Chapter Text
Feng Xin is a simple man. Every morning, he wakes before sunrise and dresses himself. He stands silently outside His Highness’ room, only announcing his presence with two sharp knocks on the hard wooden frame of the chamber door. He waits until His Highness is dressed, before escorting him to the courtyard to meditate with him. To say that His Highness Xie Lian is a sweet boy would be a disgrace upon his noble name. He is the sunlight itself, with a blinding smile that shines upon every corner of the palace. His beauty is revered throughout the three realms and his kindness and strength even more so. Feng Xin is well aware of the honour bestowed upon him, of being tasked to guard the treasure of the Xianle Kingdom and he makes sure that he shows it, at all times.
So when he taps twice on His Highness’ door one morning in summer and hears Xie Lian call out for him to enter the room in his familiar lilt, he nearly does a double take at the scene in front of him.
“Your Highness! There’s an intruder in your room!” Feng Xin points an accusing finger at the teenage boy, hand darting to the bow hanging off his belt. The boy raises an eyebrow from where he’s kneeling at Xie Lian’s feet, pulling up his boots. He’s dressed plainly in black from head to toe, with a single white underobe peeking out at the collar. His own boots are scuffed and covered in scratches, and his sleeves are fraying at the ends. His ink black hair is tucked into a neat low ponytail that reaches down to his chest, contrasting sharply against the paleness of his skin. What strikes Feng Xin the most are his eyes, storm grey and brimming with contempt.
Before Feng Xin can even attempt to sweep Xie Lian out of the vicinity of this boy and question him, Xie Lian waves his hand, laughing. “No, no, calm down. He’s my new attendant. Feng Xin, this is Mu Qing. He’ll be joining us from now on.” Xie Lian cracks a saccharine smile, tilting his head at Feng Xin as Mu Qing stands, folding his arms.
Feng Xin takes a step back, narrowing his eyes at that glare that Mu Qing is levelling at him, the subtle curl of his plum lips that screams his disgust in Feng Xin’s face. Whoever he is, Mu Qing is very unamused as he rolls his eyes, and looks away towards the courtyard in front of the doors that Feng Xin had left open.
Feng Xin gapes. Did he just. Roll his eyes? In front of His Highness? At him? His attitude is so fucking annoying.
The shock freezes him to his spot in Xie Lian’s chambers as delayed anger rises like an insistent fire behind his lungs. His hands are itching to start a fight in Xie Lian’s honour when he’s once again intercepted by Xie Lian’s timely actions.
His Highness leaps up from his seat at his vanity and crosses the room in two strides, taking his arm and tugging Mu Qing along with his other hand. “Let’s go! We’ll all get along, won’t we? I want to practice with you both today!” Xie Lian is so bright and the grip on his arm is so firm that Feng Xin closes his mouth with an audible click.
Mu Qing’s face is kept calmly neutral and he ducks his head, hiding his expression. He extricates his arm in an awkward motion to let it hang at his side, though he continues to trail behind him and Xie Lian. Weirdo. Feng Xin is now dealing with the fact that he will have to tolerate this annoying boy for the foreseeable future. As much as Feng Xin wants to yell at him, he would rather die than disappoint His Highness, so he submits to being dragged across to the courtyard for training.
He comes to learn quickly, and with even more annoyance that Mu Qing is skilled with a saber. All of His Highness’ attendants are trained in some basic martial arts and defensive techniques. They have to hold their own, especially while being around the most well-loved boy in all of Xianle.
As Feng Xin watches Mu Qing wield a saber almost twice his height, spinning it and twirling across the courtyard in a deadly dance, he comes to the begrudging realisation.
He’s not just skilled. He’s a prodigy.
