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“Mu Qing!” Feng Xin yells through Xuan Zhen palace’s stupid gilded golden doors. “Let me the fuck in!”
He tries to barge inside, but like the previous ten times he’d tried, an array that definitely hadn’t been there this morning meets his shoulder and pushes him back with twice the force. Feng Xin grits his teeth. Mu Qing is a petty fucking bastard.
“It’s not like I want you to invite me in for tea and a civil conversation!” Feng Xin shouts. Already, a small crowd of heavenly officials have gathered in the streets to watch his unfruitful efforts at breaking into Mu Qing’s palace. Let them. He absolutely refuses to back down. “I left something that I need, so can you just—”
The doors are wrenched open, giving him a glimpse of a long ponytail and furious dark eyes, before Feng Xin’s bow comes sailing out in a straight trajectory for his face. Unfortunately for Mu Qing (and fortunately for Feng Xin’s pride), he’s not the Martial God of the Southeast for nothing, and he catches it with ease.
Mu Qing is already turning away, and, fuck, Feng Xin is not finished yet. “An explanation for earlier would also be nice,” he shouts as the stupid bastard turns to slam the doors again. “Hey—hasn’t anyone ever taught you to listen when others are talking? God fucking damnit!”
“You are a god, you moron,” Mu Qing hisses back, before spinning on his heels and sealing off his glittering palace to the rest of the world (Feng Xin).
Feng Xin stands there for a minute, cursing at the door. He shouldn’t be so worked up about this—hasn’t really gotten into a fight this vicious with Mu Qing in months—but this time he genuinely has no fucking clue what had happened between them and it’s pissing him off to be kept in the dark. Only an hour ago, they’d been sparring in Mu Qing’s training room—practically amicably, by their standards. The two of them had recently taken to fighting in one of their palaces as heaven had already been destroyed once, and the idea of any collateral damage actually being one of theirs to deal with tended to put a damper in the destructive spirit. Besides, ever since Mu Qing’s confession at Mount Tonglu, Feng Xin found it difficult to summon up any true anger toward him. If anything, his thoughts nowadays veered more towards...
Feng Xing shifts on the palace steps, recalling the feel of Mu Qing’s slim frame under his body, the warm skin of his wrists as Feng Xin had pinned him down after both their weapons had gone flying. The way Mu Qing had, instead of fighting dirty and flipping their positions as he had in the past, fallen still and quit struggling. Feng Xin remembers the look in his eyes; surprise mixed with a sudden heat that wasn’t quite anger. A silence broken only by the sound of Mu Qing’s shallow breathing as Feng Xin for some godforsaken reason leaned down, and then…
And then Mu Qing’s expression had shuttered as he shoved a disconcerted Feng Xin away. Once on his feet, he’d kicked Feng Xin out of his palace with the sharp end of his saber and even sharper words. They’d fought in earnest for the first time in weeks, and for no discernable reason at all. It wasn’t till Feng Xin had returned home that he realized his bow was lying forgotten on the floor of the training room.
With it back in his hands, he’s still not satisfied. He could stay here all day—wait for Mu Qing to open the doors and demand an explanation. But his rival is petty as fuck and Feng Xin doesn’t want to give him the satisfaction of thinking he cares enough to stand on his doorstep for hours, even if he does. So he scrubs exhaustedly at his face before turning to leave. Most of the watching officials have the sense to scatter as he descends to street level, with one curly-haired exception.
“Why is Xuan Zhen hiding?” Quan Yizhen asks brazenly.
If he heard you accuse him of hiding… “It’s none of your business.”
“You always fight with Xuan Zhen,” Quan Yizhen says, undeterred. Feng Xin generally tries to be patient with younger heavenly officials, but he is not fucking in the mood for this right now. “He’s never drawn an array to keep you out.”
Feng Xin glares at him, but the prying god just stares until he’s forced to make something up. “This time I walked in on him throwing a tantrum over losing to me for the fifth time in a row. It’s not my fault his skills are rusty.”
Serves Mu Qing right, Feng Xin thinks angrily as he storms off toward his own palace. He hopes his rival is drowning in whispers by morning.
-
It doesn’t take Mu Qing long to strike back.
“Oh, Feng Xin is fine,” Mu Qing is saying over the Upper Court’s spiritual communication array the next day when Feng Xin pops in, his voice deceptively sweet. “I handled the Malice that knocked him down on our last mission, and generously carried him and his bow back.”
