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Feng Xin and Xie Lian’s weekly hangouts are a sacred thing.

There are multiple reasons for this. Number one being that they’re lifelong friends who just genuinely enjoy hanging out with each other. Number two, which is far less sappy and far more practical: Feng Xin needs to complain about Mu Qing to someone who is not Mu Qing at least once a week, or he will die, probably.  

This was an easier quota to fill back when Xie Lian still lived with them. But ever since he moved out six months ago to live with his terrible horrible boyfriend who somehow makes him terribly horribly happy, they haven’t been seeing as much of each other.

It doesn’t matter where they go—the gym, a park, some little hole in the wall that’s serving whatever food they’re both craving at the time—as long as they get to catch up and Feng Xin has at least five minutes to unload whatever Mu Qing related nonsense has been rattling around in his brain.

This week it’s a trendy new coffee shop. And on this week’s list of complaints:

“I swear to god, Mu Qing is hiding my mug.”

Xie Lian pauses mid-sit, hovering over his chair and looking bewildered, but not entirely surprised. Feng Xin probably should have let him get settled in at their little café table before he started the Mu Qing Grievances, but this is fucking urgent.

With a sigh, Xie Lian sits down, taking a long sip of his drink before finally asking, “Why would he hide your mug?”

The answer is simple: “Because he’s a sick little bastard and he’s trying to lead me to ruin.”

“…By hiding your mug?”

“I don’t know how his brain works! But he’s got,” Feng Xin gestures vaguely, “schemes in there, and he must be planning something. I just don’t know what it is.”

“I’m, ah, I’m still not sure how the mug thing could possibly be involved in some kind of,” Xie Lian half-heartedly mimics Feng Xin’s vague gesture, “scheme.”

Oh, but it must be.

It’s like this: if Feng Xin’s brain is a straight stretch of highway, Mu Qing’s is a winding, overgrown backroad where one wrong turn will send you careening off a cliff. He never just does things but he also never explains anything he does, leaving everyone else helplessly throwing darts at the wall trying to figure him out. If Mu Qing is hiding Feng Xin’s mug (which he is, he absolutely fucking is, he’s not even being sneaky about it!!!) then it must be for convoluted reasons, working towards an even more convoluted end goal.

Feng Xin can’t possibly untangle the twisted knots of Mu Qing’s thought processes, but he knows he needs his mug. Whenever he can’t find it, he ends up having to use the one Mu Qing got him as a joke for his birthday—a cutesy and delicate thing, covered in absurdly adorable little cartoon puppies.

(“This one looks like you,” Mu Qing had told him in explanation, smirking and pointing to a puppy with a particularly dumb expression on its little puppy face.)

Now, as silly as Feng Xin looks using it, it’s actually not a bad mug. It’s clearly well-made and he kind of loves the puppies, though he’d never admit it while Mu Qing is in earshot. But Feng Xin has never been great at handling fragile things. His regular mug is sturdy. Utilitarian. It can take a beating—and has taken a beating, considering how many times he’s slammed it down on their kitchen table in frustration mid-argument.

If Feng Xin keeps having to use the mug Mu Qing got him, it’s only a matter of time before he breaks it, and he can’t do that. Partially because he’ll feel like a literal monster if he ruins the puppies, but also because Mu Qing will be mad and disappointed and probably never give Feng Xin a gift ever again, which is unbearable for some reason that he doesn’t really want to unpack right now, and—

Feng Xin shakes his head, pinching the bridge of his nose. He’s been spending too much time around Mu Qing and all that overthinking is contagious. Better stop now before he gives himself a headache.

“Whatever,” he says, fighting off an eye roll—another infectious habit he’s been trying not to pick up. “Mu Qing is a prick, what else is new? I hope he drops his keys down a sewer grate.”

“Feng Xin,” Xie Lian scolds.

“I hope he gets caught in the rain without an umbrella and it fucks up his stupid hair.”

“Feng Xin.”

“I wish I was dating him, just so I could dump his ass.”

Xie Lian’s eyebrows nearly shoot off his face. “You wish you were dating him?”

“So I could dump him.” Feng Xin doesn’t see what Xie Lian isn’t getting here.

“That’s—okay. You say that, but we both know that if Mu Qing dropped his keys down a sewer grate, you’d be racing over to help him fish them out. And if he was stuck in the rain without an umbrella, you’d share yours with him.”

What? Feng Xin wouldn’t do that. He doesn’t think he’d do that. He probably wouldn’t do that.

He might do that.

“Why the fuck would I do that?” Feng Xin demands. It’s as much a question for himself as it is for Xie Lian.

The answer he gets isn’t particularly illuminating, but Xie Lian’s beatific smile certainly is. “Because you’re a good friend, Feng Xin.”

Why does Feng Xin’s face feel so warm all of a sudden? He scowls down into his coffee. “He’s not—we aren’t friends.”

It doesn’t matter that they’ve known each other for more than ten years and lived with each other for three of them. It doesn’t matter that they have a longstanding weekly movie night where they take turns forcing each other to watch their own favorite genres (horror for Mu Qing, rom-coms for Feng Xin, though they both like action movies). It doesn’t matter that Feng Xin knows all of Mu Qing’s favorites when they’re ordering takeout, or that Mu Qing makes him congee when he’s sick, or that people talk about them like they’re a package deal, never one without the other.

