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“If you’re going to fucking follow me, at least do it quietly!” Feng Xin snaps, a steadily growing irritation finally bubbling over the surface when Mu Qing snaps another branch under his feet in a way that can only be purposeful.
There’s a pause—a blissful moment of peace—and then—
Snap.
Feng Xin whirls around, eyes blazing, to meet the calm, unbothered stare of Mu Qing behind him. “You—!”
Mu Qing stares him right in the eye, face insufferably blank, and presses his foot down harder into the dirt, twisting it as he does. Another, smaller, crack echoes like rolling thunder in the otherwise silent forest trail they’d been walking down, and with it, something similarly snaps inside Feng Xin.
If asked later, he won’t be able to say exactly what happened after that. All he’ll be able to say is red hot, burning, only slightly unreasonable, rage filled his vision before he lunged.
By the time they stop rolling around the trail and get back on their feet, neither of them is untouched. Mu Qing’s hair has started to slip loose, his robes are significantly disheveled, he’s covered in dirt and mud and grass stains, and he’s got a few red marks from where Feng Xin landed a couple good hits. On the other side, Feng Xin isn’t in a much better state.
He does, however, notice that he managed to get a few more hits in on Mu Qing than Mu Qing got on him and a delusional sort of pride curls inside him.
Mu Qing brushes himself off and adjusts his robes, glaring all the while. It’s frustrating, really. If he’d just stopped stepping on branches, they wouldn’t be in this state! What’s he got to be so upset about?! It’s his fault they’re like this, and now—now they’ve wasted who knows how long that he could have been spending trying to find His Highness!
Turning his back to Mu Qing, Feng Xin brushes the leaves and dirt off himself. He still doesn’t understand why Mu Qing insisted on coming with him. He was perfectly happy searching all on his own, and Mu Qing didn’t show any interest in it before, so why all the sudden is he so—
Feng Xin exhales, closing his eyes for a moment.
Alright, so he’s still not over Mu Qing’s abandonment.
Who would be?! He left, and His Highness got worse and worse and—and—even when he brought those damn supplies. It wasn’t—fuck, it was just guilt, wasn’t it? If he’d just stuck around, Xie Lian would have never had to resort to—to—
Another exhale. His nails dig into his palms as he clenches his fists, not quite hard enough to break skin yet, but bordering on it.
He left too—and he regrets it now, really—and maybe it makes him a hypocrite for not being able to forgive Mu Qing for doing the same, but he just…can’t. And now, he’s here, suddenly wanting to help Feng Xin find their prince under some pathetically feeble guise of a mission?
It makes him seethe.
But if they fight again…they need to keep walking—so that’s what he does. Feng Xin, not caring to wait for Mu Qing to finish righting himself, starts down the trail once more. Whether Mu Qing follows him or not doesn’t matter, all that matters now is getting to the next damn town.
By the time they make it to the town, it’s midday and there’s no sign that Xie Lian had ever been there or was still there if he had been. By the time they leave for the next one after that, trying to ignore the ache that comes with another failure, the skies are beginning to bleed orange.
The next town is closer, so by the time they arrive, the sun is still only halfway set—still brightening the horizon with its light but painting the heavens a myriad of shades of red and orange and pink.
This town is smaller than the last, quieter.
There aren’t as many people on the streets, but Feng Xin guesses that could be partially attributed to the evening chill settling in the air and the incoming dusk.
“What makes you think he’s going to be here?” Mu Qing asks, looking around with a frown, as he walks beside Feng Xin.
Yes, he had caught up. Not long after Feng Xin made it to the previous town, he’d stumbled out of the trees with barely concealed fury at being left behind, and they…may have had another brief tussle but that was neither here nor there.
They’d settled into a sort of peace, finally, after that and that was what mattered.
Feng Xin nearly stumbles when their shoulders brush—just barely, a featherlight, ghosting of a touch, really, but it’s enough to make his step falter. He prays—ironically—Mu Qing didn’t notice and covers the fumble up with what they do best.
