Work Text:
Mu Qing enters the room with no preamble, a frown etched on his features as he blinks to adjust to the amber light. There is one bed along the far wall, and a basin for washing. Feng Xin is sitting on the edge of the bed, armor removed and robes hanging open. His chest is a mess of bruises, the blood washed from his skin but the hard lines of battle remaining.
With the Heavenly Court in literal shambles, the displaced gods had ordered their subordinates to secure them lodging. Mu Qing hadn’t been bothered, earlier that evening. There was too much else to contend with— namely, Xie Lian. Both Feng Xin and Mu Qing had tried to gauge his mood, get him to eat, find him a comfortable bed. Now, he is on the other side of the wall, in a small room, finally asleep.
Mu Qing wonders, with a clinical sort of distance, if the Crown Prince will cry in the night for his lost San Lang.
He shakes his head to displace those thoughts, and steps further into the room.
Feng Xin looks up, his hands still busy wrapping clean bandages around his right wrist and broken fingers. With his godly strength, he’ll be well soon enough. But at the moment, with his eyes shadowed and his torso a battlefield itself, he looks like a common soldier more than a martial god.
“He’s asleep?” Feng Xin rasps, his voice rough. Mu Qing tries not to glare back immediately, thinking that Feng Xin had laughed himself hoarse at Mu Qing’s expense.
The word, friend, hangs between them like a loose string. Either one of them could pick the thread up and drag it towards themselves. But if they both tug on it at once, it will grow taught and likely snap.
Mu Qing nods. He turns towards the basin, unhooks his cloak from his shoulders and sets his sheathed saber against the wall. He washes his hands and face, and undoes his hairpin and crown to let his dark hair flow over his shoulders as though in the winding path of a river.
Finally, Mu Qing turns back to the bed. The single bed, in the last room of the inn. His lips curl into a sneer. “You didn’t think to ask for three rooms?”
Feng Xin finishes wrapped his hands and reaches up to undo his topknot. His own hair, sun-bleached to a deep brown, falls in a crimped wave against his shoulders. He looks up at Mu Qing and shrugs— Mu Qing wonders if that motion pulls at his injured shoulders, what that display of nonchalance costs him.
“They were mostly full up, anyway,” Feng Xin grumbles. “And it’s habit.”
Mu Qing bites the inside of his cheek to keep from wincing. Back then, so long ago, it was normal to ask for one room for Dianxia and one for his attendants. Often enough, Feng Xin and Mu Qing slept on the floor in Xie Lian’s room. There had never been any sense of privacy between them.
Mu Qing knows now what that lack of privacy, what that assumed and forced intimacy, has cost him over the years. It’s the fact that he’s looking at Feng Xin right now and not seeing him merely as another soldier, but also as a warm body to spend the night beside.
Letting out a long-suffering sigh, Mu Qing undoes his black outer-robes and folds them, putting them aside. By habit, he picks up Feng Xin’s scattered garments and does the same with them.
Feng Xin blinks, then mumbles. “Thanks. I would’ve done it.”
They’re both injured, and tired, and the very core of the world had fallen away today. They watched as their Crown Prince took on the highest of gods and most feared of ghosts, and bested him. They do not know what tomorrow will look like. They do not know what it means, that Xie Lian has defeated Jun Wu, that the Heavenly Capital has fallen to earth, that Hua Cheng is gone.
Most of all, Mu Qing does not know what to do with Feng Xin. He admitted to Xie Lian that he wanted to be his equal, his friend. But what does he want to be to Feng Xin? What does he want Feng Xin to be to him?
Impossible questions with no clear answer. Dressed only in loose inner robes, he presses a hand against Feng Xin’s bruised shoulder and rolls him to one side.
“Nudge over,” he says. “I’m not sleeping on the floor.”
Feng Xin goes without complaint, rolling closer to the wall as Mu Qing slips into bed beside him. This is not the first time they have been here. So it is not entirely a surprise when, after a few minutes, Feng Xin presses close against Mu Qing’s back and begins to kiss his neck.
For all that he is called Ju Yang, Feng Xin is no experienced flirt. Mu Qing knows, despite himself, that Feng Xin has only ever kissed two people in his life. As Feng Xin presses kisses along his neck and bare shoulders, Mu Qing knows that number remains the same.
He turns in place, so that he’s facing Feng Xin. Feng Xin, whose face is rough and honest and usually too expressive for its own good. Tonight, Feng Xin is somber, his eyes like the reflection of a flame against candle oil. He looks at Mu Qing with an expression Mu Qing cannot put a name to.
Mu Qing frowns at him. “I’m already bruised,” he grouses. “If you think you’re putting it in me, you’re out of your mind.”
Feng Xin huffs a laugh, a puff of warm air against Mu Qing’s bare skin. “Fuck, Mu Qing, you didn’t even let me ease us into it.”
