little more open, Feng Xin brushes a finger over the opening, his mouth watering. Then, at the first touch of his tongue, Mu Qing’s entire body jolts and a moan drags itself out of his mouth. He breathes heavily, pushing himself up on his elbows and hiding his head between his raised shoulders.
This just spurs Feng Xin on. He licks and sucks around Mu Qing’s hole until it’s soft and pliant, slick with spit and flushed pink. It’s the best thing Feng Xin has ever seen, rivaled only by the sight of Mu Qing’s thighs quivering around Feng Xin as he pulls Mu Qing up onto his knees for better access.
Feng Xin wraps a hand around himself, stroking in time with the insistent flicks of his tongue as he finally breaches Mu Qing. He can feel the way Mu Qing’s whole body spasms at that, his knees buckling until Feng Xin wraps his other arm around Mu Qing’s waist, keeping him up.
Mu Qing’s breathing is a ragged, shivery thing.
This goes on for a while, until Feng Xin’s chin is soaked and slippery with spit, and Mu Qing’s body turns into a shaking mess, tender and hot and supple. Feng Xin’s cock is leaking as he continues to stroke himself, spreading precome all the way down the length of it, getting lightheaded on the sight of Mu Qing suddenly so undone.
I did this, he thinks. He looks like this because of me.
Mu Qing’s cock is leaking, too, a little wet pool forming in the sheets where he keeps dripping, and, god, but Feng Xin wants it in his mouth right now. Slowly, he pulls away and maneuvers both of them until Mu Qing is on his back again, with Feng Xin kneeling between his open legs.
He wants to suck Mu Qing off while he fingers him, and—
“Shit.” Feng Xin tenses his jaw. He can’t believe he was so stupid.
“What?” Mu Qing asks, pushing himself up on his elbows. He looks like a mess—flushed a deep pink and his hair in disarray. “What’s wrong?”
“I don’t have a—I just have some lube and that’s it,” Feng Xin admits. His dick twitches, dribbles a bit more precome down the shaft. He wants to fuck Mu Qing so bad. “It’s fine, though, we don’t have to—”
“When was the last time you had sex?” Mu Qing asks, arching a brow.
Feng Xin looks away. The truth is, it’s been months, because his single-minded obsession with Mu Qing has been keeping him occupied and disinclined to hook up.
“Yeah, just like I thought,” Mu Qing continues. “And the last time I had sex was never, so…”
Feng Xin’s eyes widen when he understands what Mu Qing is trying to say. “Are you sure? It’s so—messy, and you hate mess, and—”
“What, you think I can’t decide for myself?” Mu Qing says, a challenge in his voice. “Now are you just going to sit there or are you actually going to do something?”
Feng Xin has never moved faster in his entire life. He slips off the bed and dives into his overnight bag in search of the lube, then climbs back into Mu Qing’s bed in record time.
“Okay, okay,” he says frantically, a little bit lightheaded. “Fuck.”
“Come on.” Mu Qing kicks him in the thigh with the flat of his heel.
“Holy fuck, are you always so impatient?” Feng Xin gripes, uncapping the small bottle and spurting a generous amount of lube onto his fingers.
“Well, why don’t you find out?” Mu Qing parries, shuffling on the bed to give Feng Xin better access.
With Mu Qing already relaxed and open from Feng Xin’s tongue, Feng Xin starts with two fingers, breaching Mu Qing with a loud, squelching sound. At the same moment, he licks up the underside of Mu Qing’s pretty, flushed cock and takes him all the way down in one smooth movement.
“Showoff,” Mu Qing grits out, but Feng Xin can’t ignore the way his body arches into the touch.
The lack of a gag reflex is one of many blessings in Feng Xin’s life, so he doesn’t even wait to adjust, just goes all in, sucking around Mu Qing’s cock as he pushes his fingers deeper into him, the obscene, indecent sounds their bodies make where they meet ringing out in his ears. Mu Qing’s thighs keep quivering on both sides of Feng Xin’s head. His entire body trembles, taut like a bowstring, and Feng Xin keeps sucking and licking around him, taking him deep into his throat until his nose touches the thatch of hair between Mu Qing’s legs.
To Feng Xin’s smug satisfaction, Mu Qing doesn’t last very long at all. Eventually, his body jolts as if struck by current, and then he comes down Feng Xin’s throat, who doesn’t even pull off, just swallows and keeps sucking around Mu Qing. He takes Mu Qing past the overstimulation that makes him writhe on the bed, broken moans falling from his lips, never letting his cock start softening, until Mu Qing is completely undone, body leaning into the pleasure.