Mu Qing has never outright called them friends, so Feng Xin isn’t going to make a fool of himself by being the one to say it.

Xie Lian stares at him, wincing like he’s not sure whether to laugh or cry. In the end, he doesn’t do either, opting instead to gently kick Feng Xin’s foot underneath the table. “Perhaps you could ask him about the mug? Have a conversation? Just a thought.”

Feng Xin groans. If only Mu Qing were so simple.

“I mean it,” Xie Lian presses, kicking him again. “You two promised me you wouldn’t kill each other after I moved out.” They did. Xie Lian made them pinkie-swear and everything. “At least try to talk things out with him?”

“Mu Qing hates talking things out.”

Xie Lian grins. “That’s something you have in common.”

__________

Before they go their separate ways outside the café, Xie Lian pulls Feng Xin into a long parting hug—like he always does, ever since they were toddlers.

“For the record,” he starts, once he’s finished giving Feng Xin a truly back-breaking squeeze, “I don’t think you’d dump Mu Qing if you were dating him.”

Feng Xin shoots him a flat look. “Because I’m a good friend?”

Xie Lian’s laughter rings through the spring morning air, light at first, and then increasingly hysterical.

He pats Feng Xin on the arm. “Something like that.”

__________

The rest of Feng Xin’s Saturday is mostly uneventful—just a much needed grocery run before he lands on the couch in the early evening, mindlessly scrolling through cheesy dramas that he won’t watch because Mu Qing isn’t here to make fun of them with him.

He’s interrupted by a loud buzz coming from their apartment intercom, indicating that someone is at the door downstairs, looking to be let in. Feng Xin frowns, muting the television. Who the fuck could that be?

Neither him nor Mu Qing are expecting a package. Or a food delivery, no matter how much he might like takeout to just materialize at his door. A visitor, maybe? But Xie Lian’s basically the only person who visits them at their apartment, and Feng Xin’s already seen him today.

It’s definitely not Mu Qing. He was characteristically cagey about his day plans this morning, but even so, Feng Xin isn’t expecting him back so early. Anyway, he has his own damn set of keys, so he wouldn’t even need to buzz in the first place.

Regardless of who it is, the buzzing shows no sign of stopping.

With only minor grumbling, Feng Xin drags himself off the couch and over to their shitty little intercom, pressing the talk button. “Hello?”

He’s shocked to hear Mu Qing’s voice crackling through the speaker. “Buzz me in.”

“Mu Qing?” Feng Xin’s deep eyebrow furrow is wasted on Mu Qing, who can’t see him, but rest assured: the brows are fucking furrowed. “Use your keys, dumbass.”

“Buzz me in, Feng Xin, or I swear to god, I’m going to—”

There’s an edge in his voice that makes Feng Xin press the door release button without another word, the loud BEEEEEEEP of its activation drowning out whatever colorful threat Mu Qing was ready to hurl at him. What the hell crawled up his ass today?

Feng Xin lets out a sharp huff and unlocks the front door of their apartment, mentally preparing himself for Mu Qing to walk in ready for a fight. That’s how he is—if he’s in a mood, he’s taking it out on Feng Xin, regardless of if he actually has anything to do with it. (Feng Xin would be lying if he said he never did the same thing.)

When the door opens a few minutes later, Feng Xin doesn’t receive the onslaught of insults he was already internally drafting up responses for. No, what he gets is much stranger than that.

The first thing Feng Xin notices is that Mu Qing is wet. Like, soaking wet. Like, someone poured a bucket of water over this poor bastard’s head wet.

The second thing Feng Xin notices is that Mu Qing is trembling—either because he’s cold or because he’s angry, or maybe some fun mixture of the two.

The third (and perhaps most disconcerting) thing Feng Xin notices is that Mu Qing hasn’t started yelling at him yet. He’s… strangely quiet, leaning heavily back against their front door, staring down at the growing puddle at his feet.

Feng Xin blinks at him, trying to make sense of what he’s looking at.

“What the fuck happened to you?”

Mu Qing glances up, just enough to glower at him through a curtain of wet hair. “I dropped my keys down a sewer grate.”

Okay, that’s kind of eerie.

“What—did you jump in after them?”

“Look out the window! It’s pouring, dipshit. Has been for the past hour.” Wow, eerier. “I forgot my umbrella this morning.”

Feng Xin doesn’t think he’s suddenly been given the gift of prophecy or the ability to curse people, but he feels a surge of guilt nonetheless.

“Why didn’t you call me?” he asks before he can stop himself, the words ripped right out of him. Fuck. Xie Lian was right. Why is he always right?

“Why would I call you? ” Mu Qing wheels on him, wild eyed and furious. “You don’t even—ugh.” He collapses in on himself with a frustrated, guttural noise, rubbing his hands over his face.

Feng Xin watches him like he’d watch a particularly mangy stray cat, wariness undercut by a foolish desire to do… something. He isn’t sure what. Most of the time, when Feng Xin sees a stray, he wants to sweep it up and take it home with him—or at least bend down and give it scritches.

He doubts Mu Qing would appreciate any of that.

“Are you,” Feng Xin briefly reaches towards him before thinking better of it, letting his hand drop, “okay?”