Mu Qing rolls his eyes. He presses one hand against the center of Feng Xin’s chest— it could be a barrier and warning, keeping Feng Xin away for the moment. Or it could be a point of connection, allowing Mu Qing to remember the warmth of Feng Xin’s skin and the steady beat of his heart.
“What’s the point?” Mu Qing wonders.
They are not frequent— lovers is the wrong word entirely, and Mu Qing does not want to search his memories for a more apt one— they do not do this often. In times of desperation, and rage, and loneliness, they have come together before. Mu Qing has felt the length of Feng Xin inside of him, and it has been both wonderful and painfully frustrating. He has bitten Feng Xin’s lips until they are bloody. He has seen the tightness of Feng Xin’s face as he chases his pleasure, and then the moment of release when he seems free in the truest sense for just one fleeting second.
For better or for worse, he knows Feng Xin as well as he knows himself. And now that Mu Qing has laid his emotions bear for Xie Lian, and Feng Xin has heard those confessions, the reverse may also be true for the first time.
Feng Xin shifts against him, presses his hand over Mu Qing’s where it rests against his chest. There’s a laugh in his voice as he says, “The point, you prickly ass, is that today we might’ve all died, and now I’d like to remember the fact that we’re alive and well.”
Mu Qing sniffs pointedly. He pokes at one of Feng Xin’s bruises with his free hand, pressing deep enough that Feng Xin draws a pained breath. “Isn’t that enough reminder that you’re alive? Ghosts don’t feel pain.”
Feng Xin grabs for both of Mu Qing’s wrists, holding him still with an unforgiving grip. “Mu Qing,” he growls. “I’m trying to tell you something.”
“I don’t have any objections,” Mu Qing cuts in, swift and sharp as the cut of his blade, “But you’re not putting it in.”
He knows his own limits. His body can’t take that, tonight. Usually, when they fuck, it’s after a fight. That usually winds him up and then down enough that when Feng Xin pushes into him, his body is ready for it. He can relax enough, knowing that earlier he’d kicked Feng Xin’s legs from under him, or pinned him until he called for mercy, or simply held him in a chokehold.
Tonight, there is no such preamble. All the fight in them had been put against Bai Wuxiang, or Jun Wu, or whatever the fuck they should call him, now. For the first time in over eight hundred years, there is no fight in Mu Qing left for Feng Xin.
“That’s not what I meant,” Feng Xin interrupts his thoughts.
Mu Qing narrows his eyes. “Oh?” he says, as loftily as he can manage. “You can’t take what you’re so eager to give?”
Feng Xin’s straw-colored skin colors, redness spreading over his cheeks like a drop of ink in a glass of clear water. “That is not what I meant.”
Mu Qing lunges forward, takes a fistful of Feng Xin’s hair, and tugs. “You’re taking too long to get to the point. Here’s what I want— I want to fuck you so hard those bruises seem like nothing, and everything about today doesn’t matter anymore, because all you can think about is me fucking you.”
Feng Xin’s eyes go dark, and he takes in a wheezing breath. “Mu Qing— you—”
Mu Qing tugs at Feng Xin’s hair.
Feng Xin laughs hoarsely. “You didn’t used to be like this. Has being with me made you vulgar?”
He can’t help the way his face twists at the implication. He isn’t with Feng Xin; he never has been. Maybe, once upon a time, Feng Xin was ready to spend his mortal life with Jian Lan. Maybe, in some counterfactual world, he would have been a devoted husband and a good father. But that is not the world they are living in. And Mu Qing is not a person who ever has or ever will ask for Feng Xin’s devotion.
“That’s my offer,” Mu Qing snaps. “Take it, or go to sleep and leave me alone.”
Feng Xin lets out a soft whine, like a puppy after a bone has been ripped away from it. He presses forward, despite Mu Qing’s grip on his hair, and kisses Mu Qing’s lips.
He tastes like salt. His lips are a furious presence, pressing against Mu Qing’s own until Mu Qing opens his mouth just slightly. Then, Feng Xin’s tongue finds his, swirling around it like he can erase all taste from Mu Qing’s mouth except his own.
For a minute, that works. All Mu Qing can taste, can smell, can feel is Feng Xin. Salt and wheat, earth and grass. He’s a martial god, and he grew up as the retainer of a Crown Prince. But there is no noble pretense about him. He is as sure and solid as the earth.
Mu Qing tugs at Feng Xin’s hair, and bites at his lips, and presses against the solid muscle of his chest. Feng Xin hisses into his mouth, and rests his hands against Mu Qing’s hips. But when Feng Xin attempts to knead the muscle of his ass, Mu Qing is reminded of his own intentions.
He pulls away from the kiss, letting his hands run down from Feng Xin’s hair to his neck, and then to his shoulders. They are an archer’s shoulders, perfectly muscled and used to drawing weight even a saber-wielder isn’t. Mu Qing digs all ten of his fingers into Feng Xin’s muscles, enjoying the ripple of sensation going through them.
“Fucking hurts,” Feng Xin grumbles.