Feng Xin grits his teeth against the murmurs of So that’s why Xuan Zhen had Nan Yang’s bow, and Beaten by a Malice? How humiliating—no wonder he stormed Xuan Zhen’s palace. He clears his throat, and the Upper Court falls silent. Amber eyes meet scorning charcoal.
This is war.
-
“One of General Xuan Zhen’s deputy officials told me that the general is researching alternative cultivation methods,” Nan Feng says conspiratorially to the small group of Middle Court gods he has managed to infiltrate. “Odd, right?”
“General Xuan Zhen follows that old cultivation method from Taicang mountain, no?” one of the deputy gods says. “The same as the Crown Prince of Xianle?”
“Yeah, but I heard he’s been breaking his vows,” another one says, wiggling an eyebrow, and Nan Feng suffers a minor coughing fit. He does not need to think about what His Highness and Crimson Rain Sought Flower get up to behind closed doors.
“Maybe General Xuan Zhen doesn’t want to lose any spiritual power. But wait, does that mean he’s thinking of breaking his vows?”
“With who?”
“Well, I’m sure there’s no lack of interested parties…”
“Hah, maybe it’s as General Pei says, and General Xuan Zhen’s fights with General Nan Yang are really just foreplay.”
Nan Feng’s coughing fit intensifies into choking. The Middle Court officials look at him with concern.
“Are you alright?”
“Completely fine! So fine!” he says with about as much sincerity as Crimson Rain. “Look, I’m sure there’ll be rumors by tomorrow, but can you keep it to yourselves that I was the one who told you?”
The deputy gods give him vigorous assurances. Despite the intrusive thoughts of Mu Qing, disheveled from fighting and pinned underneath him plaguing his head, Nan Feng walks away feeling victorious.
-
The feeling doesn’t last.
Feng Xin... is exhausted. The past two weeks have introduced more rumors about Generals Xuan Zhen and Nan Yang into heaven than the past five centuries combined. He knows this method of warfare is petty and honestly unbefitting of either of them, but as long as Mu Qing fights back he refuses to lose. Currently, he’s walking down the street between Xuan Zhen palace and his own, keeping an ear out for today’s rumor.
“Have you heard?” he hears one of Mu Qing’s junior officials telling one of his own. “As the God of Lust, General Nan Yang has to answer prayers locked away in private, because they have embarrassing secondary effects on him like intense arou--”
“Shhhh,” his own junior official hisses, jabbing his friend in the rib. He’s clearly spotted Feng Xin. “Don’t speak of my general like that.”
But as Feng Xin passes, he hears the junior official lean in and ask, “what else did you hear?”
Traitor, Feng Xin thinks, wanting to roll his eyes (but like hell he’ll allow himself to pick up that habit). Seriously, are all of his and Mu Qing’s officials this friendly? If so, he clearly needs to vet his recruits better.
“Well, there is a rumor that General Nan Yang has had almost as many lovers as General Ming Guang in his career as a Lust God, and a second secret ghost child…”
Thus, as he sits at his office that evening sorting through prayers, and the third official in a row gives him a strange look while delivering more paperwork—clearly wondering if he’s experiencing secondary effects—Feng Xin decides to make Mu Qing pay. “Wait a moment,” he says, and the official obediently stops in his tracks, looking back at Feng Xin. “Please let everyone know that the rumors are completely untrue. Also, that Mu—General Xuan Zhen should be more direct with his feelings. If he’s that jealous, he can let me know himself.”
The official eyes light up, catching Feng Xin’s drift, and he nods vigorously before heading out to ruin Mu Qing’s life. Good. Feng Xin leans back in his chair and wonders how Mu Qing will retaliate for this one.
If only the knowledge that he will be furious gave Feng Xin any satisfaction.
-
Against all expectations, the retaliation does not come the next day. It does not even come within the next week—not even after a particularly dull meeting in the Great Martial Hall that most officials entertain themselves through by a combination of spacing out and shooting conspiratorial glances at Mu Qing. Mu Qing, as Feng Xin predicted, is angry as fuck. To the untrained eye, he is elegant and controlled as always, but Feng Xin has an archer’s attention to detail (and has been looking at Mu Qing for centuries). There is a tension crackling through his body, and his eyes keep twitching as if he wants to roll them every time he receives another look but is restraining himself determinedly.