“What makes you think he’s not?” Feng Xin retorts, not looking at his companion. “I think we both know who’s been with him longer—I know the kind of places he likes.”
This time it’s Mu Qing who falters. It’s not until his expression chills over that Feng Xin realizes what he’s said wrong. He opens his lips to clarify—to say he didn’t mean it like that—he wasn’t talking about that—sure he’d just gone on a big internal rant about how not over it he is, but he didn’t mean—he just meant—
Mu Qing, however, doesn’t wait for him to fix his mistake this time. He stomps ahead, jaw clenched tight, and leaves Feng Xin to swear at himself and his careless mouth in the middle of the street.
They’d just stopped fighting…
He can’t just stand around here like a fool, though, lamenting the temporary peace that had settled over them for once. Before Mu Qing can get too far away, Feng Xin picks up his feet and follows after him, biting the inside of his cheek so he doesn’t say something else and make the whole situation worse.
It’s awkward, though. When he finally catches up and settles in beside Mu Qing, the silence is stifling. A few times, he opens his mouth to say something, anything, to break the damn silence. He stops himself last minute every time. If everything he says just makes things worse…
Even if there was nothing wrong with what he said, Mu Qing would read into some hidden double meaning and storm off again and—Feng Xin grits his teeth and walks on without saying a word. His brows furrowed and steps heavy, eyes trained on the ground in front of him, he doesn’t even notice when Mu Qing stumbles to a stop until a hand abruptly wraps around his wrist and tugs him back.
Something flares up in Feng Xin’s chest and he whips around, ready to snap, but the words die on his tongue when he sees the look on Mu Qing’s face.
Blinking, he lets himself be dragged back and held in place beside Mu Qing, his hand firm on Feng Xin’s wrist. It’s concerning, the way he’s paled to the point of almost looking ghostly. And the expression on his face—haunted is the only way to describe it, really. There’s no other way to put it.
“What?” Feng Xin asks, frown deepening. “What is it?”
Mu Qing doesn’t answer. In fact, he doesn’t even look Feng Xin’s way. Doesn’t tear his eyes away from whatever he’s staring at. Ignoring the burn of Mu Qing’s hand around his wrist, Feng Xin turns forward, following the line of Mu Qing’s stare to see what’s got him so out of sorts.
When he does finally see what Mu Qing’s staring at—or who, rather…his breath catches in his throat and the world freezes around them.
“Is that—” he chokes out, voice cutting off abruptly, unable to finish.
They both know what he was going to say, though. And they both know it is.
In the center of the small main town-center, only a few long strides away, donning old, white robes with silk around his wrist and throat, stands an exiled god and fallen prince. He holds a sword, old and dull, and he wields it like it’s an extension of himself.
He’s performing, Feng Xin realizes with a lump in his throat.
He’d always been good at sword-dancing, and it seems he’s never truly lost that skill. Even after so long, he moves with practiced ease and grace—each movement fluid and precise, flowing right into the next. Something sharp tightens in Feng Xin’s chest, and at the same time, so does the hand on his wrist.
For a moment, the sun shines just right and glints against the sword, making it almost glow. For a moment, the light is blinding, and then it’s not. And when it’s not, Feng Xin almost wishes it was again because now—now the setting sun has fallen just a few inches more and settled perfectly behind Xie Lian, surrounding and painting him in the colors of dusk.
And for a moment, Feng Xin is breathless, frozen. There, as evening settles over this small town, the scorned god twice-banished from the Heavens fades and the image of the Flower-Crowned Martial God and beloved-by-all Prince of Xianle flickers before them.
Beside him, he hears Mu Qing inhale sharply.
He understands.
Really, he does.
Oh, gods, all this time and he’s—Feng Xin’s eyes flit away from Xie Lian briefly, to the small tin of coins nearby him and, unbeknownst to him, a wounded noise punches out of his chest when he sees how empty it is. Then, he spots the bag beside it, tipped over and letting some of its contents slip out.
It’s just—it’s all junk and scraps.
His eyes snap back to His Highness, lips parted as he watches.