Mu Qing’s smile is a knife-cut across his face. “Mm,” he replies vaguely. He twists suddenly, pressing Feng Xin down against the bed. He climbs over Feng Xin, his knees on either side of Feng Xin’s hips.
Flat on his back, Feng Xin looks up at Mu Qing through just-open eyes. His hair is a mess beneath him, his throat a tempting expanse of brown skin. Small golden hoops glint from his ears, a sign of richness he’d adopted as a god. Mu Qing ducks his head to kiss at the chords of Feng Xin’s throat, to feel the bob of the apple there as it works up and down in time with Feng Xin’s staccato breathing.
Mu Qing hooks his fingers in the waistband of Feng Xin’s cotton trousers and pulls them down his legs. Feng Xin’s cock is half-hard, redness spreading through it the same way the color spread across his cheeks and down his neck.
Does Feng Xin find Mu Qing as easy to read as Mu Qing finds him? Can he follow the path of Mu Qing’s desire as easily as Mu Qing can trace the color that blooms on Feng Xin’s skin?
He takes Ju Yang in hand, unable to get a grip all the way around Feng Xin’s length with just one hand. It’s a little bit annoying, and a little bit exciting. Feng Xin never encouraged his title, but he has certainly earned it.
Like a flash of lightning across the hazy sky of his thoughts, Mu Qing suddenly things— Jian Lan never got to lay with Ju Yang. She was long gone, by then, and Feng Xin has been with no one else. The only one who’s ever taken all of him, like this, is Mu Qing.
Why is his throat suddenly dry? Why would he think of Jian Lan, at a time like this?
His fingers curl, and Feng Xin hisses as Mu Qing’s nails dig into the tender skin of his cock.
“Mu Qing—” he gasps, but he doesn’t tell Mu Qing to stop.
When Mu Qing glances up, he sees Feng Xin’s mouth open in a perfect O, his eyes dark with the haze of pain and pleasure. Ah.
Mu Qing slides further down Feng Xin’s body, down his bare legs. He rests his hands against Feng Xin’s calves, stroking up and down once, twice. The dark hair on Feng Xin’s legs tickles at Mu Qing’s palms.
“Tease,” Feng Xin growls.
Mu Qing rolls his eyes. As if he were someone who cultivates coupling as a skill, who thinks about it beyond his own pleasure. He abstained from any sort of sex for his entire mortal life, and far into his godly one. Is Feng Xin stupid, to think that Mu Qing bothers doing anything for his benefit?
He can’t be bothered to remember how often he’s taken Feng Xin into his mouth, but it hasn’t been more than a handful of times. Maybe that is why Feng Xin immediately tenses when Mu Qing rests his hands against Feng Xin’s thighs and takes the tip of Ju Yang into his mouth.
“Ah,” Feng Xin gasps, as Mu Qing laps at his cock and lets his teeth scrape against sensitive skin, “Ah, ah—”
Mu Qing pulls back, pinching Feng Xin’s thigh. “Stop that,” he grumbles. “You’re distracting me.”
Feng Xin lets out a high-pitched wheeze, as though he’s trying to laugh but doesn’t have the breath to do so.
Mu Qing returns to the task before him, taking Feng Xin’s cock into his mouth in increments. He would never flatter Feng Xin by saying so, but the weight of such a cock on his tongue is intoxicating. He can’t focus on anything else, can only work his lips and tongue as far as they will go. He doesn’t even make it halfway up Feng Xin’s length, so he uses his hand to work the rest of Feng Xin.
Feng Xin has taken his words to heart, pressing one fist against his mouth to keep any sounds from escaping. But when Mu Qing looks up through his eyelashes, he sees the furious color spreading across Feng Xin’s skin, the tense lines of his muscles.
He smiles around Feng Xin’s cock, then presses against the tip with only a hint of teeth. Feng Xin jerks below him, and precome dribbles into Mu Qing’s mouth.
Mu Qing continues to work Feng Xin’s cock, to manipulate it with hands and lips and tongue. He can feel as Feng Xin grows harder, as his cock begins to weep, as the feel of it goes from comfortable warmth to urgent heat.
Feng Xin shudders beneath him, knees drawing upwards. He chokes out, “Mu Qing— please—” and then pulls back just enough that his come, when it releases, lands against Mu Qing’s cheeks and lips and chin.
Feng Xin falls back against the bed, breathing heavily. Mu Qing climbs over him, straddling his waist, and looks down at the other general with disdain.
“Pathetic,” Mu Qing says.
Feng Xin throws one arm over his eyes and whines, almost sheepish. It’s such a novel emotion for the proud, angry, defiant, sure-footed Nan Yang. Mu Qing wants to lick the expression off of his face.
But when he leans in, Feng Xin grabs hold of Mu Qing instead. He lays one hand against Mu Qing’s neck, the other fisted in his open robe. He pulls Mu Qing in, and with a frantic urgency, licks his own come off of Mu Qing’s face. His tongue and lips work in tandem across Mu Qing’s skin, until he’s clean once more.