Every move is smooth and flawless. Even his posture and footwork are perfect. The blade swings in a wide arc, its iron edge glinting dangerously under the glare of the morning sun. Mu Qing makes his swings look light, like a butterfly darting between leaves as his blade clashes with Xie Lian’s sword. Xie Lian is hardly an easy opponent, parrying and swinging at openings in Mu Qing’s form, all while laughing in delight every time Mu Qing matches his attacks. The saber misses, slashing over Xie Lian’s head as he ducks and aims his sword at the opening at Mu Qing’s stomach. Just before his sword would have sliced deep into Mu Qing’s abdomen, it clangs against the saber. Mu Qing grins as he blocks and then forces Xie Lian back a few meters. Xie Lian returns his smile sweetly and aims for his other side.
After twenty minutes, both of them are still at an impasse. Beads of sweat roll off Mu Qing’s brow, and he swipes them away, where it stains his sleeve dark. The blush of exertion is a rosy red across his nose and cheekbones and his lower lip is bitten cherry from concentration. Locks of his dark hair cling to his neck in streaks, which he flicks over the other shoulder as he hefts the saber.
Feng Xin swears he’s not staring. Anyone would be captivated by the display of martial prowess before them. Admittedly, he’s watched Xie Lian countless times. Mu Qing is fresh scenery, and twice as mesmerising. In the moment of rest, he looks down at Feng Xin through his long eyelashes, gaze brushing up and down his figure sitting on the ground in the courtyard. There’s nothing but curiosity, and Feng Xin feels like he’s being studied by a stray cat. He suppresses a shiver as those gray eyes meet his with burning intensity and turns away when he feels the fire in those eyes spread to his own face. It’s a warm day outside, Feng Xin tells himself.
Xie Lian turns his sword around in his hand, tossing it up and down. Clearly, he’s the less drained of the two, but when he casts a subtle glance at Mu Qing, he calls a time out and a switch. Feng Xin has to physically lean away when Mu Qing sighs, kneeling next to him to take a drink of water. There’s heat radiating off of him like he’s the sun and the beads of sweat remaining along Mu Qing’s hairline shine like dew.
He makes it a point not to stare at the slope of his pale throat as it bobs when he drinks, shaking his head. The dark-haired boy seems to sense his attention because he glares wordlessly and Feng Xin is compelled to move out of reach, sweeping off the dust from his trousers as he walks toward Xie Lian.
What a temperamental stray cat His Highness has adopted. The smile on Xie Lian’s face is dopey, like that night he and Feng Xin snuck into the imperial kitchen to eat desserts when they were supposed to be sleeping.
“You’re getting along!” Xie Lian beams at him.
Feng Xin scratches his head. “You consider that, getting along, Your Highness?”
Xie Lian pats his shoulder insistently and Feng Xin almost chokes. Xie Lian doesn’t know how strong he is and Feng Xin is his constant victim. “He doesn’t hate you!”
Feng Xin directs his stare at the black blob with limbs that is Mu Qing sitting cross-legged in the shade. Well, that’s certainly a low bar for friendship , he considers. “If you say so, Your Highness.” Xie Lian hums in approval before getting into the beginning stance and Feng Xin readies his bow, forgetting all about Mu Qing.
Xie Lian does not go easy on him either, and he’s also panting by the time twenty minutes is up and Xie Lian barely looks tired, his hair all in place and his robes spotless. Feng Xin rests his hands on his knees, feeling like admitting defeat and rolling back under the shade of the trees instead of standing his ground under the sweltering sun. But just when he’s about to call a break, he gets the feeling of a piercing gaze drilling into his back. He whips around to find Mu Qing, that fucker, leaning back in the shade, with a smirk on his stupid face.
What the fuck is he smirking at. I’ll show him.
The flames of irritation rise back up within him. In a split second, he nocks an arrow and shoots. A yelp sounds from somewhere behind him as the arrow embeds itself into the tree bark, an inch from Mu Qing’s ponytail where it rests on his shoulder. Xie Lian has a hand to his mouth, tugging at his sleeve.