It would have been satisfying to have gotten to him like this if Feng Xin actually wanted to be the cause of Mu Qing’s irritation anymore. When had that even changed? Maybe along with their tentative friendship—with the exchange of their hostile run-ins for planned spars, harsh blows for casual touches, scathing words for teasing remarks.
Being friends with Mu Qing was… it was nice. Mu Qing had been nice, by his standards. Funny, with that dry humor that took time to get used to, and pretty to look at (Feng Xin could admit that; he’d thought it for centuries). He remembers the rumor he’d spread, tries and fails not to imagine it being true. Mu Qing, pining after him. A fucking ridiculous thought. For some reason, knowing that hurts.
The meeting ends after what feels like a century. Feng Xin expects Mu Qing to confront him, or at least shoot him an angry glare. Mu Qing does neither. In fact, he does not look at Feng Xin once before sweeping coolly out of the Great Martial Hall.
That’s abnormal. Mu Qing has never been shy about letting Feng Xin feel the force of his anger. So maybe he’s not mad at Feng Xin. Maybe he hasn’t even heard the rumor, and is throwing a fit over an ugly statue of him in the mortal plane or something as petty.
Whatever. Feng Xin has other things to do than to make wild guesses about what the hell is going through his rival’s twisted head. So he goes back to work, pretending Mu Qing won’t stay on his mind.
-
The next week, Feng Xin is forced to head to Xuan Zhen palace to bring over paperwork that has been incorrectly assigned to him. This happens sometimes; the two of them share a border, and cases shift or are subjective in the first place. It’s not a big deal, and he usually passes over the work to a Xuan Zhen official if Mu Qing is busy or if they’re fighting.
Unfortunately, the first junior official he finds is accompanied by Mu Qing himself. A very angry Mu Qing, who has the official by the collar, his other hand on the hilt of his saber. Despite himself, Feng Xin finds his eyes drawn to the attractive flush on his rival’s pale face.
“I’m not going to ask you again,” Mu Qing hisses. He looks furious, brows furrowed, whole body tense. “Who told him? If it was you--”
Then he spots Feng Xin, and tosses the junior official aside like he’s been burned.
“Hello?” Feng Xin tries. They can both hear the ‘what the fuck are you doing’ that goes unsaid.
“What are you doing here?” Mu Qing says. The flush is still there, and if anything, is growing worse as he stares, eyes narrowed, at Feng Xin.
“Dropping off paperwork.” He moves over to Mu Qing and dumps the pile unceremoniously in his arms. “Though you seem busy threatening your staff.”
“I see. Well, please see yourself out, General Nan Yang,” Mu Qing says coldly, managing to sound incredibly disdainful despite the armful of paper and the red coloring his face. And he turns away, and walks off.
Feng Xin stares. Mu Qing never calls him by his title, nor does he miss any opportunity to insult him. “What the fuck? You, junior official, what was that about?”
But the deputy god scrambles to his feet and rushes off.
-
“What the fuck is his problem,” Feng Xin mutters under his breath as yet another meeting passes without his existence so much as being acknowledged by Mu Qing.
Pei Ming raises a brow. “Well, if you haven’t figured it out yet, who am I to tell you?”
Feng Xin glares at him, remembering the rumor he had apparently been spreading to the Middle Court about the Martial Gods of the South. “If you know, why don’t you actually try making yourself useful? Or is the only time you know how to do that when you’re with a new woman?”
“You wound me, shidi. If you want useful, maybe you should take a leaf out of my book and try basic communication,” Pei Ming says sagely, like he’s dropping fucking pearls of wisdom. “Moping around waiting for our pretty boy over there to enlighten you will get you nowhere.”
“If he heard you call him that,” Feng Xin snorts, “he’d fucking choke you.”
“Hm. Wouldn’t be the worst thing… in certain circumstances.” Pei Ming’s eyes rake up Mu Qing’s form. He seems to notice, and turns to give Pei Ming a freezing glare from across the hall. Pei Ming winks at him as the meeting ends, and Feng Xin decides to get the fuck out of there before he can be accused of being a bystander in murder.
It has nothing to do with the thought of Pei Ming sleeping with Mu Qing, because Mu Qing would never break 800 year-long vows for Pei Ming. If Feng Xin feels something in his gut wrench at the thought that he might—at the thought of pale skin and silky hair beneath Pei Ming’s no doubt experienced hands—it’s because he finds the idea of Mu Qing in a sexual situation so repulsive. Naturally.