Mu Qing peeks through his fingers at him. What little Feng Xin can see of his expression is positively murderous. “Of course I’m okay. Do I look like I’m not okay?”

Mu Qing has never looked less okay in all the years Feng Xin has known him.

Beyond the obvious—that he’s sopping wet, dripping rainwater all over their foyer, shaking like a leaf—there’s something in his expression and body language that’s completely unfamiliar. He’s… muted. Somber. Feng Xin is used to Mu Qing being irritable and unpleasant, but he isn’t used to him being sad.

It’s annoying. Very annoying, seeing Mu Qing like this. That’s obviously why Feng Xin’s stomach is twisting in knots; all the annoyance.

At least, that’s what he tells himself as he stomps over to the hall closet to grab a towel for him.

“You look like a wet cat, that’s what you look like,” Feng Xin says when he finally returns, shoving the towel into his roommate’s hands.

Because nothing is ever easy with Mu Qing, he doesn’t begin to dry himself off like a normal person—just stands there blinking at Feng Xin and the towel like he’s scared that one (or both) of them is trying to prank him.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake.” Feng Xin rips the towel out of Mu Qing’s limp hold and starts doing the drying for him, beginning with his hair. “You’re gonna catch a cold if you keep standing there like an idiot.”

Feng Xin doesn’t care if Mu Qing gets a cold, obviously. He can catch as many colds as he wants! But he’ll be more of a pain in the ass than usual if he does get sick, so Feng Xin isn’t going to let that happen.

This is a very good and normal reason to carefully wring the water out of your not-friend’s hair. Just common sense, really.

“I can do it myself,” Mu Qing mumbles, making absolutely no effort to take over for him.

Feng Xin snorts. “Had me fooled.”

“Quit mother-henning me.”

“Fuck off, I’m not a mother hen,” Feng Xin snaps, even though he kind of is. It’s Mu Qing’s fault, anyway. If he’s not gonna take care of himself, Feng Xin will just have to do it for him.

Once he’s sufficiently sure that Mu Qing won’t be tracking puddles through the whole apartment, Feng Xin drags him to his room and wrestles him into some dry clothes. Grabs one of his own sweatshirts for him too, since most of Mu Qing’s dumb sweaters are more fashionable than actually warm. Through it all, Mu Qing is worryingly docile—mostly silent, only offering the occasional half-hearted jab at Feng Xin’s fussing.

By the time they get back to the living room and settle in on the couch for their usual bad drama binging, Mu Qing still isn’t acting like himself. Feng Xin’s frustration (not concern, he isn’t concerned, not at all) finally boils over.

“Okay, what the fuck is going on with you? Did you get dumped or something?”

Feng Xin says it as a joke, honestly—just a silly, outrageous comment to get Mu Qing to start yelling at him and stop looking so dejected. But Mu Qing doesn’t yell. He doesn’t say anything at all, and each passing second that he silently seethes makes the truth all that more obvious.

“Holy shit, you got dumped.” Feng Xing can’t fucking believe it. Three for three, what are the odds?

“Shut up. You don’t have to rub it in.”

“You date?”

“We weren’t dating, we were just—hooking up.”

“You have sex?”

The look Mu Qing gives him could make a lesser man run for his life. “Is it so hard to believe?”

Yes and no.

On the one hand, it’s hard to imagine Mu Qing letting his guard down long enough to be that vulnerable with another person. Let’s face it, the guy’s about as warm and inviting as a snowbank. For as long as Feng Xin’s known him, that’s how he’s always been—ice cold and untouchable. 

On the other hand, it’s very easy to imagine Mu Qing having sex. Feng Xin can imagine having sex with him. He can imagine it very vividly. Has imagined it—not on purpose, obviously, just in a couple of weird dreams. And a couple of times that weren’t dreams. It’s fine! It doesn’t mean anything.

The problem is that Mu Qing has always been so damn pretty. And so buttoned-up. Feng Xin just thinks it’s… interesting, to imagine what it might be like to take him apart, to watch him unravel.

“You didn’t tell me,” Feng Xin says, after a long moment.

Mu Qing wrinkles his nose in distaste. “Why would I tell you who I’m sleeping with?”

That’s fair. To be honest, the thought of Mu Qing keeping him updated on all his assorted fuckbuddies (who exist, apparently) makes something dark and unpleasant twist in Feng Xin’s gut.

Against his better judgement, Feng Xin still asks, “Who was he? Do I know him?”

“Just drop it,” Mu Qing snaps. He crosses his arms and sinks back into the couch, glaring at the wall. He’s not done yet, though—Feng Xin can tell. Mu Qing hates talking about his feelings but he loves complaining even more. If he’s got a chance to bitch, he’s gonna take it. Feng Xin just has to give it time.

And by time, he means approximately ten fucking seconds. After a few breaths of quiet stewing, Mu Qing lets out a sharp sigh and says, “You don’t know him. Probably. I met him at the gym a few months ago.”

The gym? Feng Xin goes there! Mu Qing picks up guys at the gym?

“You pick up guys at the gym?” Feng Xin voices this thought aloud, because the shock has severely dulled his survival instincts.

“I do not pick up guys at the gym,” Mu Qing hisses. “I picked up guy at the gym. Singular.”

That startles a laugh out of Feng Xin—another action that goes against any kind of self-preservation—though he manages to smother it before Mu Qing can decide to leap across the couch and maul him.