Feng Xin falls back again, eyes wide and glazed as his chest rises and falls like waves crashing against the shore.
Mu Qing’s face is hot, and damp with Feng Xin’s spit. His own arousal rises in him like steam in a teapot, searching for a place to escape and release. Mu Qing wipes his face with the back of his hand, then pulls his robe off his shoulders. He shucks his own pants, and for once doesn’t stop to fold them before rejoining Feng Xin on the bed.
“Did you enjoy that?” Mu Qing asks, voice gone quiet.
Feng Xin bites his lip.
Mu Qing yanks at his hair. “Well?”
Feng Xin lets out a breathy laugh. “Didn’t you tell me to be quiet?”
“And now I’m asking you a question.”
“Anyone with a cock would like getting it sucked,” Feng Xin murmurs.
Mu Qing is no practiced courtesan, no expert in sucking men to their climax. He doesn’t even know that he would enjoy it, if someone bit into him the way he did to Feng Xin.
“But the way you do it…” Feng Xin trails off, then shudders.
Mu Qing doesn’t know what to make of that. Perhaps it’s the exhaustion overcoming Feng Xin, after the days and weeks (and really, the past eight centuries) of trials. As he lies back, now, he looks like a bow string that’s been unstrung after overuse, unable to remember its original shape.
There’s a feeling in Mu Qing’s chest not unlike a bruise— tender, painful when touched, a dull ache when left alone. He knows he has no real injury there, but cannot describe the sensation any other way. When he looks at Feng Xin laid across the inn’s white sheets, it feels like poking at the bruise across his heart.
He shakes himself, moving back to the space between Feng Xin’s strong thighs. He’s been cradled by these thighs before, felt the strength of them around him. Now, he nudges Feng Xin’s legs aside and reaches for what he’s truly after.
He barely nudges at Feng Xin’s hole when Feng Xin startles, the muscles of his ass clenching in response instinctively.
“Relax,” Mu Qing hisses. It’s more annoyance than coaxing.
Feng Xin clenches his fists, as though he can draw the tension upwards into his arms and away from his lower half. His cock lies limp against his thigh, still reddened and not yet down for the count.
When Mu Qing presses into him again, he manages to relax enough that Mu Qing can fit two fingers inside of him. Mu Qing has never taken him this way, and Jian Lan certainly couldn’t have. This is, for all intents and purposes, uncharted territory.
“Have you ever wondered,” Mu Qing asks, as he presses inside of Feng Xin, “What it feels like when someone is inside of you?”
Feng Xin bites his lip, shakes his head. “I’m usually— ah— distracted, by that point.”
Mu Qing huffs. “Maybe you should think about it more. Instead of pulling someone into your rhythm, you’re left at their mercy as they carry you into theirs. They are all around you, and inside you, and you can’t focus on anything but them.”
Feng Xin throws his head to the side against the pillow, as though trying to hide his face. But in profile, he opens one eye a slit to look at Mu Qing, as though he can’t bear to look away even as he can’t bear to keep watching.
Catching the gleam of amber lamp-light against Feng Xin’s face, Mu Qing is struck by the sudden urge to kiss him. So he does, biting at Feng Xin’s lips and resting one hand against his cheek. He has the soft lines of stubble coming in. He never had to shave, during the war of Xian Le. And since godhood, Mu Qing has never seen him do so. For some reason, this detail, so mundane and intimate, annoys him.
“Are you ready?” Mu Qing asks tersely, retaking his position between Feng Xin’s legs.
Feng Xin nods, single visible eye wide.
Mu Qing bends one of Feng Xin’s legs over his shoulder as he eases himself forward. His cock, which has been hard since he sucked Feng Xin off, nevertheless goes easily inside Feng Xin’s entrance. It isn’t a perfect fit, and Mu Qing has to move his hips into order to press as deeply as he wants to. When he finally bottoms out, his breath escapes him in a satisfied sigh.
He looks up and sees Feng Xin staring down at him, breathing through his nose. Mu Qing blinks at him.
“Move,” Feng Xin says, more of a plea than an order. “Mu Qing, move—”
Mu Qing works his hips experimentally, assessing his leverage and thrusting as hard as he can once he steadies himself. He can feel Feng Xin’s muscles contracting around him, his body unsure of what to do with this intrusion.
It feels better than hand or mouth on his cock, that is certain. Inside of Feng Xin is— overwhelming. Even as he pulls back, he feels Feng Xin’s body trying to pull him back in. And so he goes with a rhythm that Feng Xin’s body encourages— back in one long stroke, forward in two shorter ones.
Feng Xin lets out small, gasping breaths in the same pattern— one long inhale, then two short exhales. His face is furiously red, his mouth opening without forming any real words. His hands are clenched into the sheets, the white of his knuckles revealing the tension of his body.
Mu Qing should be focused on nothing but his own pleasure— and the build up of it is exquisite, the pressure on his cock almost maddening— but he can’t stop looking back at Feng Xin’s face.