“Feng Xin, please don’t fight.” He pleads.
He lowers his bow out of respect for His Highness but the irritation boiling inside does not simmer down. His arrow is plucked out of the tree in one smooth motion and flicked into the grass. The object of his vexation stands, cocking his head and making his way over to the both of them.
His first words to Feng Xin, spoken in the most gentle, melodic voice he’s ever heard, are scathing.
“You missed.”
His rage spills over, and before he even realises it, his fist strikes Mu Qing across the face. Mu Qing returns his attack by kicking him in the stomach. They double down to fighting tooth and nail on the grounds of the courtyard, kicking and pulling at any part of each other in sight. Feng Xin tears a piece of his robe and Mu Qing draws blood by raking his nails across his face. They only stop when they’re black and blue and Xie Lian yells in concern.
At Xie Lian’s insistence, they roll away from each other, and Mu Qing storms off, a tornado of black disappearing down the hallway while Feng Xin dusts the dirt from his clothes.
Xie Lian sighs. “I really hoped you guys would get along.” He produces a handkerchief to swipe at the cuts on Feng Xin’s face, earning a hiss from his loyal guard.
“He pisses me off. He’s so annoying.” Feng Xin grumbles, taking the handkerchief from Xie Lian.
Xie Lian offers a knowing smile that muddles the anger into confusion. “Not always.”
~
Their mutual irritation never boils down. Somehow, whenever they’re together, there’s fists involved. However, the next time Feng Xin gets into an altercation, he’s not fighting Mu Qing at all.
He was heading down into the city to get vegetables for the kitchen. Their normal delivery had been delayed and the aunties had doted on him so often that when they lamented the loss of the fresh groceries, he took it upon himself to bring it back for them. They had gratefully pinched his cheeks, patting his head and sending him off with an empty sack. Xie Lian is off spending time with his parents in the Imperial Hall, which is heavily guarded, so he’s in good hands. Footsteps light, Feng Xin makes his way down to the city.
When Feng Xin has barely even passed the gates, a commotion on the outskirts of the city diverts his attention from his task. He stops, watching the scene from behind one of the houses
A group of four boys are towering over another boy, who’s backed up into a large ginkgo tree, clearly cornered. All four of them are taller than him, and are tugging at his clothes, sneering. One yanks on his low ponytail. The boy yelps, a familiar voice. The revelation hits Feng Xin with horrifying clarity. That’s Mu Qing. They’re bullying Mu Qing.
“You disgraceful trash from the slums.” One boy in red pulls on Mu Qing’s ear. He hisses, wrenching the boy’s hand off his head. “Don’t touch me.”
The bully snickers. “Or what? It’s not like your mother could do anything to us. Isn’t she nearly blind and useless? It seems like it runs in the family.” They descend into harsh laughter, clutching at their bellies while Mu Qing seethes, humiliated but helpless.
Feng Xin catches his gaze for a split second as Mu Qing looks around desperately for an escape. The terror in his gray eyes is like a flood of dark water, threatening to swallow him whole. He shifts against the bark of the tree, hands flexing and unflexing in controlled panic. His collar shifts, putting a blooming bruise on Mu Qing’s throat into full view.
What the fuck. Fuck. Fuck them. How dare they.
Feng Xin tucks the empty sack into his robes and frees his hands, exchanging looks with Mu Qing, who curls his hands into fists. Mu Qing nods, and everything goes to shit in a matter of seconds.
Mu Qing administers a sweeping kick, knocking the bullies down in one move. He fights off one’s attempts to get back at him, punching his teeth in as Feng Xin takes care of another, kicking them into the tree trunk with a thud. When they’re all down, Feng Xin wastes no time and grabs Mu Qing’s hand, fleeing for the city center and mingling into the crowd.