“Fucking relax. I’m not judging, just surprised.” Feng Xin smirks, bumping Mu Qing’s leg with his own. “I didn’t even think you knew what sex was until like, two minutes ago.”

Mu Qing bumps him back, harder. “It’s not my fault you have no imagination.”

Well. Feng Xin has some imagination. More than some. Mu Qing would probably be pissed with him if he knew just how much imagination he really has.

…Feng Xin ought to change the subject before his thoughts start careening down this road again.

“Wait—” he blurts, very smoothly, “do you have a picture of this guy?”

Mu Qing rolls his eyes and groans, but he does it while unlocking his phone.

“You’re lucky I haven’t blocked him and deleted all our messages yet,” he says, scrolling through his WeChat correspondence with Whoever-The-Fuck in search of a picture.

From what Feng Xin can see from inconspicuously peeking over Mu Qing’s shoulder, it looks like their messages were brief and sparse. A lot of “what are you doing?”s and “come over”s. The guy must not have been much for conversation.

“Stop breathing down my neck,” Mu Qing huffs. Okay, so maybe Feng Xin wasn’t being that inconspicuous. Doesn’t matter though, because Mu Qing finally finds what he was looking for—a poorly taken shirtless bathroom mirror selfie that he taps on and shoves into Feng Xin’s face. “This is him.”

Oh, Feng Xin hates this guy immediately.

Mu Qing was right—he hasn’t ever seen him before. That’s probably a good thing, because the douchebag vibes radiating off of this selfie are absolutely astronomical. This is the kind of guy Mu Qing likes? Stupid muscles and stupid hair tied up in a stupid bun, with a stupid look on his stupid face? Feng Xin is baffled. Gobsmacked. Fucking flabbergasted.

(Also—since when did Mu Qing have any tolerance for shirtless bathroom mirror selfies? Feng Xin took one once and Mu Qing made fun of him mercilessly over it for a month.)

“Fuck, really?” Feng Xin narrows his eyes at the offending picture. “Him? He looks like a clown.”

Mu Qing snorts, lips twitching like he’s fighting back a grin. “I did always think he kind of looked like you.”

That’s—

Okay. Feng Xin knows that’s a completely harmless and meaningless joke about how Mu Qing thinks he looks like a clown, But. The mere idea that Mu Qing would sleep with someone he thinks looks like Feng Xin is kind of making his brain short circuit. He feels vaguely like he’s been struck by lightning. Or like he’s a computer that’s had a hot cup of coffee poured directly onto its keyboard.

Mu Qing, of course, notices none of this inner turmoil. He takes his phone back, blocking Ex-Fuckbuddy-Who-Apparently-Looks-Like-Feng-Xin and deleting all their shared messages with startling speed. When the deed is done, he rests his phone back on the coffee table and sighs, expression unreadable.

“Well,” he starts, then stops short, like he isn’t quite sure what to say next. “Whatever,” he adds, after a moment. “Not like we were really dating, anyway.”

He’s clearly trying to sound flippant, but there’s a hunch in his shoulders he can’t seem to shake off. It wouldn’t be noticeable to most people, but Feng Xin’s been looking at Mu Qing and his irritatingly perfect posture for nearly half their lives. It’s been years since he’s seen Mu Qing so… defeated.

It’s not right.

Mu Qing is fierce, unstoppable, stubborn as a dandelion springing through the cracks in concrete. When you knock him down, he just gets back up again, more spiteful than ever. It’s one of the things Feng Xin finds frustrating about Mu Qing, but it’s also one of the things he’s always admired about him.

To see him like this—eyes far away, hair still damp from the rain, looking small and lost in Feng Xin’s oversized sweatshirt—it feels like reality’s shifted and Feng Xin doesn’t know how to fix it. Mu Qing never reaches out to him for comfort. Never reaches out to anybody for it, actually.

Well, it’s not like Feng Xin has ever been particularly good at comforting people, anyway. Jian Lan could certainly attest to that—no matter how hard he tried, he was never able to figure out how to be what she needed him to be.

If it were anyone else, Feng Xin might at least attempt to give them a hug, but this is Mu Qing . They’ve been putting bruises on each other since the day they met. If Feng Xin tried to touch him gently, he might lose a hand.

Or worse, he might never want to stop.

“Still,” Feng Xin begins, tentatively nudging Mu Qing’s knee with his own—the safest touch he can think of, “you must have really liked this guy, huh? I mean, if him dumping you has got you down like this.”

“Hardly. It’s not that I liked him, it was—” Mu Qing falters, averting his eyes, “What he said. When he broke things off.”

Feng Xin’s stomach drops.

“What did he say?” he asks, sounding much calmer than he actually feels.

“He said—I don’t know why I’m telling you this. It’s not like you care.”

Feng Xin does care. He doesn’t say that out loud, though. Instead he just shrugs and says, “Tell me anyway.”

Mu Qing stares at him for a heavy moment, eyes searching, before turning his gaze down to the coffee table. His face remains impassive but he draws his legs up to his chest like he’s curling into a ball, resting a cheek on his knee. He won’t meet Feng Xin’s eyes.

When he speaks, it’s cold and mechanical, like he’s reciting a passage from a particularly boring book.