“Has anything made you feel like this, before?” Mu Qing asks, giving voice to his thoughts before he can stop himself.
Feng Xin bites his lip and shakes his head, mussing his already messy hair against the pillow. Mu Qing wants to touch that hair, and so he does, fisting it in one hand as he bends over Feng Xin to drive himself in deeper, deeper, deeper.
Feng Xin startles as though struck, his mouth hanging open and his breath as labored as a dog’s. “That—” he stutters, “Again. Please.”
Mu Qing isn’t precisely sure what he’d done, but he thrusts as deeply as he can, again.
Feng Xin shudders around him, his inner muscles going impossibly tight, his eyes rolling back. “Ah— ah, ah—”
“Look at me,” Mu Qing orders with a tug on his hair. He can’t say why that is so important, at this moment. “Nan Yang, look at me or I’ll stop.”
Feng Xin’s eyes snap open, all color in them lost to the blackness of his pupils. Mu Qing can see his own reflection in Feng Xin’s eyes, they’re so close— his dark hair loose around him, his face tight with exertion, the sweat dotting his neck and shoulders and chest, Feng Xin’s leg thrown over his shoulder. They are pressed together in a messy tangle, inextricably bound.
“It’s always been like this,” Mu Qing mutters, pounding back in. “You’ve always been— wherever I go— it’s always you, there. Even when we lost Xie Lian, even when everyone else who knew our land faded away— you were always there.”
He punctuates the statement with a particularly hard thrust, and Feng Xin throws back his head and lets out a guttural moan.
“Dian— Dianxia,” Feng Xin forces out.
Mu Qing freezes. Is Feng Xin calling out for someone else when Mu Qing is as deep inside of him as anyone can be? Is he really calling out for Xie Lian?
The rage that pounds through him is palpable, like his blood has been set to boiling. He yanks Feng Xin forward by his hair, but Feng Xin just blinks at him, frowning.
“Don’t call him— Xie Lian,” Feng Xin grits out. “Disrespectful little shit.”
Mu Qing blinks, the rage receding to a comfortable anger. He bites at Feng Xin’s lips and thrusts into him, and Feng Xin’s body arches in response.
“If you’re so concerned with titles, give my name the same respect,” Mu Qing demands. He stops moving, halfway inside of Feng Xin.
Feng Xin frowns at him. “What?” When he notices Mu Qing isn’t moving, he tries to push himself forward to take his cock back inside. “Mu Qing— move— Mu Qing—”
“Who?” Mu Qing demands darkly. Feng Xin should know him by all of his names. After all, they both know that it isn’t Xie Lian they’ve been beside for eight hundred years. And perhaps they are both at fault for that, but now that they have their Crown Prince back, can’t they be honest with themselves and each other? “Who is it who’s inside of you, Nan Yang?”
Feng Xin lets out a hiccupping, stuttering breath. His dark eyes struggle to refocus, his hands reaching for Mu Qing. “I need you to move,” he says desperately.
“Tell me who you want inside of you, and I will,” Mu Qing says, voice going dark and soft in a way he’s never heard himself sound, before. His own control is a fraying string, the need to be as deep as he can inside of Feng Xin’s inviting warmth almost too much to bear.
“X-Xuan Zhen,” Feng Xin mutters, reaching up and pulling Mu Qing into a messy kiss. “Xuan Zhen, Xuan Zhen, fuck me, Xuan Zhen Jiangjun.”
It’s like a supplication from a worshipper, not a taunt from a rival. Mu Qing’s body moves before he expressly wills it too, his hips thrusting in as Feng Xin continues to kiss him and murmurs against his lips.
Feng Xin’s hard again, his cock pressed between their chests as the two of them tangle even further. Mu Qing pays it no attention, just sucks on Feng Xin’s tongue as he drives himself in deep.
His hands drift from Feng Xin’s hair to his shoulders, and he uses his grip for more leverage. Feng Xin is shuddering beneath him, his toes curling in pleasure.
“Xuan Zhen,” he moans, “Xuan— Mu Qing, please.”
His climax comes like the most skilled sword strike— it happens, and only a moment later does Mu Qing realize it. His pleasure crashes over him like a wave, and his cock throbs inside of Feng Xin before releasing, and then he’s panting against Feng Xin’s chest.
Feng Xin’s heel digs into his back, and he chokes out, “Mu Qing— I need—”
Mu Qing can feel Feng Xin’s cock, hard where it’s pressed between them. He reaches down, too winded to do much other than pump Feng Xin into frantic completion. His come lands across Mu Qing’s hand and abdomen.
Feng Xin falls back, staring up at the ceiling. Mu Qing is boneless against him, drawing idle circles against Feng Xin’s strong arms. Feng Xin’s chest heaves, and it feels like being a ship rocked on the ocean. Mu Qing waits for Feng Xin’s breathing to even out. But it doesn’t.