Feng Xin pulls off, then, licking his lips, and pulls his fingers out.
“I think you should ride me,” he says. “It will be easier for you, and—”
“What, trying to make me do all the heavy work?” Mu Qing asks, his tone sharply teasing.
Feng Xin laughs. “Suit yourself,” he says, then spreads his knees on the bed and pulls Mu Qing’s thighs over his own, forcing him to arch his back a little bit. He lines himself up. “Just tell me if it’s too much.”
“Shut up, I can take this,” Mu Qing says, his voice going breathless like all air has been pushed out of his lungs the moment the head of Feng Xin’s cock breaches him.
He’s breathing harshly, his chest rising and falling, a deep flush spreading all the way down to his navel. He looks so good like this, spread out on Feng Xin’s cock, trying to adjust to the fullness.
Feng Xin is grateful that he’s gotten to come once already—otherwise, this would be humiliatingly quick. Mu Qing is furnace-hot inside, and tight like a vise, his body grabbing hungrily onto Feng Xin’s cock.
It’s like they were made to fit perfectly, Feng Xin thinks feverishly as he sinks deeper into Mu Qing.
“You okay?” Feng Xin asks, running a hand down Mu Qing’s flank. “It shouldn’t hurt. Tell me if it hurts.”
Mu Qing is sweating, a sheen of perspiration spreading all over his chest, dripping down his neck. “It’s fine,” he manages. “Just…full.”
“Okay,” Feng Xin says. “Just tell me if anything starts to feel wrong.”
“Just get on with it.” Mu Qing leverages himself on his elbows and, because he’s ridiculously flexible, begins to push down onto Feng Xin’s cock, taking more of it in, rocking himself experimentally like he’s trying to fuck himself on it. It’s the hottest thing Feng Xin has ever seen. He will jerk off to that image for the rest of his life.
Not letting himself overthink it too much, he grabs Mu Qing by the hips and slams into him all the way down, relishing the sharp exhale of air that gets pushed out of Mu Qing’s chest. He’s buried in Mu Qing all the way to the base of his cock, and trying desperately not to come instantly like he’s seventeen and getting his dick wet for the first time.
It might be Mu Qing’s first time, but he could’ve fooled Feng Xin. They’re both naturally athletic, their bodies used to obeying their commands. They fall into a rhythm quickly, moving against each other among loud breaths and quiet gasps. Feng Xin is pretty sure he’s leaving marks on Mu Qing’s hips with how tightly he’s gripping them, but Mu Qing gives as good as he gets, fucking himself on Feng Xin’s cock like he’s going for gold in a competition.
Eventually, Mu Qing pulls himself up and pushes Feng Xin down to the mattress, straddling him to ride his cock. He’s supporting himself on his hands, body arched backwards as he grinds his hips against Feng Xin, taking him so well, so easily.
Overwhelmed with the need to kiss him, Feng Xin sits up, wrapping an arm around Mu Qing and pulling him down for a kiss, his other hand sneaking down to wrap itself around Mu Qing’s cock. Feng Xin strokes him until Mu Qing begins to pant into Feng Xin’s open mouth as they slide their lips together, skin smacking against skin with a lewd sound every time Mu Qing slams himself down.
“Come on,” Feng Xin urges, stroking Mu Qing faster, his thumb playing with Mu Qing’s slit, spreading the wetness that wells there.
He lets go of Mu Qing’s waist and pushes his hair to the side, over one shoulder, to kiss a wet trail up and down his neck, leaving faint bruises that Feng Xin hopes won’t fade completely by morning. Then, Feng Xin lets his tongue flick out to taste the skin just behind Mu Qing’s ear, where it’s warm and soft, and that seems to be what sends Mu Qing over the edge as he spills into Feng Xin’s hand again with a quiet gasp. His fingers scratch at Feng Xin’s back as Mu Qing keeps coming, his body clenching down around Feng Xin, and then that’s it. Before he realizes it’s happening, Feng Xin buries himself inside Mu Qing and comes, too, black spots swimming in his field of vision. His toes curl in on themselves and his mouth goes dry.
“Oh my god,” he whispers, dazed, as Mu Qing slips off his lap, trailing Feng Xin’s come. “Oh my fucking god.”
For once, Mu Qing doesn’t have a snippy comeback at the ready. He’s sitting with his legs tucked under himself, bracing himself against the mattress with his hand, his chest heaving. He looks—he looks well-fucked. Claimed. Thoroughly satisfied. There are marks all over his skin in the shape of Feng Xin’s fingers—on his hips, his thighs—and a string of small, faint bruises across his collarbones and up his neck. His hair is a mess. There’s come on his stomach, and some on his chest, a few specks reaching as high as his clavicle. His cock is still half-hard and flushed a dark, rosy pink.