Fuck. Even Feng Xin knows he’s lying to himself.
-
Two more weeks pass, and though the whispers of General Xuan Zhen is secretly in love with General Nan Yang! have not quieted, there is still no retaliation. Feng Xin should be happy that he won.
Instead, he is pissed off. Does the idea that people think Mu Qing loves Feng Xin disgust the stupid bastard so much that he can no longer so much as look at him?
As two weeks slip into a month, then two, Feng Xin is also forced to confront the disturbing realization that he misses fighting with Mu Qing. Heaven is unbelievably boring without the presence of someone throwing insults and sabers at him. He dutifully answers prayers and descends to deal with the occasional resentful spirit, but his mind never leaves Mu Qing.
Who does he think he fucking is? Feng Xin has ignored him before, but only for the first century or so after he ascended, when Xie Lian’s fall from grace was still a festering wound. And after Mu Qing’s admittance that he’d only ever wanted to be His Highness’s f-f-friend, Feng Xin had thought that they had gotten over hating each other (really, he hadn’t hated Mu Qing in centuries, though he could see now that the sentiment clearly hadn’t gone the other way).
“You and Mu Qing are fighting again?” Xie Lian asks sympathetically as Feng Xin spaces out angrily for the fifth time. Hua Cheng, propped up on a chair in the corner, gives Feng Xin a threatening smile as if to say pay attention when he’s talking.
“We can’t be fighting if he pretends I don’t exist,” Feng Xin says bitterly. “But how did you guess?”
“I’ve known you two for eight hundred years. Nobody gets to you like this but him,” Xie Lian says. He sighs. “Listen, these past months haven’t been easy on Mu Qing. He and I have talked—”
“He came here?” Feng Xin says, spluttering on his tea. “To talk?”
“Yes,” Xie Lian says. “He wanted to know if I had any idea how you found out.”
“Found out what?” Feng Xin asks suspiciously.
“Found out that he has embarrassing feelings for—” Hua Cheng begins lazily, but Xie Lian cuts him off with an apologetic look.
“Do you… really not know?” he asks, searching Feng Xin’s face with kind golden eyes.
“Know what?” Feng Xin demands, then remembers himself. “Your Highness.”
Xie Lian waves his hand at Feng Xin’s formality. “There’s no need to call me that. So, the rumor was just a rumor?”
The rumor? “Of course it was! He’d spread one about me the day before and I was getting him back.” Feng Xin snorted. “You think Mu Qing would actually feel that way about me?”
Xie Lian just looked at him faintly, the sound of Hua Cheng laughing in the corner really fucking grating on Feng Xin’s nerves. “Feng Xin, you… you should really talk to him.”
“He doesn’t want to talk; I don’t know what goes on in his twisted mind, but I’m not going to force him.”
“Both of you need to relax,” Xie Lian says gently. “How about you stay for dinner, and—”
Feng Xin shoots to his feet. “I just remembered, I have an important meeting! I apologize, Your Highness, but I can’t stay.”
But when he returns to the Heavens and passes Mu Qing on the way back to his palace without his call being so much as acknowledged, he almost wishes he’d chosen to brave His Highness’s cooking instead.
-
An opportunity finally comes the following week when Ling Wen hands him his next mission. In the past, Feng Xin would have been annoyed at the prospect of more time with Mu Qing—who is infuriating whenever they’re paired together, always telling Feng Xin he’s doing everything wrong, fucking up the mission in some way or other—but now Mu Qing will have to talk to him. Even better, the details on the scroll indicate he’s being called along more because the territory lies on the border between the Southwest and Southeast than because it’s a particularly deadly spirit. There’ll be plenty of down time to force Mu Qing to tell him exactly what his problem is.
Ling Wen’s brows dip down as she studies his face. “I thought you’d be more opposed to being paired up with General Xuan Zhen.”
“No, it’s fine,” Feng Xin assures her. “Actually, it’s perfect.”
“I see,” Ling Wen says, expression morphing into understanding. “I’m sure more joint missions can be arranged, provided you don’t let, ah, feelings get in the way of completing your work.”
“I—” Feng Xin frowns, then comprehends. “Wait, that’s not what I meant. Mu Qing and I—it’s not like that!”
He hates the light amusement that tinkles in her voice. “Of course it isn’t, General Nan Yang. In any case, you should find General Xuan Zhen.”