All he hears are Mu Qing’s breaths as they run hard, and the way he’s clutching his larger hand so hard he thinks his bones would ache for hours after. They stumble to a stop when they manage to escape back into the other side of the palace grounds, huffing. Mu Qing drops his hand immediately as if he’s been burnt and holds it to his chest. The run has his robes in a mess, and once Feng Xin catches his breath, he hooks a finger into the other boy’s collar, drawing it back.
Mu Qing hisses like an injured cat, swatting his hand away. “Stop it.”
“What did you do to provoke them? Why did they gang up on you?” Feng Xin presses.
“I didn’t do anything.” Mu Qing bites back, voice thrumming with irritation.
“Then why did you let them hit you? You have a bruise here. It’s even painful to swallow now, isn’t it.” Feng Xin pushes at him lightly.
Mu Qing tries to hide his grimace as he swallows dryly, and glares at him. “I didn’t want to make a scene. They’d cause trouble for my mother too. I’m dirt from the village to them. But you had to fight them, didn’t you?” He folds his arms, turning away from the heat that is Feng Xin’s righteous anger.
“I saved you! I couldn’t leave you there!” Feng Xin sputters, gesturing wildly at his beaten-up figure.
“I could have saved myself!” Mu Qing insists, and when Feng Xin sees the glint of tears in his eyes and the crack in his voice, he falls silent. Both of them stew in the momentary tension, until Mu Qing breaks it.
“Come with me, idiot.” Mu Qing takes his hand once again, leading him further into the palace. His hand is trembling, ever so slightly but Feng Xin says nothing, the mix of emotions turning into a mess in his chest. He wordlessly follows, as Mu Qing brings him to the washing courtyards. The ladies-in-waiting do not pay them any mind as Mu Qing tugs him along into a small storeroom and shuts the door behind them. He gestures for Feng Xin to sit on the sole stool in the cramped room as he opens a closet and procures a box.
Feng Xin leans away as Mu Qing uncaps a strong-smelling jar of liquid and dabs it onto clean white cloth after washing his hands. “What the fuck is that?”
Mu Qing raises an eyebrow. Feng Xin thinks it might be part of his personality at this point.
“Disinfectant. You want to die from an infection? Be my guest.” He deadpans, pointing at Feng Xin’s split knuckles with the cloth.
Feng Xin shuts up immediately as Mu Qing rolls his eyes and takes to blotting gently at the torn skin of his hands, biting on his lip as his knuckles start to burn. Mu Qing’s motions are gentle, nothing like the boy who had kicked him and clawed at his face when they fought, who was made of pure steel and rage.
Mu Qing glances at him as he switches to take the other hand, his eyes dripping with concern through long dark lashes. Feng Xin thinks he’s getting an aneurysm. He thinks he ran too fast earlier. His heart aches as it skips, thumping against his ribcage.
When Mu Qing is done and has wrapped a clean bandage around both his hands, he turns to leave without another word. In some unknown display of courage (or stupidity, Feng Xin will never know), he grasps Mu Qing's sleeve, pulling him back. The words he wants to say tumble out of his mouth before he can stop them.
“Let me see that bruise. I’ll put ointment on it for you.” Mu Qing glances at the door longingly for a moment before sighing, and sits obediently on the stool beside him.
Feng Xin stands and turns his back, dipping his fingers into the pot of ointment in the box. He kneels, gently pulling Mu Qing’s robe to one side to expose the bruise. The patch of black and blue spreads down his throat into the dip of his collarbones, and Feng Xin has to resist the urge to run back to the city and give the bullies another punch for what an ugly mark they left on Mu Qing’s milky white skin. Just the sight of it stirs the pot of anger inside him so much that he's struggling to keep a lid on it. Mu Qing has so little, and yet, people want to take. He grits his teeth at the thought.
He gently spreads the ointment around, rubbing it in as gently as possible. Under his fingers, he can feel the bob of Mu Qing’s delicate throat and feel the brush of his warm breath against the shell of his ear as Mu Qing bites his lip to keep from crying out from the ache of fingers pressing into the bruise.