For a moment, he sees a mirage of the past where Xie Lian stands—an image of a once-fallen god with a stick, performing for a group of wide-eyed mortals, before being jeered at for something more entertaining.
The memory of the past blends into the present and a strange sort of grief settles into Feng Xin’s bones as he sees in real time how, where he’s risen higher and higher, the man who should be waiting for him at the top is still there, back in the distance where he’d left him behind.
His teeth clack painfully as he snaps his jaw shut and clenches it tight.
Out of the corner of his eye, Feng Xin spots a child creeping closer to Xie Lian as he performs. Then, before any of them can even think to react, the child darts forward, snags what few coins are in His Highness’s tin, and bolts off.
Xie Lian doesn’t even blink.
His calm smile doesn’t falter for even a second.
It’s like he didn’t even notice.
Righteous fury burns in Feng Xin’s gut at the sight. Someone—regardless of the fact it was a child—someone stole what meager earnings he’s made and he just—he just let it happen! Even in his current state, Feng Xin knows he could have stopped the kid! But he didn’t—he just—
The hand around his wrist slips down and fingers, cold and painfully familiar, tangle into his own. His breath hitches and the fire inside him flickers out. Despite himself, he looks down at where his and Mu Qing’s hands are joined, eyes wide and startled.
Mu Qing squeezes his hand, rough and tight—a warning and a comfort at the same time—and Feng Xin lets out a breath. He squeezes back just as rough, earning a small huff, before he tugs his hand free and crosses his arms over his chest.
“This is—”
“I know.” Mu Qing’s voice is quiet, but steady. Feng Xin doesn’t need to look at him to know the same guilt gnawing at him is making a fine meal out of Mu Qing as well. He lets out a quiet sigh and repeats, a little more resigned, “I know…”
They watch until the crowd starts to disperse and longer after. They should go—they’ve seen him, they know he’s safe and alive and okay, and it’s not like he’d want to see them anyway after how they—they know they should go, but they don’t. Side by side, Mu Qing and Feng Xin watch until the end. They watch his dance finish, they watch him return the sword he’d apparently borrowed back to his owner before they scurry off, they watch his shoulders sag as he looks at the empty tin, watch as he gathers his sack of scraps, watch as—
Their eyes meet.
Feng Xin freezes.
Xie Lian, still bent over and grabbing his sack, freezes similarly. He’d looked up, just for a moment, just to flick his hair back and…their eyes met.
His Highness looks terribly startled as he stares back at Feng Xin and Mu Qing, like a small animal caught in the sights of a hunter. It’s not a look that he should ever wear. He comes to his wits faster than Mu Qing or Feng Xin, though, and straightens up. The look is wiped from his face in an instant, replaced with an easy smile as he hauls his sack over his shoulder.
Unsure what else to do, Mu Qing and Feng Xin both spin around, turning their backs to their prince, to convene.
“We should leave,” Mu Qing mutters under his breath. “We should—we need to—”
“We can’t fucking leave, he already saw us!” Feng Xin hisses back, shoulders tense and eyes wide. He glances over his shoulder, inhales sharply, and looks forward again. “Fuck, fuck, he’s coming this way. He’s coming—”
“Feng Xin? Mu Qing?”
They both stiffen.
“Is that you?”
Something in Feng Xin’s chest squeezes at the curious hope in His Highness’s voice. He closes his eyes and takes a breath. Then, before he can convince himself it’s not a good idea, he turns around.
It hurts somewhere deep when Xie Lian’s eyes light up upon seeing his face, and it hurts more when he watches it happen again when Mu Qing reluctantly turns around.
“It is!” Xie Lian grins. “What a coincidence to see you both here!”
Coincidence, he says, a voice grumbles into Feng Xin’s private spiritual array.
He shoots Mu Qing a sharp look but says nothing in response. Instead, he clears his throat and tries not to look Xie Lian in the eye.
“Yes, well,” he pauses, uncertain.
Mission, Mu Qing hints.
“We had a mission in the area.” Feng Xin only feels a little bad about lying to His Highness in this way—it’s…for a good reason. It’s better this way. It’s too embarrassing to say he’d—they’d—been searching up and down and all around for him.