-
It is really fucking not like that, Feng Xin reflects several hours later. If Mu Qing hated him before, he despises him now.
“Watch where you’re sticking your arrows, Ju Yang,” Mu Qing snarls as one goes flying over his shoulder to embed itself in the head of a base slave. Feng Xin sidesteps a second, drawing back another arrow irritably and resisting the urge to bite back. He’d hit his mark exactly, and Mu Qing knows it, but the other god had been even more infuriating than usual ever since they’d left for the mortal realm. Aside from his scathing critiques, Mu Qing had been silent and cold, refusing to talk as they cut through miles of foliage in oppressive heat.
The twenty or so base slaves have been cut down to a small group encircling Mu Qing. Without any sort of real danger, Feng Xin lets himself hang back and watch as Mu Qing swings his saber, felling foe after foe with angry grace.
“You can’t ignore me for the whole mission,” Feng Xin says as another base slave is decapitated.
Mu Qing ignores him.
“Seriously, what the fuck is your problem? Was it the last rumor? Do you really feel—”
Then, something unheard of happens. Before Feng Xin can finish his sentence, Mu Qing’s footing slips. His saber swings in an arc that’s messy and too low, and a base slave lurches forward to grab his shoulder—until Feng Xin’s arrow nails its head to the nearest tree, and it falls still.
Mu Qing spins on Feng Xin furiously. “I don’t remember asking for your help.”
Feng Xin raises a brow. “Funny, I don’t remember ever seeing you slip up like that. Against a base slave.”
Mu Qing flushes, and Feng Xin relishes a reaction that isn’t ice. “If you tell anyone—”
“If you want me to spare you the humiliation, how about you explain the past couple of months?”
“It’s none of your business,” Mu Qing says, and Feng Xin sees the ice begin to retake his expression. Feng Xin’s own temper begins to rise, as if to thaw Mu Qing out.
“It’s me you’ve been ignoring, so I’d say it fucking is my business!”
“Why do you care? You hate me.”
“I don’t hate you!” Feng Xin shouts. If he could just fucking get it through his thick head! “Stop assuming things, you dumbass! I haven’t hated you in centuries.”
Mu Qing sneers at him. “I’m supposed to believe that?”
“Yes. And if you roll your eyes,” Feng Xin threatens, “I will put an arrow in your stupid skull.”
Mu Qing rolls his eyes. Feng Xin nocks an arrow and draws back his bowstring, but not to make good on his words—he’s just seen a shadow sweep by between the trees, behind Mu Qing. The wraith ghost they came for.
“I’m terrified,” Mu Qing deadpans. He clearly hasn’t seen the figure yet. His arms are crossed and he’s looking at Feng Xin coolly but with guarded eyes, like he fully expects him to shoot.
Feng Xin’s eyes flick back to the forest, but his heart is pounding. Is that really the person Mu Qing thinks he is? Someone who hates him so much he’d jump at the chance to hurt him? They’ve fought for centuries, but Feng Xin has never actively taken enjoyment from Mu Qing’s pain.
“Don’t be an idiot,” Feng Xin tells him, more gently than he’d intended, but he wants to see that look in Mu Qing’s eyes go away. Then the shadowed figure reappears, and Feng Xin brings his mind swiftly back to their mission. “Mu Qing. Behind you.”
Mu Qing whips around like lightning, in time with Feng Xin’s arrow, to meet the ghost’s strike. As saber meets sword with a clang like thunder, the ghost has no way to block the projectile. The arrowhead embeds itself in the wraith’s shoulder, and Feng Xin takes half a second to scan its appearance. It’s grotesque, burnt and slashed, the spirit of a local military captain. The base slaves must have been the men it led in life.
The ghost barely falters, and engages itself in a furious exchange of blows with Mu Qing. Feng Xin knows through the whirl of movement that Mu Qing is more than capable of handling it himself, which, on one hand, is good—the spirit is smart, and is keeping itself behind Mu Qing as much as possible to deter Feng Xin’s arrows. On the other hand, he’s not about to let Mu Qing pull all the weight.
Feng Xin draws his sword and throws himself into the fray. He knows Mu Qing’s fighting style as well as his own, and the two of them dance around the ghost as one, slashing and dodging. The adrenaline exhilarates him. He forgets his frustration, his confusion, his anger.