He feels like he’s getting sunburnt, every inch of him is warm. He wants to rip his skin off and cover Mu Qing in it. The thought of other people laying a hand on him is so disgusting, he can’t believe Mu Qing tolerated it.
When he’s done applying the ointment, he pulls Mu Qing’s robes back over his shoulders and makes a beeline for the door. There’s something rising in his throat at the look of Mu Qing placing his hands neatly in his lap and looking back at him, eyes murky with a sliver of gratitude. He doesn’t know what it is, but he swallows it and flees. He may not be an idiot, but he is a coward.
~
Later, Feng Xin discovers that Mu Qing tends to have a penchant for appearing as otherworldly things. He once appeared from behind a pillar at midnight and scared Feng Xin’s soul out of his body. It was during the seventh month too. His heart jumped straight out with his throat with a “FUCK” and Mu Qing was, as usual, unamused.
Now, there’s a black and red blur in front of him, flickering in and out of sight. It keeps getting closer and closer, and the instincts in Feng Xin yell at him to move, run, do something, but he only manages to roll to the side before hitting the wall with a thud. Why is there a wall? Blinking hard to disperse the fevered glaze over everything in his line of sight, Feng Xin thinks this time, there really is a ghost in the palace. The ghost comes closer, and Feng Xin can hear the thud of feet on wood. Do ghosts have feet? Some do, probably.
He presses his back up against the wall he hit. All the muscles in his body are sore and his eyes feel like two balls of fire in his eye sockets. Even breathing hurts and swallowing scrapes against his throat in a way that makes him wince. He groans, waving at the blur in his peripheral vision. Fuck this.
The ghost clicks his tongue in disapproval and presses a pale hand to his forehead, pulling back before Feng Xin even has time to wrench away from his cold touch. “You’re burning, idiot.”
The feverish boy turns his head, frantically surveying his surroundings. “Where’s the fire?”
A ghostly finger taps his face right between his eyes. “In here, clearly. There’s nothing left.” Feng Xin frowns, going cross-eyed at the finger. This is a very real finger. Is he dead? No, wait, why is the ghost touching him?
The spirit scoffs, and there’s the sound of clinking before something small and round is pressed to his lips. It’s warm and smells heavily of herbs. Feng Xin scrunches up his nose at the feeling of it, whining.
“Swallow. And don’t you dare throw it up, you hear?”, the ghost warns. Well, the ghost hasn’t killed him yet. So it isn’t malicious. Maybe it’s trying to help him. He opens his mouth and does as he’s told, grimacing at the bitter taste rolling across his tongue.
The rim of a cup is pressed to his lips next. “Drink”, the ghost orders. Feng Xin obeys. The water washes away the taste of the pill and the rust in his throat, and he gulps it down greedily. “Good boy.” A hand tangles into his sweaty hair. A cool cloth is run across his face, putting out the burn behind his eyelids as it settles across his forehead.
When the blur leans down, Feng Xin catches a whiff of a familiar cherry scent, and the curves of a pale, beautiful face that he knows well. The blur focuses into a pair of marbled eyes, a delicate nose and blush-coloured lips that are frowning at him. The ghost is Mu Qing. He blinks.
“Stop haunting me”, Feng Xin mumbles. The pair of eyes roll.
“The one closer to death is you.”
The quilt is pulled over his chest and Feng Xin feels his body relax instantly. He didn’t even know he was trembling. “You need to stop haunting me. Get better, or I’ll take your job.” The dark haired angel above him threatens, but his words hold no real heat.
Feng Xin thinks he’s probably dreaming. Mu Qing’s hands are as soft as feathers where they brush against his own, and he’s not even yelling at him this time. Yeah, definitely a dream. So he can say what he wants. He reaches into the addled mess of his mind to pull out the name he heard a beautiful lady call Mu Qing once. That was his mother, wasn’t it? The lady in black and grey in the house by the city’s edge. Mu Qing’s house. The courage rises like a tide in his chest, meeting the shore of his tongue.