“Ah, are you sure you can be telling me that?” Xie Lian jokes, lighthearted, as he readjusts his sack on his shoulders.
Mu Qing shrugs. “Why not? You were a god; you already know how things work—it’s not like it’ll hurt anything.”
Xie Lian’s smile falters for a moment, but it’s back quick enough to make Feng Xin second-guess his eyes.
What the fuck, Mu Qing?! Feng Xin snaps at him in their array.
It’s true, Mu Qing retorts simply.
Oh gods, he’s going to punch this man—
“I suppose you’re right,” Xie Lian hums, finally, but his tone is a bit more somber now. Then, an idea seems to spark in his mind because he perks right back up again. “Since you’re here, why don’t I treat you to dinner?”
Mu Qing and Feng Xin share a look. They’d seen the empty tin—chances are his budget isn’t exactly…high. Could he really afford to treat two people to a meal?
“It’s been a while since I’ve cooked for more than myself, but ah—I think I’ve got enough!” Xie Lian rambles on, completely missing the concern of his two friends.
He’s the same as he’d always been, Feng Xin realizes abruptly. Even now, back in these living conditions once more, he’s still…he acts like nothing is wrong, like he’s doing just fine and, ah, the guilt pricks at the back of Feng Xin’s mind once more.
The silence must seem like a rejection because Xie Lian lets out a short chuckle and rocks back on his heels. “But if you’ve got your mission…”
“We have time!” Feng Xin finds himself agreeing before he can think it through. A small, startled noise comes from beside him, where Mu Qing stands, giving him a look—he ignores him.
Leave if you want, Feng Xin tells him, I’m staying.
“Great!” Xie Lian beams, eyes sparkling. “Come on, I’ll show you to where I’m staying.”
Then, without waiting a moment longer, His Highness turns on his heel and starts off towards—presumably—his current accommodations. Feng Xin pauses just long enough to look at Mu Qing, searching for any sort of sign as to whether he would stay or go.
Mu Qing’s shoulders sag and he exhales quietly. Then, with a glare, he pushes roughly past Feng Xin and starts after Xie Lian, stomping the whole way.
Despite himself, Feng Xin finds himself fighting against a grin, watching the two ahead of him as he trails behind at an even pace.
A laugh comes from up ahead, where Mu Qing has caught up to Xie Lian, and he realizes with a start it’s His Highness’s laughter. The sound he hasn’t heard for so many years sounds just as familiar now as it was centuries ago, and Feng Xin’s throat constricts. He picks up his pace briefly, just enough to catch up and put himself on the other side of Xie Lian to Mu Qing.
As he falls into step beside them, the three walking shoulder to shoulder down the quiet streets, something tight unfurls in Feng Xin’s chest.
Soon enough, the trio come to stop in front of a small, dilapidated hut at the edge of town. It’s got more than one hole in the roof, the door is coming off the hinges, and the state of the wood makes it look older than the gods themselves—which, really, should not have been possible.
“This is where you live?” Mu Qing asks, as Xie Lian leads them inside, blunt as ever.
His Highness laughs, shaking his head. “Of course not!”
Feng Xin lets out a silent breath of relief—out of his peripheral, he sees Mu Qing do the same. Their relief is short-lived, however. Xie Lian putters about the small, single room hut a bit—setting down his bag of things and searching around for whatever ingredients he’s got left, rambling all the while.
“I found it abandoned like this a few weeks ago and it’s much better than a cave, or the streets, so I’ve decided to take up residence here for a bit while I’m in town,” he explains, clueless to the horror his words inflict upon the two gods in his doorway. “No one minds much—it wasn’t being used anyway; I don’t think they even realize I’m here!”
Xie Lian pulls a pot out of seemingly nowhere with a triumphant sound. He whirls around, grin bright as ever, and Feng Xin schools his expression to something less…obvious.