He glances at Mu Qing between strikes. Mu Qing looks up at the same moment, and their eyes meet, devoid of the fury they’d shared these past two months. Feng Xin feels a rush of something fill his chest and strengthen his limbs, and he doubles his efforts. As the ghost leaps back to dodge Mu Qing’s slash, Feng Xin takes the opening to skewer the spirit through the throat. He throws it to the ground and engulfs it in a flare of spiritual power that burns away its physical form, until there is nothing left but a singed spot in the dirt.
Mu Qing sheathes his saber. “You should’ve trapped it. Now it’ll reform.”
“Not for a century, at least,” Feng Xin says. He leans back against a tree, glancing at his companion. Mu Qing’s hair and clothes are slightly disheveled from the fight. Feng Xin can’t help but wonder what he’d look like disheveled under a different circumstance. Despite the heat, he shivers.
“What are you staring for?”
“I’m not staring,” Feng Xin blatantly lies, “I’m waiting for you to finally explain why you were avoiding me.”
Mu Qing’s demeanor instantly changes. The post-combat euphoria melts off his face at Feng Xin’s words, his shoulders tensing up once more. “Are you stupid? I already told you it’s none of your business.”
“And I told you I don’t agree. So fight me. I win, you tell me. You win, I have to answer a question of yours.”
“No,” Mu Qing says flatly.
“What, scared you’ll lose?” Feng Xin taunts. His ability to rile Mu Qing up is something he’s been confident in for centuries. He can taste victory already.
On cue, Mu Qing’s saber is out of its hilt and slashing out at Feng Xin. He dodges, and blocks the next swing with the silver limb of his bow. They dance around each other, weapons flashing, both of them panting and exerting themselves far more than they had against the wraith ghost. Feng Xin is at a disadvantage in close range combat, even if he were to use his sword, but he’s creative; when Mu Qing pushes him back, saber to bow, Feng Xin torches the blade in fire. The handle heats rapidly and Mu Qing is forced to pull back. Feng Xin lunges forward, swinging his bow around Mu Qing’s neck and pulling him in close. With his other hand, he grabs the hilt of the saber and tries to wrestle it away.
Feng Xin abruptly hisses when Mu Qing twists his head to the side to bite his forearm, his obsidian eyes blazing with fury. He kicks Feng Xin in the gut, sending both of them sprawling onto the forest floor, the bow between them. Feng Xin tries to yank it tighter around his rival’s head, but Mu Qing twists away from the string, wrestles it from Feng Xin’s grip, and tosses it to the side. He brings his saber to Feng Xin’s throat, pretty even alight with rage. The duel that had caused all of this flashes through Feng Xin’s mind.
“Challenging me and losing—how pathetic.” Mu Qing has won, but he looks even angrier now. His gaze is like a knife, and Feng Xin can’t look away even as he’s cut.
“Shut up. What’s your question?” Feng Xin bites out. His pride is wounded, his elbows caked in dirt and his senses overwhelmed by the musky scent of the forest floor, but he’s not entirely unhappy that he lost. At least he’ll get a glimpse into what Mu Qing is thinking.
Mu Qing’s jaw clenches, like he’s trying to hold back words. But they burst out anyway. “How did you find out?”
“What?” Feng Xin furrows his brows. “How did I find out what?”
“How did you find out,” Mu Qing repeats in lieu of an actual answer, saber moving a centimeter closer to Feng Xin’s throat. “How did you find out, Feng Xin? I’ve interrogated every one of my junior officials, just tell me who let it slip and I’ll kill them, you’ll never have to talk to me again—”
“What the fuck are you talking about?” Feng Xin asks, ignoring the blade at his throat. Fuck if he’s going to be afraid of Mu Qing. “Nobody told me anything, and why the hell wouldn’t I want to talk to you again?”
“Then how did you know?” Mu Qing hisses. He presses the blade closer. Feng Xin notices his hands are trembling.
“I have no fucking clue what you mean.”
“Playing dumb just so I’ll say it, so you can tell me how disgusted you are—”
“Why would I be disgusted?” Feng Xin asks. Mu Qing glares down at him, rage and something else dark in his gaze. He looks good like this, eyes narrowed, hair in disarray and face flushed with anger. He leans closer. Feng Xin finds his eyes drawn to his lips—Mu Qing notices. Of course he does. He notices fucking everything except the most obvious things.
“Now you’re even mocking me,” he snarls. “You know exactly what I’m talking about.”