“He said he wanted to look for something serious. And apparently I’m, and I quote, not the kind of person anyone would seriously want to be with.” Mu Qing lets out a sharp breath, somewhere between a scoff and a laugh. “What kind of person am I, then?”

A few different emotions flood Feng Xin’s system in rapid succession.

Shock first, because what the fuck? This guy couldn’t just tell Mu Qing he doesn’t want to hook up anymore? He had to be a total shithead about it, too? Who does that?

The shock is quickly swallowed by rage, because really, who the fuck does this guy think he is, speaking to Mu Qing like that? That motherfucker should consider himself lucky that Mu Qing even bothered to deem him worthy of an ounce of his time and affection. How dare he try to make Mu Qing feel unwanted, undeserving?

Then dismay, when Mu Qing finally turns to look at Feng Xin, only to shoot him a glare. “Don’t answer that. I already know what you think of me.”

Well, here they are again.

All roads lead to this same impasse. Every time Feng Xin thinks they’ve finally come to understand each other, Mu Qing says something like this and reveals just how much they both don’t know.

Maybe it’s time for some honesty.

“Shut up, you don’t know shit,” Feng Xin starts, which is perhaps not the best opener for a heart to heart, but since when have they ever done anything properly? “You want to know what I think of you?”

I think you’re beautiful and terrible and one of my favorite people in the whole world. I think you might be my best friend, even if you don’t think of me the same way. I think there’s no one else I’d rather fight with, laugh with, be with. I think you’re the biggest pain in the ass I’ve ever met, and I hope you keep pissing me off for the rest of our lives.

“I care about you, you stupid prick,” Feng Xin half-shouts. “You’re my friend, and I think you deserve better than some asshole who just wants to make you feel small.”

Mu Qing blinks at him, eyes round and disbelieving. “I’m your—your f-friend?”

Not for the first time, Feng Xin is tempted to grab Mu Qing by the shoulders and shake him—or scoop him up and hold him.

Not for the first time, he doesn’t do either of those things. Just sighs and wills his face not to heat when he tells him, “Of course you are. Why else would I put up with you?”

For once in their lives, Mu Qing has no snappy comeback to offer. Only a wide open expression, like a veil has been lifted and they’re finally really seeing each other.

Feng Xin is suddenly very aware of how close they’ve gotten, transfixed by the ever-shortening distance between their faces. When did that happen? It’s not unusual for them to get into each other’s space when they’re arguing, but at this moment, fighting is the furthest thing from Feng Xin’s mind.

“Close your eyes,” Mu Qing says, and for a brief, insane moment, Feng Xin thinks he’s about to be kissed.

That is, until he gets whacked in the face with one of Mu Qing’s stupid little decorative pillows.

“You’re—trying to suffocate me?” Feng Xin tries to shout, though the effect is dampened by the fact that he’s considerably muffled by the pillow.

“I-I told you to close your eyes!” Mu Qing’s voice sounds wobbly, uneven. Feng Xin would make more note of it if he weren’t currently being smothered.

“God, you make it so fucking hard to be nice to you,” he says, still muffled, though he’s working on wrestling the pillow off of his face and out of Mu Qing’s hands. “I say one good thing about you and you immediately try to murder me? See if I ever—”

The words die on his tongue when Feng Xin gets the pillow out of suffocating distance (flinging it halfway across the room in the process) and he sees Mu Qing’s face, the wreckage that is his expression. Lips trembling, pressed tightly together. His normally perfect skin flushed blotchy and pink. Eyes wet with unshed tears, threatening to spill over.

Feng Xin has never seen Mu Qing cry before. Ever. The sight knocks the fight right out of him, faster than a punch to the stomach.

“I told you to close your eyes!” Mu Qing seethes, still trying to look fearsome, even now. “You never listen, you—”

“Ah fuck, come here,” Feng Xin says. Before he can think better of it, he’s wrapping his arms around Mu Qing, pulling him into a tight hug.

Remarkably enough, Mu Qing goes without protest, burying his face in Feng Xin’s shoulder. It takes a little while, but eventually he snakes his arms out from in between them, tentatively hugging him back.

Have they ever really hugged before, beyond the stiff group hugs that Xie Lian would occasionally drag them into? Feng Xin doesn’t think so. Doing it now, he doesn’t know why it’s taken them so long. It feels… nice. Comfortable. Right, like their shapes were carved to fit together like this.

“You’re such an ugly crier,” Feng Xin murmurs, gently petting Mu Qing’s hair, pointedly ignoring the pounding of his own heart. “It’s gross.”

“M’not crying.”

“You kind of are.”

“I’ll kill you,” Mu Qing threatens, burrowing deeper into Feng Xin’s shoulder.

In retaliation, he squeezes Mu Qing tighter. “Yeah, fucking try it. I dare you.”

Despite the dare, no murders are attempted. They stay like that for a long while, just holding each other, making up for lost time.

__________

The next morning, Feng Xin comes into the kitchen to find Mu Qing sitting at their table waiting for him—ominously, like some kind of scary mob boss.

Well, a scary mob boss who made him breakfast, judging by the mug of tea and the warm bowl of steamed eggs sitting on the table in Feng Xin’s usual spot. But still! Ominous as shit.