“Your Highness, this—”
“Oh! I don’t have a stove inside, we’ll have to eat outside,” Xie Lian cuts off Mu Qing, hugging the pot to his chest with wide eyes. “That’s fine, right? It’ll be like the old days!”
It’s a joke—it’s a joke. The playful, light tone he says it with as he slips right between the two gods and back outside makes it clear it’s a joke and yet—Feng Xin clenches his fists tightly. Like the old days. It’s like a slap to the face, and it’s worse because he didn’t even mean it. Fuck, is this how Mu Qing feels when—
“Are you coming?” A voice calls from outside the little house.
Feng Xin doesn’t answer—not with words, at least. He doesn’t spare a look for Mu Qing, knowing he’ll follow eventually, and walks out after His Highness. He pauses for a moment when he gets out and there’s no one there, until he hears from around the back,
“Ah, over here!”
When he walks around to the back of the house, Xie Lian is perched on the tips of his feet and crouched low to the ground in front of a small hand-made fire pit. Footsteps quietly come up and stop beside him, Feng Xin doesn’t need to look to know it’s Mu Qing.
The pot sits beside the fire pit, full of all the ingredients Xie Lian would need. Xie Lian himself concentrates entirely on the fire pit, brows furrowed as he tries to stoke a fire to cook with. After a few minutes of no success, Mu Qing lets out a heavy sigh and walks over. Xie Lian looks up, blinking, as Mu Qing kneels down across from him.
When Xie Lian just…continues staring at him, Mu Qing lets out another sigh and holds out his hand.
“Let me do it.”
“Oh,” His Highness blinks. He looks between the tools in his hands and Mu Qing, before coming to a conclusion. “Alright.”
The moment the tools are in Mu Qing’s hands, he sparks a fire almost immediately. Feng Xin doesn’t know whether he should equate it to luck or the years they spent doing exactly this for Xie Lian in their youth. So, he ignores it and closes the distance.
There’s a small log that looks like it was dragged there beside the fire pit. Feng Xin sits on it and props his elbows on his knees, dropping his chin into his palms. After a moment of watching the fire and coaxing it to burn a little brighter, Mu Qing drops down beside him.
Xie Lian wastes no time getting to work on the food. The sun has set considerably more by now, but the fire brightens the space around them with a gentle glow.
“How have things been in the Heavens?” His Highness asks suddenly, voice humming and inquisitive.
It’s an innocent question, but Feng Xin tenses, nonetheless. It drags him back to reality, out of the little fantasy he’d created in his mind where they weren’t gods and a fallen prince, but three friends on a trip. It reminds him harshly of why he’s there, why he’s been searching for Xie Lian—not that he could ever forget.
Who could ever forget?
“They’ve…” his voice trails off, brows furrowed tightly.
Mu Qing, unexpectedly, is the one who saves him from having to answer.
“The same as ever,” he tells Xie Lian. “Not much has changed since your banishment, if that’s what you mean.”
His Highness hums. A few moments pass before he speaks again, as if considering his words. Or maybe he’s just really concentrating on the food, Feng Xin thinks he likes that answer better.
“That’s good,” he says eventually. A short laugh echoes, but Feng Xin can’t help but feel like it doesn’t sound as real as the last one he heard. “I suppose you two wouldn’t be down here if anything big was going on.”
Mu Qing shrugs. “Maybe.”
The silence that follows is…more awkward than the last. Feng Xin shifts slightly, trying not to squirm from discomfort. The crackle and pop of the fire is almost deafening, and there’s a sort of tension in the air that even he can’t miss.
“Pei Ming’s been caught in another scandal,” he says abruptly, desperate to lighten the mood.
Mu Qing makes a small noise. “That’s right, what was it this time again?”
“A child left at his temple,” Feng Xin reminds him, smirking. “With a note saying it’s his.”
“Ah, right, his Palace was still in chaos when we left,” Mu Qing snorts.
Despite himself, Feng Xin laughs—just a quiet, short, huff of a laugh. It’s a laugh, nonetheless. “I would hate to be in Ling Wen’s Palace right now.”