He pushes himself up on his arms, looking down at Feng Xin’s expression. His eyes are dark and deep, almost unseeing. His face is still flushed that beautiful red, his heart almost visible against his chest with how frantically it’s beating.
Mu Qing presses one hand against Feng Xin’s chest, feels the drum of his heart. “Feng Xin?”
Feng Xin curls in on himself, bringing his arms up over his face. Mu Qing has never seen him in such a prone position— not on battlefields against thousands of soldiers, not even when he’s fighting Mu Qing himself.
Annoyed, Mu Qing grabs at Feng Xin’s wrists and pulls his arms back. “Feng Xin!”
Feng Xin looks at him vacantly, his eyes red-rimmed. There is dampness held in his eyes, like raindrops pressed against a window.
An ugly feeling curls in the bottom of Mu Qing’s stomach. “What’s wrong?”
Feng Xin would’ve said if he couldn’t take it, right? Mu Qing’s length is no Ju Yang, but it’s nothing to scoff at. Feng Xin would’ve stopped him, wouldn’t he, if he couldn’t take it? Compared to what they’ve been through today, this couldn’t be what finally undid Feng Xin.
Feng Xin shakes his head, curling up further. He tries to cover his face, but Mu Qing holds tightly to his wrists.
He shakes Feng Xin. “Are you hurt?”
Feng Xin shakes his head.
“Tell me!”
Feng Xin shakes in his hold, the tears leaking out of the corners of his eyes. “I—” he startles to say, then shakes his head. “You—”
“Me what,” Mu Qing demands. His annoyance has taken on a familiar but unwelcome tenor— fear.
Feng Xin takes in a gasping breath, visibly trying to collect himself. “You never let me stay, after we fuck.”
Mu Qing winces at the reminder. In the past, he’s either returned to his own palace, or kicked Feng Xin out of it. No one had ever guessed at what they were doing, bruises and bites as likely trophies of battle as of sex.
“So?” Mu Qing asks. What does that have to do with anything, now?
Feng Xin sits up suddenly, wrenching his wrists out of Mu Qing’s hold and wrapping his arms around Mu Qing’s waist. His grip is crushing, nothing like a tender embrace even as he presses his cheek against the hollow of Mu Qing’s throat.
“What is it?” Mu Qing wants to know. “If you’re going to reveal that you’re another calamity, or that you’re hiding human face disease somewhere, I don’t want to hear it—”
Feng Xin shakes his head, and Mu Qing feels the movement against his skin. Feng Xin takes long, labored breaths as he holds onto Mu Qing tightly.
Mu Qing doesn’t know what to do, but somehow his fingers find their way to the crown of Feng Xin’s hair, and begin stroking through the tangled strands. He scratches against Feng Xin’s scalp. Feng Xin’s presence is warm— no, it’s overheated, his breath like the heat of a fire against Mu Qing’s skin.
“The great Nan Yang, undone by sex,” Mu Qing muses, stroking down Feng Xin’s head to the base of his neck. But Feng Xin really is too warm, so Mu Qing pulls away from him to go to the basin and wet a cloth.
He does not expect the heartbreaking sound that Feng Xin makes, reaching after him before letting his hands fall limply to his sides.
“You’re filthy,” Mu Qing says, honestly baffled. Standing next to the bed, he watches as Feng Xin curls up and stares out at him with vacant eyes. “I’m just going to clean you up,” he says, not sure why he has to explain.
He retrieves the cloth, wiping off his own hands and stomach and then stepping back to the bed. Feng Xin lies in a nearly fetal position, looking so vulnerable that it makes Mu Qing’s heart ache.
For an instant, a memory flashes before him. He’s knocking Feng Xin out, watching his body crumple to the floor. Mu Qing bites down hard on the inside of his cheek, pushing the image away. It doesn’t matter anymore. Like Feng Xin said, they’re both alive.
Feng Xin rolls over without complaint when Mu Qing nudges him, his limbs loose. Mu Qing is used to seeing Feng Xin tense— ready to shoot an arrow, throw a punch. Right now, Mu Qing could roll him down a mountain without any protest.
Mu Qing feels as though he’s been shot, as though Feng Xin has aimed an arrow at that tender place in his chest. He could kill Feng Xin, right now. The other general is in no position to stop him.
He reaches out and rests a hand against Feng Xin’s throat. Feng Xin opens glassy eyes and looks at him, waiting. Mu Qing imagines himself strangling Feng Xin, as he’s wanted to do so many times— as he has done, at least part way. But instead of following that pattern, he brushes his hand up against Feng Xin’s cheek.
Feng Xin lets out a content sigh and nuzzles against Mu Qing’s palm. Mu Qing pulls back as though burned, and Feng Xin lets out another of those heart-striking whines.
How can he possibly still want Mu Qing near him? Just a day ago, Mu Qing had apparently left him for dead. And thought they’ve cleared things up since, how has Feng Xin come to trust Mu Qing this way? He’s never trusted Mu Qing. He’s always been suspicious of him, always found fault in him.