“Took you long enough,” Mu Qing says, as though he didn’t very obviously prepare the food to be ready at the exact time Feng Xin usually wakes up on the weekends. “What are you waiting for? Eat before it gets cold.”

Feng Xin looks down at the bowl in front of him, then back at Mu Qing—who’s pointedly gone back to eating his own eggs—then back to the bowl again. With caution, he sits down at their kitchen table.

“Is this poisoned?” Feng Xin asks—a question they both always fire at each other whenever one of them cooks.

Mu Qing’s glare is predictably icy. “Why don’t you find out?”

Considering that Mu Qing’s ire is a far more tangible threat than poison, Feng Xin quickly shoves a spoonful of eggs into his mouth. As soon as the flavor hits his tongue, he has to hold back a satisfied groan.

“Fuck, that’s good.”

Feng Xin will probably never say it to his face, but Mu Qing’s steamed eggs are his favorite—he always manages to get that perfect, silky texture every time. Mu Qing can be weird and resentful about cooking for reasons that Feng Xin doesn’t completely understand, but you can tell this is one of the things he actually likes to make. It’s easy, comforting, something his mom made for him all the time growing up.

Feng Xin eyes Mu Qing between bites. “Is this a bribe? Are you buying my silence?”

That’s a joke (mostly) but Mu Qing nods, dead serious. “Yes. You can’t tell anyone that I—” he flushes, abruptly finishing the rest of his eggs in two huge bites, uncharacteristically inelegant. He swallows thickly and clears his throat. “You can’t tell anyone. Ever.”

With that, he stands, taking his now empty bowl to the sink to clean it.

He’s got his back to Feng Xin, so Feng Xin is free to roll his eyes. “Fine, fine. God forbid anybody knows you have feelings.”

Feng Xin wouldn’t have told anybody anyway. He’s not about to start bragging that he’s seen Mu Qing cry. Besides, in a way he’s… happy to have had that kind of moment with him. Not happy that Mu Qing was upset, obviously, but happy that Mu Qing felt comfortable enough to share it with him.

Feng Xin quietly eats his eggs, watching as Mu Qing meticulously cleans his bowl, shoulders tense. He’s still wearing Feng Xin’s sweatshirt from the night before. He must have slept in it. Feng Xin tries (and fails) to not feel insane about that.

When Feng Xin reaches for his tea, he realizes that the mug sat in front of him isn’t his regular one—it’s the one with the puppies. He’s sure that if he checked the cabinet, his mug wouldn’t be in its usual spot. Odds are it’s hidden behind some pots, or tucked away underneath a bowl, or even on top of the refrigerator; all places that Feng Xin has found it before after Mu Qing told him flatly that he “hasn’t seen it.”

Feng Xin looks down at the puppies. They stare back up at him, daring him to man up and fucking say something.

He wolfs down the last of his eggs (in case Mu Qing tries to confiscate his bowl from him when this conversation inevitably pisses him off) and clears his throat.

“Mu Qing. Be honest with me. I know you’re allergic to honesty, but I’m asking you to give it the good old college try and maybe—”

“Shut up, get to the point.”

Feng Xin takes a deep breath. “Do you keep hiding my mug?”

There is a moment of total silence. Mu Qing, still turned towards the sink, pauses in his cleaning, going very still.

Then, “Fuck you, I don’t even know what your mug looks like.”

Oh, of course he’s going to be like this.

“Yes you do, asshole! I use it every fucking day!”

“You think I’m trying to steal your mug—”

“I didn’t say steal!” Feng Xin would never make that mistake, not when he knows what that accusation means to Mu Qing. “I said hide.”

Mu Qing whips around, eyes narrowed, hands soapy. “Why would I hide your stupid mug?”

Feng Xin throws his arms out wide. “That’s what I want to know!”

“If you don’t want me touching your mug, then maybe you should try doing the dishes for once.”

Feng Xin stands, outraged. “I do the dishes!”

“Poorly. You do the dishes poorly. How can you be a grown man who doesn’t know how to properly scrub a plate? Are you afraid a dirty cup is going to bite you? Coward.”

Mu Qing punctuates the insult with a flick of his soapy fingers, nailing Feng Xin right in the nose with suds.

“What the FUCK is your problem?” Feng Xin furiously scrubs the bubbles off his face. By some miracle, he does not leap across the room and attack Mu Qing. “You are impossible!”

Mu Qing doesn’t seem to have anything to say to that, so they both stand just there, panting slightly, feeling stupid. At the end of the day, this is how most of their fights end.

Feng Xin isn’t really surprised that this turned into a fight, but he’s disappointed nonetheless. After last night, he was hopeful that things might be really changing between them—but as always, it’s one step forward, two steps back.

He’s about to abandon the whole conversation when Mu Qing breaks the silence with a quiet huff, deflating as the air leaves him. He dries off his hands on a dish towel and stalks over to Feng Xin—not to fight, but to brush some remaining suds out of the front of Feng Xin’s hair.

“I don’t see why you’re having a temper tantrum about this,” he mutters, crossing his arms when he deems Feng Xin’s hair adequately clean. “It’s not like that’s the only mug we have. We have plenty of mugs. Too many, if you ask me. I got you that stupid mug for your birthday and you never want to touch it.”

Oh.

Oh.

That’s what this is about.

Mu Qing can’t ever be honest about his feelings, can he? Feng Xin should be angry about that—wants to be angry about it—but instead he finds himself overcome with an annoyingly familiar surge of affection.