He leans back, bracing his hands on the log on either side of him as he tilts his head back to look skyward. The tips of his fingers brush against another set, just barely, just enough to pretend he doesn’t notice it. He does exactly that.
“Ah, forgive me,” Xie Lian suddenly chimes in. Mu Qing and Feng Xin immediately look back at him. He sits back on his heels, head tilted and an awkward, apologetic smile on his face. “Which one is Pei Ming again?”
Feng Xin blinks. “General Ming Guang?”
His Highness’s smile widens a little more, a nervous chuckle slipping past his lips. “Oh, right, of course—General Ming…General Ming Guang—right. A child, who would have thought!”
It’s obvious to even the most oblivious man that he doesn’t remember either name. Feng Xin, however, spares him the mercy of having to admit it. Thankfully, Mu Qing does as well. The playful, gossiping mood has faded, though, with the reminder of how long Xie Lian has been locked out of the Heavens.
“Ah, food’s ready!”
Mu Qing and Feng Xin both perk up at this, sitting up straighter as Xie Lian dishes up their meals. It feels a little strange being served by him in this setting—it’s not…it’s not the same as in the past, where His Highness was His Highness, but it’s not…totally different, either. Feng Xin tries not to dwell on the thought too much, his head starting to hurt thinking about it.
Xie Lian hands over a bowl to each of them and sits back with his own on another log beside them with a grin.
“It’s been a while since I’ve cooked for anyone else—I’m glad I had enough supplies!” he laughs. “I hope it’s acceptable.”
Feng Xin opened his mouth to assure Xie Lian it was just fine, looking down at the bowl at the same time, and freezes. The words die on his tongue.
Mu Qing, he calls through their private array.
For once, instead of some sort of snarky retort, he just gets a weak response of, I see it.
The food in front of them, in their hands, is…well, Feng Xin’s not sure food is the right word for it at all, really. It’s a thick sludge, not quite purple but not quite not, with unidentifiable lumps of what must have once been vegetables. It is, in one word, inedible.
Xie Lian is looking at them so hopefully, though, and for a moment Feng Xin gets a horrible wave of nostalgia.
Does this look familiar to you? Mu Qing asks him silently, as if reading his mind. Feng Xin doesn’t answer.
Instead, he takes a deep breath, steels himself and preemptively mourns his senses. Then, he lifts his wooden spoon and takes a large, steaming bite.
Xie Lian perks up, eyes bright. “How is it?”
I think I’m gonna be sick. A quiet snort from beside him is his only indicator Mu Qing heard his message.
“It’s—it’s unlike anything I’ve ever had,” Feng Xin chokes out when he can finally force himself to swallow.
If Xie Lian recognizes the careful phrasing, he doesn’t show it. Mu Qing certainly does, though, and he mutters out a small, ‘idiot’ under his breath, as if Feng Xin isn’t right next to him and can’t hear him perfectly well.
“Mu Qing, why don’t you have a taste?” Feng Xin loudly suggests in retaliation.
The way he stiffens beside him is worth it all. Mu Qing looks at him, glaring, before he picks up his spoon and shoves a bite in his mouth. Feng Xin relishes in watching the myriad of colors and expressions Mu Qing’s face flickers through before landing on carefully blank and pale as a ghost.
“Ah! I’m glad you like it,” His Highness says, relief evident in his voice, right as Mu Qing opens his mouth—probably to tell him just how much he doesn’t like it—and Mu Qing visibly deflates. It’s been so long since they’ve seen him so…bright.
Centuries, it’s been centuries.
“I was a bit worried,” Xie Lian continues to ramble. “I know that it’s not much, but…”
Feng Xin makes a decision there and then. He’s a god—he’s put his body through worse. They finally found Xie Lian after how long? Determination written in his brow, Feng Xin shoves spoon after spoon of the toxic stew into his mouth. If he eats fast enough, he can barely even taste it.
He ignores the look he can feel Mu Qing giving him and finishes off the bowl. By the time he’s done, his breathing is a little erratic and he will definitely regret this in the morning, but still, he holds out his bowl and juts out his chin.
“How about seconds?”