“Qing-er. Maybe dying like this isn’t so horrible. If you’re actually here.”
Mu Qing huffs through his nose, and stands, leaving an impression in the mattress. He drifts over to the abandoned qin in the corner of the room. A gift from his parents that he hadn’t had time to use since taking up the job of guarding Xie Lian. With one hand, Mu Qing pulls the drape off, and sits in front of it. Since when did he learn how to play the qin?
All the questions drift out of Feng Xin’s head when the other boy runs his fingers across it, producing a gentle strum of melody.
“Sleep” comes the command. Exhaustion tugs at his body all at once, washing him away. All Feng Xin can remember is the cadence of a melody that sounds like rivers and willows dancing in the winter breeze, and the dark, dark hair of a boy whose fingers dance across a qin like they were doing it all his life.
~
Lately, Mu Qing’s been disappearing promptly at the end of the day. When the moon rises, he excuses himself and leaves immediately, not even lingering to chat with Xie Lian and him. Every night, a pair of honey brown eyes trail Mu Qing’s cloaked figure as he swiftly descends the palace steps and disappears into the swathe of lights that is the capital city. Running through the mental calendar, Mu Qing’s been doing this every single day without fail, since spring started. Mu Qing himself says nothing, and Xie Lian and Feng Xin don’t press at it. But still, it’s unsettling.
It’s not that he misses Mu Qing! Xie Lian does, obviously, from the way he sighs beside Feng Xin as they watch Mu Qing hurry for the city. Concern crawls into his chest and makes a home between his ribs, and Feng Xin keeps expecting something horrible to pull on the string and unravel him from the inside out.
He resigns himself to looking Mu Qing over for signs, like bruises. Is he hurt? Is he getting thinner? It becomes a routine. He’ll sweep Mu Qing over with his gaze at least once a day, when he isn’t looking. If Mu Qing catches him, he says there’s a leaf clinging to his clothes, and this earns him merely a suspicious glance. He’s good, he’s getting better at it. Mu Qing is still annoying as fuck. But anything happening to him would make Xie Lian sad. It would be troublesome.
It’s almost the end of spring when Xie Lian tugs at his sleeve during their daily Mu Qing Watch. And no, he does not call it that.
“Feng Xin, we should follow him.” Xie Lian whispers from behind the door.
“Your Highness, you mean I should follow him?” Feng Xin’s brow furrows at Xie Lian’s words. Xie Lian shrugs. “We, me, you. There’s no difference. We just need to know what he’s doing.”
Feng Xin looks heavenward as if some godly guidance will appear and help him. He’s got Xie Lian smiling all sweetly and a very annoyingly worrying black cat to follow. He can’t say no to Xie Lian, and he is curious about Mu Qing. He might get scratched for this. Or worse, fought. Heaven help him.
“Tomorrow then.” He promises. Xie Lian lights up with a grin, and then pushes him gently in the direction of his own chambers.
“Wear your cloak tomorrow. If you get caught, well, we were in it together.” He pats his loyal guard’s shoulder.
“Let’s hope he doesn’t, shall we?”
Luckily for Feng Xin, the next day passes uneventfully and he is making good on his promise by tailing Mu Qing out of the palace. Xie Lian is a waving speck in his vision, peeking out from behind the massive palace doors. Feng Xin risks a tiny wave, before concentrating back on the task at hand. Mu Qing is fading slowly into the city so he speeds up, dodging people in the crowd and diving between couples taking nightly strolls.
Soon, Mu Qing stops at the very same ginkgo tree he and Feng Xin had fought those bullies at. There’s no one there except for a group of children who yell a series of “Gege!” “Qing-gege”, throwing down their pebbles and marbles to run up to Mu Qing, tugging at his robes and hugging his calves. Mu Qing says something inaudible, patting their heads as he sets a basket of something down on the grass. The children shout with excitement, their tiny hands swarming the basket, picking out tiny red drops. Are those cherries? From Mount Taicang?