The sheets are wrecked—soaked through with their sweat and lube, and there’s no way anyone can sleep in this bed tonight.
Feng Xin wants—he wants so many things right now. He wants to tuck Mu Qing in his arms, if only Mu Qing would let him. He wants to do something stupidly sentimental, like press a kiss to the top of Mu Qing’s head. He wants to tell Mu Qing he’s been in love with him for far longer than he’s realized.
“Come on,” he says instead. “We need to shower.”
They end up going another round in the shower, with Mu Qing’s front pressed against the wall of the shower and fucked from behind, their mingling breaths fogging up the glass. Afterwards, Feng Xin goes to his knees as the hot water hits his back and sucks Mu Qing off once more, relishing the way Mu Qing tangles his fingers in Feng Xin’s hair and pulls.
Eventually, though, reality catches up to them. Once they get out of the shower, the first thing they see is Mu Qing’s ruined bed.
Feng Xin laughs a little awkwardly. “I don’t think you should be sleeping there tonight. Come on, there’s enough space in my bed for both of us. I promise I don’t kick. Or snore.”
Mu Qing is strangely quiet as they ready for bed. It’s only once the lights are out and they’re lying next to each other side by side that he asks quietly, “Did you mean it?”
“Mean what?” Feng Xin says.
“The things you said earlier. Don’t pretend like you don’t remember.”
Feng Xin stops breathing for a moment. “I said a lot of things,” he says, keeping his voice light. “You know how my dumb mouth is.”
In the dark, Mu Qing huffs. “Fine, be like that.”
Feng Xin reaches out to him, closing his hand around the curve of Mu Qing’s wrist. He takes a deep breath, then takes the plunge. “You mean when I told you I’m fucking crazy about you? Yeah. Why the hell would I lie about that?”
Mu Qing is quiet for a moment, and Feng Xin swears he must be able to hear how loudly Feng Xin’s heart is beating.
“It was my first kiss,” he says then, and it takes Feng Xin a fraction of a second to understand they’re not talking about everything that just happened anymore. “I liked it—I…really liked it, and then the next day you acted like nothing ever happened, so why would I say anything if you clearly thought you could do so much better than me? I’ve always known my worth, and I wasn’t about to go begging for scraps where I thought I wasn’t wanted.”
Feng Xin wants to slap himself. “I was drunk,” he admits. “I was really drunk and pretending real hard that I wasn’t. I didn’t even remember that we kissed until like three days later. But then you never said anything, so I figured you just didn’t want to talk about it or do it again and I let it be.”
Mu Qing turns around, reaching out to flip on the bedside lamp. “Are you fucking serious?” he asks. “I spent the next decade convinced that you really hated me, and that kiss was just some momentary lapse of judgment, and you’ve been jerking off to the memory of it all this time?”
Feng Xin sits up, letting the sheets pool around his waist. They’re both still naked under the covers. “Look, I’m not going to apologize for something that happened because neither of us spoke up. And either way, we were so fucked up after everything that happened with Xie Lian that maybe we would’ve just messed it up back then, you know? But I really meant it. We’re so good together in the arena. I think we’d be good together in other ways, too. And I did mean it when I said that I want you to move in with me, too. I meant every word of it. It wasn’t just my dick talking. I’m fucking in love with you, okay?”
Mu Qing stares.
“Just like that?” he asks.
Feng Xin shrugs. “I know you were the one who suggested to Xie Lian that we should team up,” he says and watches Mu Qing’s eyes get wider. “Sorry, Xie Lian spilled the beans accidentally. So you can’t hate me that much.”
Mu Qing’s jaw clenches. “I don’t hate you at all. I was just…wondering. If you meant everything you said, because I—well, maybe I want those things, too. But so what? People don’t get things just because they want them.”
Feng Xin smiles. His entire chest is tight, his heart thundering. “We wanted the gold in doubles, didn’t we?” he says. “I’d say we’re pretty good at getting what we want.”
“Oh, yeah?” Mu Qing asks. “And what do you want now?”
“To kiss you again,” Feng Xin says. “To fuck you again first thing in the morning. For you to come home with me and never leave. How does that sound?”
Mu Qing yanks him forward and presses a desperate, bruising kiss to Feng Xin’s mouth. Then, still breathing heavily when they part, he says with his lips brushing against Feng Xin’s, “I suppose that can be arranged.”