And yet, now Feng Xin is lying across the bed they’re to share, and he is letting Mu Qing do whatever he wants with him. He hasn’t gathered his things and fled, like Mu Qing has done so often after a fuck.
It really is foolish. And yet, Mu Qing can’t fault Feng Xin for this. He almost wishes he had the same courage, to trust someone else with this vulnerability.
Gingerly, as though approaching a wild dog, Mu Qing extends his hand. When his fingertips brush against Feng Xin’s temple, Feng Xin sighs and leans into the contact.
Contact? Is that what he wants? For Mu Qing to touch him?
Mu Qing knows the terrible aching loneliness that can come after sex, the desire for warmth and touch and the reminder of skin against skin. He’s never let himself indulge it— because it’s always been Feng Xin, who absolutely cannot see him in that state. And perhaps it’s easier for him, who grew up denying himself those pleasures. It’s easier to push the longing away.
But Feng Xin is utterly undone by it. Mu Qing doesn’t quite know what to do with this knowledge— he never plans to sleep with Feng Xin, again. But they do always circle back to each other. And right now, Feng Xin is lying across the bed they are meant to share, reaching for him.
Mu Qing lies down, pulling Feng Xin towards him. Feng Xin goes willingly, resting his head against Mu Qing’s chest. It’s not a trial, really, for Mu Qing to stroke along Feng Xin’s shoulders and back. In the heat of sex, he loves the lines of muscle he fings there, mapping them like an explorer. Now, he feels more like an old man rediscovering the places of his youth. His fingers know where to go as he navigates Feng Xin’s shoulders and back, coming to rest at the dip just before his ass.
Feng Xin shudders and nudges in closer, his breathing a comfortable, steady heat against Mu Qing’s skin. He wraps his arms around Mu Qing’s waist, and holds on like Mu Qing is the only solid thing in the universe.
“Bai Wuxiang,” Feng Xin murmurs, tongue thick in his mouth, “Or Jun Wu, whichever. He could’ve— he would’ve killed us. Like it was nothing.”
Mu Qing stops petting Feng Xin’s back, his hands freezing in place. “I know,” he says, finally.
Feng Xin’s grip on Mu Qing grows tighter. “You’re not dead, though.”
It’s such a stupid thing to say. Of course, Mu Qing isn’t dead. How could he have just fucked Feng Xin, if he was?
“No matter what, you’re always still here,” Feng Xin mumbles.
The dark feeling in Mu Qing’s gut twists painfully. That’s not quite true, is it? He’d been the first to leave Xie Lian, all those centuries ago. He’d thought in the right decision. But Feng Xin— Feng Xin hadn’t left until he was forced to. He’s loyal like a dog, in a simple and generally stupid way.
And again, Mu Qing had left them both, because he had to. And Xie Lian had still reached out to him. Feng Xin had still pulled both of them up and out of the lava. No matter what he does, how obscure his motives, these fools won’t leave him be.
For all that he curses Mu Qing’s name, Feng Xin has never left him alone.
“You shouldn’t find that reassuring,” Mu Qing tells him.
Feng Xin hums, rubbing his stubbly cheeks against Mu Qing’s skin. The burn of it feels good, somehow. “Don’t care.”
What they are to each other defies all categorization. Perhaps others look down on them— they could’ve had an eight hundred year friendship, a bond of sworn brotherhood that survived disaster and godhood. Instead, they were only ever known in opposition of each other, Xie Lian the only one who’s ever been able to bridge the gap.
Mu Qing doesn’t know if he could’ve forgiven Feng Xin, if their positions had been reversed. He doesn’t know that he would’ve wanted to. But despite how much they hate each other, Feng Xin has never walked away from him. He has that damned, dogged loyalty.
“We’ve survived this long together,” Mu Qing says with a long-suffering sigh.
Feng Xin looks up at him, breathes out with a foolish smile playing on his lips. “Yeah,” he says, looking reassured. “We survived.”
Mu Qing’s eyes feel scratchy. He ducks his face down and brushes his lips against Feng Xin’s brow, then each of his cheeks, and finally his lips. Feng Xin sighs against him, holding on impossibly tighter.
“I’m not going anywhere,” Mu Qing mutters, embarrassed.
“I don’t want to wake up alone,” Feng Xin says back, his voice wistful and longing. “I don’t— I don’t care about anything else, anymore. I’m tired of being alone.”
If two people are walking the same path, but never reach out to take each other’s hands, are they both still walking alone?
Mu Qing tangles his legs with Feng Xin’s, letting the warmth of their bodies blend together. No one who saw them now could say that either of them are alone. Mu Qing hasn’t been this close to anyone without fighting or fucking them in so long, perhaps ever. It feels as though his very essence is bleeding into Feng Xin’s, becoming irrevocably intertwined.
Feng Xin’s breath is a soft constant against his skin, and Mu Qing can feel is heartbeat in his chest, as though rising up to meet this proof of Feng Xin’s life, his presence beside Mu Qing.