“Then spit it out!”
“Why? So you can laugh in my face?” Mu Qing’s fury is palpable, raising static between them, his qi flaring like a halo. Feng Xin has rarely, in all 800 years of knowing him, seen him lose control like this.
Feng Xin sucks in a breath, swallowing his pride. “Please,” he says, and Mu Qing’s face flickers in surprise. The fire goes out, and Feng Xin hastens to continue before ice can creep back in its place. “Tell me what I did wrong. I’m not lying to you. I really don’t know.” He pauses, then adds, again, “Believe me, Mu Qing, please.”
Mu Qing hesitates. He swallows. Then he removes his saber from Feng Xin’s throat. “You... really don’t know. You really don’t.” His eyes flutter closed and he laughs, short and hysteric. “It was really just a fucking—I can’t believe I thought—”
Feng Xin, still on the ground, reaches out to grab his wrist. He can’t let him wipe away the vulnerable expression, not when he knows that once Mu Qing is shuttered up it might take 800 more years to catch him like this again. “Mu Qing, tell me. I’ll figure it out, eventually. I’ll ask His Highness.”
“As dumb as you are, if even you haven’t figured it out yet, you obviously don’t want to know.”
“Why wouldn’t I want to know?”
Mu Qing’s face becomes shockingly exposed, red eyes glaring at Feng Xin even as he says the earth-shattering words, “Who wants to know that their rival has felt—has had f-feelings for them for eight hundred years?”
Oh. Oh. Feng Xin inhales sharply. It feels as if his heart has stopped. It makes sense now, that day in the training room, the way Mu Qing had panicked at their proximity. “You—you actually love—”
Mu Qing looks furious, scarlet from ear to cheek, but—Feng Xin notes—does not correct the word choice. “And you find the idea so repulsive you started a rumor to try and humiliate me. It worked, congratulations. Now let me go.”
“You’re not leaving until you hear me out,” Feng Xin says. The realization doesn’t hit him so much as it washes through him, sure and warm and more natural than anything—that he loves Mu Qing back. That he has for a while now. He softens his voice. “Mu Qing...”
Mu Qing is many things. Right now, with the evening light softening his features, he is breathtakingly beautiful, and Feng Xin wants to pull him back down on top of him and feel the warmth of his skin. Unfortunately—distracted by his face and the revelation that he still can’t believe—Feng Xin has forgotten that Mu Qing is often, above all, an intolerable fucking idiot.
He doubles over as the hilt of a saber is slammed into his stomach, his grip loosening just enough so that Mu Qing can pull his wrist free, turn, and run. “Argh! You’re so fucking annoying!” Feng Xin yells at his back, though he makes sure there’s no bite to the words. “I seriously can’t believe I—”
But then Mu Qing is gone. Feng Xin cuts himself off; he’ll save the words for when they matter.
(Mu Qing is gone, but Mu Qing loves him. Despite himself, Feng Xin grins.)
Everything makes sense now, the pieces of the puzzle falling into place. A rumor started all of this. He knows how to finish it.
-
It is dark by the time Nan Feng finds himself standing outside the ornate doors of Xuan Zhen palace. As Feng Xin, he’ll usually barge in without an invitation, but this time he wants to do this right. 800 years of rivalry will be difficult to break, but Mu Qing is worth it.
He knocks. At this hour, Mu Qing will be sipping tea in his study, probably glaring down at paperwork or his junior officials or the memory of his earlier confrontation with Feng Xin. His eyes will be narrowed with irritation and tiredness, nose slightly scrunched up, handwriting elegant as always despite the hour. Nan Feng smiles in the cool night air.
As expected, it’s not Mu Qing who opens the door. The junior official gives him a quick once-over, seems to recognize him as someone from Nan Yang palace—Nan Feng will make occasional appearances whenever Feng Xin needs to unwind or investigate matters in his own palace, though he’s not sure if people really don’t know who he is or if they politely turn a blind eye—and squints warily at him.
“It’s too late for visitors. My General is resting.”
Like hell Mu Qing is asleep. Feng Xin wants to demand that this junior official let him in. Nan Feng decides to be polite. “All right, I’ll return tomorrow.”
He’s stalling, taking slow steps away from Xuan Zhen palace as he tries to decide how to bring up the topic he’s come here for, when the official speaks for him. “Before you go...” he says, voice faint and embarrassed. “You work for General Nan Yang, don’t you? Do you have any clue where the leak—ah, where the recent rumors came from? My General was looking for the source.”