Feng Xin ducks behind a house, crouching, as Mu Qing bends down, picking a little girl up and resting her on his hip. She looks to be the youngest, with a single tooth coming in that shows when she smiles and plasters herself against Mu Qing’s neck.
Mu Qing, who hates touching other people, who hates people touching him, unless absolutely necessary, is carrying a baby girl all unbothered. Feng Xin gapes as he recalls the times he was touched by Mu Qing. He comes up with a grand total of one, and that was only when he was sick. Mu Qing touches other people every day.
That sounds wrong. Feng Xin scolds himself, tuning out his inner monologue to focus on the scene before him.
“Qing-gege!” The girl in Mu Qing’s arms calls him brightly, pressing a ripe cherry to his lips. Mu Qing bites down on it, humming and bouncing the girl in his arms. Wine-red juice stains his lips, trickling down his chin. The little girl bursts into delighted laughter at having fed Mu Qing a cherry. The greatest shock of Feng Xin’s life happens in the next two moments.
Mu Qing smiles. He doesn’t smirk or scoff. There isn’t a hint of slyness to it. His mouth splits in genuine happiness, the corners turning upwards. There are tiny dimples, next to the curve of his mouth, minute impressions in the masterpiece that is his face. Mu Qing’s eyes are coloured silver with mirth and fondness and he has a soft rosy blush that settles gently across the slope of his nose and the peaks of his sculpted cheekbones. The locks of his hair that escape his ponytail frame his face, fluttering in the night wind. His happiness is incandescent, like the sun, and it warms Feng Xin down to his toes.
An errant thought crosses Feng Xin’s mind like a shooting star. He’s beautiful.
Wait. He admires Mu Qing. His hand claps over his heart like he’s been burnt there. What the fuck. He stumbles back, crunching on some dead leaves. Mu Qing’s head whips around to look for strangers, but Feng Xin is already gone.
His heart is pounding at his ribs, lungs wringing themselves out as he races back to the palace, up the hundreds of steps to his room and slams the doors closed. He presses his back to the doors as his chest heaves to get oxygen back. No matter how long he stands there, with his back to the doors, he can’t stop thinking about that moment. It’s like it was carved into his eyes.
What the fuck. What the fuck. He likes Mu Qing.
He hopes that much isn’t evident when he tells Xie Lian about his findings tomorrow.
~
“Feng Xin! Feng Xin!” Xie Lian’s voice sounds from outside his door. It’s the middle of the night, and the moon is hanging high in the sky. The trees are weighed down by snow, and it’s dead silent in the palace. The silence is interrupted by Xie Lian’s panicked knocking on his chamber door.
On hearing his prince’s calls, Feng Xin leaps out of bed, sweeping the door open with one arm. “Your Highness! Are you okay?”
He checks Xie Lian from head to toe. He’s unharmed, if a little worried. Xie Lian’s breath comes out in puffs in the winter night. He’s barefoot, and running about the inner palace in the cold. Feng Xin pulls him into his room, throwing a spare blanket around him immediately before shutting the door to keep the wind out.
“Feng Xin! I can’t find Mu Qing.” Xie Lian shrugs the blanket off and grips his shoulders. His eyes are drowning in panic as he meets Feng Xin’s confused expression. Feng Xin’s heart drops into his stomach at his words.
“What do you mean you can’t find him? He went home.” The panic must be contagious because suddenly it’s ice-cold and racing in his veins and Feng Xin wants to crawl out of his own skin.
Xie Lian shakes his head. “Someone sent a messenger to the palace to say he hasn’t returned. His mother was looking for him.”