Feng Xin rests his head against Mu Qing’s chest, and Mu Qing lets Feng Xin cling to him like a child as they fall asleep. Their bruises and injuries and the stretch and strain of sex all blend together into one dull ache across their bodies. Mu Qing thinks they might both be a single bruise— a relationship so full that it has taken tangible form.
As he drifts to sleep, Mu Qing wonders if Xie Lian feels the opposite, having seen Crimson Rain Sought Flower disappear before him. Where Xie Lian knows only absence, Mu Qing is overwhelmed by the presence of Feng Xin in his arms.
“We survived,” Mu Qing sighs, eyes shut. And in the morning, they wouldn’t need to cling to each other to remind themselves of that fact.
Mu Qing awakens as the birds begin to sing outside, the sunlight bursting through the inn’s thin curtains. He hisses as a sharp shard of light catches his eye as soon as he opens it, as he shifts beneath the heavy weight of the body laid across his own.
Feng Xin is fast asleep, his breathing even. Mu Qing gently pushes Feng Xin’s hair back from his face, seeing the dark brush of his lashes against his cheeks, the barest shadow of hair on his face that he’ll be rid of as soon as he wakes and readies for the day.
Mu Qing squirms out from underneath Feng Xin, getting to his feet as the chill morning air tickles across his bare skin. His cock is hard— a discomfort that godhood doesn’t save him from. He glances back at Feng Xin’s naked form, and frowns at himself.
What is he imagining? Sure, Xie Lian is back in their lives, perhaps in a permanent way. They’ll have to look after him now that Crimson Rain Sought Flower is gone, in any case. But what does that mean for him and Feng Xin? They’ve never been friends. Their truces are only for Xie Lian’s sake.
He reaches for one of the robes they’d shed last night, draping the dark fabric over his shoulders. He’s overcome with the smell of it, the lingering iron tang of blood, but also an earthy smell beneath it. He sighs, pulling the fabric up to his face to inhale more deeply.
At the same time, he hears a grumbling from the bed.
“Mu Qing.” And then, with a put-on air of nobility, “Xuan Zhen Jiangjun, where the fuck do you think you’re going?”
Mu Qing turns to see Feng Xin sitting up, staring at him with an openly hostile glare.
“Why is it any of your business?”
Feng Xin’s lip curls, but there’s humor, not anger, in the glint of his eyes. “I told you— if you’re going to fuck me, I want you to stay.”
Mu Qing’s cheeks color at the reminder, his cock suddenly very interested in the prospect of fucking Feng Xin again. Or perhaps of being fucked by him, in new and different ways.
“You wanted someone warm beside you,” Mu Qing mutters. “Don’t pretend that you wanted me.”
Feng Xin blinks at him, his expression growing more alert. He gets up from the bed, the sheets falling away to reveal his own nakedness. Under the new sunlight, his skin shines like polished bronze.
“Don’t tell me what I want,” he snaps. “Out of us, who’s the one who can’t speak his mind, hah? Because it sure as shit isn’t me.”
Mu Qing imagines his face has gone straight past red and is now the color of a plum. “What else is there?” Mu Qing scoffs. “We fuck, and then we fight, and then we do it again. What’s so different, now?”
“I wanted you to stay, and you did!” Feng Xin roars. Surely, all the other gods in this forsaken place have heard. “With Jian Lan, I could never stay, because I had to get back to Dianxia. And both of them— they decided they didn’t want me, for a time or forever! But you— you never push me away, do you? Not when it really matters!”
Mu Qing takes a step back, the force of Feng Xin’s words worse than any physical blow. He thought— he thought that—
“You want me,” he says flatly.
Feng Xin rests his hands on his hips. “It’s the crack of motherfucking dawn, Mu Qing,” he says tiredly. “All I want is to go back to bed, with you. Not with any warm body, not with any other god. Fuck. I was trying to say all of this last night.”
Mu Qing marches forward, takes Feng Xin’s face in his hands. “You mean that,” he says, searching Feng Xin’s expression for any sign of deceit.
“I don’t expect you to say anything back,” Feng Xin huffs. “I’ll be waiting another thousand years for you to admit we’re friends, let alone respond if I tell you I love you—”
He can’t hear that. So he does the only thing he can think of, and smashes his mouth against Feng Xin’s. Feng Xin seems amenable to this compromise, kissing Mu Qing within an inch of his life.
They fall back onto the bed, tangled up in each other. Their arousal is no urgent thing, their lives no longer hanging in the balance of a thousand year game of stakes too high to name.
No, for this morning, it is merely Feng Xin, Mu Qing, and the sunlight that shines down on their bodies.
Where they press together, Mu Qing feels as tender as a bruise. But it is the sort of ache that comes with triumph. Perhaps if Mu Qing had studied archery as well as Feng Xin, he would’ve seen the arrow that pierced him from behind and lodged itself in his heart. As it is, he can only live with, and continue searching for its name.
Love, Feng Xin had said. How stupid.
How could a single world capture all that is between them?