“I like your mug,” he says, and he means it.

Mu Qing rolls his eyes. “Good for you. I didn’t ask.”

“I mean it, you jackass. It’s a good mug. The puppies are cute.” Feng Xin rubs the back of his neck, bashful to admit it out loud. “I don’t want to break it.”

“Mugs aren’t that delicate, idiot,” Mu Qing scoffs. “And if you do break it, I can just—” he suddenly clamps his mouth shut, as if he’s said something he shouldn’t have.

He turns his head away like he’s done with the conversation, but like hell Feng Xin is gonna let him stop there when they’re finally on the verge of actually communicating with each other.

“You can just what?” Feng Xin asks, not accusatory like he’s sure Mu Qing is expecting. It’s a real question.

Mu Qing’s response is still explosive. “I can just—I’d just get you a new one!”

He says it like it’s so fucking simple. Like it’s obvious, like this hasn’t completely shifted Feng Xin’s entire worldview. This whole time, he thought Mu Qing was gleefully waiting for him to fuck up, when in reality he just… wanted Feng Xin to use the gift he bought him.

Mu Qing—who is notoriously frugal and never has much cash to burn—is more than willing to spend his hard earned money on silly little (very cute) novelty mugs for Feng Xin. Mu Qing let Feng Xin see him cry. Mu Qing made him breakfast. Mu Qing is still wearing Feng Xin’s sweatshirt like he belongs in it, like it’s always been his.

For a long time, there’s been something taking root in Feng Xin’s chest when he looks at Mu Qing. All at once, it blooms.

“You’d do that for me?”

Feng Xin isn’t sure what kind of face he’s making, but whatever Mu Qing sees makes his ears burn red.

“S-stop,” he demands, flush darkening at the nervous way he stumbles through the word. It’s a crime, honestly, that Mu Qing can be all of the things he is and still manage to be cute , on top of it all. “Stop looking at me like—like that.”

“Like what?” Like I want to kiss you?

“Like you’re so surprised that I’d do something decent.”

Of course he still doesn’t get it.

“I’m not surprised, Mu Qing,” Feng Xin says, quiet but firm. 

Surprised is the wrong word entirely. For years, he’s known that Mu Qing is a far better person than anyone gives him credit for being. He knows that Mu Qing goes above and beyond for the people he cares about, even if he does it in a deeply Mu Qing way.

He just didn’t know how much Mu Qing cares about him specifically. 

Now that he does know, what he’s feeling isn’t surprise, it’s—relief. Warmth. Like stretching out on a blanket and lying in the sun.

Feng Xin takes a risk and reaches towards Mu Qing, gently tucking a stray lock of hair behind his ear. “I mean it. I’m not surprised at all.”

Mu Qing catches his hand before it can retreat—but instead of smacking it away, he holds it in place, pressed against his pink cheek. His eyes are dark and lovely and full of some emotion that Feng Xin thinks he’s beginning to understand.

“Hey,” he starts. It’s a warning, or maybe a request for reassurance. 

Feng Xin traces Mu Qing’s cheek with his thumb, smiling helplessly. “Hey.”

Just like yesterday, Feng Xin isn’t sure when their faces got so close. But unlike yesterday, this time, he knows he’s going to be kissed.

“Close your eyes,” Mu Qing says, low and urgent, softer than Feng Xin’s ever heard him say anything.

“Why?” Feng Xin can’t help himself. “Are you gonna cry again?”

“Insufferable,” Mu Qing mutters, but he’s grinning. Feng Xin feels it pressed to his mouth when their lips finally meet.

At first, kissing Mu Qing is nothing like Feng Xin imagined it would be.

Because he did imagine it. He can admit that, now that it’s actually happening. He imagined it all the time. In all of Feng Xin’s fantasies, their kissing was dirty and rough—something done in the middle of an argument, a “shut the fuck up” as much as an expression of affection.

He never dared to imagine kissing Mu Qing tenderly. Didn’t have the hope.

Even if he did, he couldn’t have possibly dreamt up the sweet, soft-edged way Mu Qing is kissing him right now. The pressure of his lips is feather-light, tentative in a way they’ve never ever been with each other—like he’s positive that any second, Feng Xin is either going to shove him away or just disintegrate under his touch.

Feng Xin swallows back a laugh at the thought. As if.

The hand that isn’t cupping Mu Qing’s face flies to his waist to pull him in a bit closer, just to assure him Feng Xin isn’t going anywhere—and it’s like a switch has been flipped. Mu Qing makes a punched out noise, winding his arms around Feng Xin’s neck, and instantly the kiss deepens from chaste to downright filthy. Fucking hell, who taught Mu Qing how to kiss like this?

…on second thought, Feng Xin doesn’t want to think about that. Anyway, it’s hard to think about anything at all when Mu Qing’s leg—which is long and slender and his leg, oh god, his fucking leg —is wrapping around Feng Xin and pulling their hips flush together.

Now this is much closer to what Feng Xin imagined, but impossibly better. Almost feels too good to be true.

Is it too good to be true?

Are they moving too fast? They only just confirmed that they’re even friends, and now suddenly Mu Qing is trying to climb Feng Xin like a tree in the middle of their kitchen at 10 in the goddamn morning.