Oh gods. Oh gods and buddhas. Oh fuck. The brown-haired boy’s mind races with a thousand scenarios that end with Mu Qing dead, or freezing or- he doesn’t want to think about it. He shakes his head vigorously, and looks outside the room. It’s not midnight yet. It’s yet to get to the coldest part of the night.
He kneels, grabbing his spare pair of boots, waving Xie Lian over to put them onto him. When he’s done, he wraps a cloak around Xie Lian. Gods forbid His Highness catches a cold looking for his most annoying attendant.
“You go to the eastern side, I’ll go west, we meet back here in one shichen. If you find him and need help, wake the people and send one to get me. Don’t panic, Your Highness. And please never forget your shoes again.”
Xie Lian laughs, a pitchy, nervous thing and nods, leaving his room in a flurry of white and gold.
Feng Xin throws on his own cloak and forces the fear to retreat from his hands back into his chest. He makes for the western section of the palace, and tosses his panic away. He will find Mu Qing. Failure is not an option.
He starts methodically checking down all the corridors, looking in empty rooms. The storerooms. The kitchen. He runs towards the washing rooms. He ducks between the clotheslines, slamming open the washing room doors.
“Mu Qing! Mu Qing!” His calls echo in the empty courtyards. The fear and panic turn to fiery anger. Blood roars in his ears as he kicks up snow, and his calls remain unanswered. When he runs to the end of the corridor, he notices a storeroom with the door ajar. That’s the storeroom he and Mu Qing had hid in.
Wait. That sounds wrong. Feng Xin shakes the thought out of his mind in favour of throwing the door open instead. “Mu Qi-” His voice dies in his throat at the sight of Mu Qing, a grey and red bundle sprawled across the stool. The other boy’s head is pillowed in his arms, dark locks spilling over his shoulders. His chest is rising and falling rhythmically, face relaxed in his slumber.
Feng Xin creeps closer, snow crunching under his boots. The ladies-in-waiting are going to kill him for this. He waves a hand in front of Mu Qing’s face. He doesn’t stir. He’s dead asleep.
There’s a storm in his head. He and Xie Lian went on a wild goosechase, just to find his dumb ass sleeping here in the storeroom? He feels like slamming the door and waking him. It’s the middle of the night for heaven’s sake. He wants to shake Mu Qing awake to yell at him.
The pent-up concern coils around his hands like a cuff. He can’t.
Mu Qing’s hands are cracking and dry from washing and the cold. There are smudges of darkness under his eyes, that Feng Xin knows won’t go away with a swipe of a finger. His legs are curled under him, exposing only the worn soles of his shoes to the cold air.
He wants to wrap his hands around Mu Qing’s neck. At the same time, he wants to cover the idiot with his cloak and bring him back to Xie Lian. Groaning internally, Feng Xin chooses the lesser of two evils. He strips himself of his cloak, draping it over Mu Qing, and sweeps him up onto his back. Closing the door of the storeroom with his foot, he makes sure Mu Qing is secured safely on his back before he begins the trek back to his own room.
Mu Qing is dead for the entire trip back, lulled by the rhythm of Feng Xin’s steady steps. His face is warm, like a brand where it presses into the side of Feng Xin’s neck, and he empties out his head, focusing on keeping Mu Qing from slipping off. When he gets back, he shakes off his boots and shifts the sleeping boy onto the bed. His bed. His cheeks colour with the realisation, but it’s dark. The embarrassment is between him and heaven.
His hands reach for Mu Qing’s unknowingly, tucking them close before the quilt is drawn over him. Without the perpetual scowl on his face, he looks peaceful, and small against the backdrop of Feng Xin’s bed.
Without anything else to do, he sits on the floor at the end of the bed, watching Mu Qing sleep peacefully. As slumber laps at his back and darkens his vision while he waits for Xie Lian to return, he drifts off with only one thought at the forefront of the sea of his mind.
He kind of wants to curl around Mu Qing. Just a little bit.