Later, Nan Feng is going to spend some time figuring out if all of his and Mu Qing’s officials are secretly working together, swapping information on their two generals. For now, he turns back to the official. “My general hasn’t said. But there’s a new rumor, have you heard?”
The official’s eyes widen as Nan Feng shamelessly tells him the words that change everything. The junior hurries off, and there’s no going back now. All of heaven will know by morning.
It turns out he doesn’t have to wait.
As Nan Feng reaches the bottom of the stairs, the doors of Xuan Zhen palace open once more, spilling golden light out into heaven’s streets. A dark-clothed figure flies down the steps to grab Nan Feng by the wrist, spinning him around roughly so that he meets wide black eyes.
“Fu Yao,” he greets, not bothering to tamper down the smile that pulls at the corner of his lips, even though he knows Mu Qing has likely come here to kill him. “So, you were eavesdropping?”
“Is it true?” Fu Yao hisses. He sounds angry, but Nan Feng knows him well enough to hear the fear beneath the words. “Or have you come to defile my general’s reputation further?”
“It’s my reputation this time, not yours,” Nan Feng gently points out.
“So you’ve come to defile your general’s reputation using Xuan Zhen’s name,” Fu Yao sneers. “If there’s a single braincell’s worth of logic here, which I doubt, I’d love to hear the explanation.”
Nan Feng sighs. He won’t fight Fu Yao tonight, no matter how much of a dumbass he is. “What explanation do you want to hear?”
“What do you mean?” Fu Yao asks, eyes narrowed, looking taken aback that Nan Feng hasn’t resorted to violence yet.
Nan Feng can be patient. “What do you want me to say? You heard the rumor. I’ve done my part. Now you have to tell me what you want.”
Fu Yao just gazes back at him, looking suspicious and haughty and a little afraid. “Rumors are only rumors, as someone shoved in my face earlier today.”
“But would you want this one to be true?”
When Fu Yao doesn’t respond, Nan Feng steps closer and gently unclasps Fu Yao’s hand, which hasn’t moved, from his wrist. The elegant fingers twitch, as if displeased by the emptiness despite themselves, so Nan Feng reaches to take both of Fu Yao’s hands into his own. Fu Yao does not move away, and Nan Feng’s chest warms with fondness as he drops his guise.
“Mu Qing,” Feng Xin murmurs. “Do you want me to love you?”
The other god’s breath catches, and Fu Yao’s form ripples like water until it is Mu Qing staring at Feng Xin, cheeks flushed, palms warm, breath visible in the cool air. He looks away, and gods, he’s beautiful, sharp edges softened in the golden glow of his palace. “You’re so stupid,” he says. “800 years, and you think you have to ask me? As if I wouldn’t want your dumb ass to—to—”
Feng Xin laughs and shuts him up with a kiss.
Mu Qing makes a startled noise, but doesn’t pull away or insist they find more privacy. It’s not perfect; the angle is slightly off, and their noses bump, and Mu Qing has probably never kissed anyone before, but Feng Xin sinks into it. “Don’t assume things,” he murmurs into the kiss, “like that I wouldn’t reciprocate. Like that I don’t love you.” Mu Qing makes a soft noise, and Feng Xin can feel his eyes flutter fully shut as he gives in the embrace. They stand intertwined in the patch of golden light for long moments, finally tasting something other than bitterness in each other.
Mu Qing pulls away first. He licks his lips, and Feng Xin is pleased to note that his eyes are a little dazed. He stands on the bottom step of the stairs to his palace, stubbornly waiting for Feng Xin to say the words.
“Gonna invite me inside this time?” Feng Xin teases, happy to oblige.
Mu Qing rolls his eyes, but Feng Xin can see right through him. “Depends. Are you going to behave?”
“Probably never, around you,” Feng Xin admits, a smile pulling at his lips.
Mu Qing huffs in irritation, but his grip on Feng Xin’s hand tightens, and so does the pleasant haze in Feng Xin’s heart. “I don’t know about you, but I’m not in the habit of letting dumbasses who can’t even tell I like them for centuries into my palace.”
“Mm,” Feng Xin hums. “Does that mean I can come in?”
As Mu Qing pulls him up into the light, he graces him with a tiny smile, and Feng Xin… Feng Xin is happier than he’s been in 800 years.