A terrible thought pops into Feng Xin’s head.

“Mu Qing,” Feng Xin says, pulling back a little, gasping for breath. Mu Qing follows him with his mouth, clumsily landing on the hinge of Feng Xin’s jaw and beginning a descent of kisses down his neck. More strangled, Feng Xin tries again, “Mu Qing.”

With great effort—only because he really, really doesn’t want to—Feng Xin finally succeeds in dislodging Mu Qing from his neck. Mu Qing makes a discontented little sound at his removal, slowly blinking at Feng Xin in confusion, dark brown eyes gone almost black with how wide his pupils are blown.

He’s painfully pretty and Feng Xin thinks he might possibly maybe definitely die if he doesn’t kiss him again, but nonetheless, he clears his throat and forces himself to say: “Mu Qing, listen, this isn’t—I mean, is this just a rebound thing for you?”

The beautiful, dazed look flees from Mu Qing’s eyes the second those words make impact, replaced by a knifepoint glare. “What.”

That’s not even a question, it’s a dare. A tone that brooks no argument—but Feng Xin has been arguing with him for years and he’s not about to stop now. Not when he needs to make sure they’re both on the same page.

“Look, I—I’m really fucking serious about you, okay?” Feng Xin half-shouts.

The words startle him—partially because he didn’t expect them to come out that loud, but also because he didn’t expect them to feel so true. When did he start falling for Mu Qing? Since they moved in together? Since college? Since high school? Has he spent this whole time in free fall, only realizing it now that he’s hit the pavement? Feng Xin doesn’t know.

What he does know: “This can’t be a casual, one-time thing. And if this is just a rebound for you because you got dumped, we should probably stop, because—”

Mu Qing cuts him off with a wordless, indignant sound. “Oh my god! You,” he takes Feng Xin’s face in his hands, possibly to snap his neck, “Are the stupidest man. To ever walk the earth.”

Real rude shit to say to a guy who’s trying to pour his heart out to you! Feng Xin tries to frown, but it’s hard when his cheeks are all squished. “Hey!”

“Why do you think I started hooking up with him in the first place?” Mu Qing gives him a little shake. Neck snapping feels more and more likely by the second. “I was trying to get over you!”

Once again, silence falls over the kitchen.

Feng Xin feels faintly like he’s been hit by a truck—but like, a good truck? A really good truck. The best truck. He watches as embarrassed horror gradually overtakes Mu Qing’s expression as he realizes what he’s said. Slowly, Mu Qing’s hands leave Feng Xin’s face so he can cover his own.

Feng Xin’s lips begin to twitch upwards without his permission. “You—”

“Shut up.”

“Mu Qing—”

“Shut up.”

“You really like me.” Feng Xin is smiling so hard his face hurts.

There’s a long pause and then a quiet, begrudgingly grumble: “Unfortunately.” Mu Qing sneaks a quick glance at Feng Xin through his fingers and hisses when he sees the way he’s beaming at him. “Stop that!”

Feng Xin laughs. “Can’t help it.” As gently as he can, he pries Mu Qing’s hands away from his face, pressing kisses to his knuckles when he manages to get them free. “I like you. I like you so much.”

Mu Qing is almost worryingly red. His mouth opens and closes soundlessly, like he isn’t quite sure what to do with it now that he’s run out of sarcastic things to say.

He looks down at his hands, still held in Feng Xin’s own. “Do you really mean that?”

“Wouldn’t say it if I didn’t.” He gives Mu Qing’s hands a little squeeze. “Thanks for not getting over me.”

That actually makes Mu Qing laugh—a crisp, musical sound that he muffles in Feng Xin’s shoulder.

“Fuck you,” he groans, but Feng Xin can feel him grinning through the thin material of his shirt. “You have to help me fish my keys out of the sewer.”

Oh, right. The keys. Feng Xin had nearly forgotten about that.

He lets go of Mu Qing’s hands so he can wrap his arms around them, gently swaying from side to side. “We could just get you new keys. They were probably swept away by the rain, anyway.” He kisses Mu Qing’s hair, humming thoughtfully. “And even if they weren’t, they’re all sewer-y now.”

Mu Qing pops out of his hiding place just to shoot him an unimpressed look. “Oh, what, you’re scared of a little sewer?”

“Fuck off! Fine, we’ll look for your fucking sewer keys, since you love them so much.”

One day Feng Xin will learn not to let Mu Qing goad him into doing whatever he wants just by accusing him of being a coward, but today is not that day. Mu Qing preens at the small victory, looking entirely too fucking pleased with himself. Bastard. The worst part? Feng Xin is so damn smitten he can’t even bring himself to pretend to be mad about it.

“And then—afterwards, we can. Do something. Like—” Mu Qing’s smug expression falters as he chokes out the words, “Like a date.”

Feng Xin tries not to chuckle at him, but it’s a losing battle. Mu Qing really is terrible with feelings, isn’t he? That shouldn’t be as endearing as it is.

“You’re very demanding,” Feng Xin tells him. He couldn’t keep the fondness out of his voice if he tried.

Mu Qing arches one perfectly shaped eyebrow. “Are you complaining?”

“Nope!” Feng Xin kisses the tip of Mu Qing’s nose, reveling in the faux-affronted noise he makes in response. “Not at all.”