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Chapter Text

It was after the battle with Jun Wu that Mu Qing realised:

Feng Xin, a martial god, was injured.

He, Mu Qing, was also injured.

Hua Cheng, the ghost king, was gone.

Xie Lian, the once-esteemed Crown Prince, martial god of war, was emotionally shattered, body battered.

---

Mu Qing sighed...

His robes soaked in blood, covered in dirt and grime.

But under that,

Not an inch of skin under was left unscathed.

Hey!  he heard his private communication array with the four- no... just the three of them now.

This voice...

Feng Xin?

"Ugh." he thought, annoyed at the 'disturbance of his peace and tranquillity that could have been used for better purposes'.

Instead, he sent back: What?

Where are you? Where's Dianxia? Is he ok? Ahh, right. Feng Xin was worried like an overprotective mother.

I don't know where he is. Just go look for him if your haven't already, dumbass, and no, I believe from all this, he is just most likely not ok!

Fuck, no need to get so worked up about it! I don't even know why I'm asking you at this point. It's not like you care about anyone other than yourself. But, yes, I am going to go look for him like I was doing perfectly fine before!

Mu Qing rolled his eyes. Of course he needed to find him, why wouldn't he?  Yeah right... whatever...

But, deep inside...

That hurt.

Then he shut the array.

Yes, he didn’t like meddling in other people’s business.

Yes, he kept his distance, arms crossed and eyes sharper than his words.

Yes, he acted like he couldn’t care less, like the world could burn and he’d only complain about the smoke.

But he wasn't completely apathetic...

All these years Mu Qing had spent on this image, cold, sarcastic, prideful...

Whatever...

He continued dragging his injured self along the dark, stone maze... and turned a sharp corner.

Then he saw...

This other battered, bloody god that was also... barely alive.

Xie Lian

He was crying, on the verge of breaking...

Mu Qing had to be gentle now.

Just this once.

The cuts on his shoulder still stung from Jun Wu's grip... His wrists still bleeding, broken one arm; and a leg... bruised all over, swallowing blood...

But he slowly, stubbornly dragged his battered body to the wet, now red-robed Xie Lian.

“It’s okay. He’ll come back.” he said, with determination and a hint of gentleness in his tone. “-Don’t you have the ring? He can’t die unless the ring shatters. He will be back soon.” he said again, more hopeful.

Xie Lian looked up at him with a mix of shock, sadness, and a flash of hope...

“...really? - I-I thought you didn’t want him back...”

“As much as I hate that imbecile- I mean kind person... You look terrible without him... so I kinda have no choice?” He said, as he rolled his eyes at the mention of that ghost boy that had taunted him all this time...

“San Lang...” and Xie Lian's voice trailed off...

“Come on, he wouldn’t want to see you like this... When he gets back he will kill me for this...” and then Mu Qing swore under his breath, silently begging Hua Cheng's return to be sooner... Xie Lian needed him...

He was already low on spiritual energy, and his blood was either spilled over the stone floor, or sucked out by the shackle... but what could he do?

He helped him off the floor, and supported Xie Lian with his arm.

They ascended.

Once Feng Xin was notified the Crown Prince was safe and in the heavens, he had ascended to tend to his own wounds, which were already really bad.

But they were not as bad as Mu Qing's...

The injured Mu Qing had already carried Xie Lian to the palace.

He had tried his best to stay standing, because the room had relatively light furniture, with shades of cream, white, grey...

And he was covered in dirt, grime, and blood...

It would definitely stain the furniture...

And he couldn't worry Xie Lian further at a time like... this.

He had broken a few ribs, cuts here and there, swelling bruises, burns, broken bones...

His vision was blurry, with small dark spots in it...

Yet, Mu Qing pretended as if nothing had happened.

Sure, maybe Xie Lian was an observant person, but he would never call people out on their acts in front of them, no matter the issue. The most he had done was ask someone else to deal with it, or warn them... so not a big deal.

Especially since this time, he was still recovering. He was too broken to notice the stiffer movements, and the way Mu Qing had started to favour his right side more, and the part-winces and part-flinches...

Xie Lian right now... was pretty roughed up.

To calm him down, Mu Qing quickly whipped up a plate of gui hua gao, which was his specialty, actually.

*gui hua gao is osmanthus cake (its very good i recommend)

Xie Lian was given the small plate of this dessert.

The cakey food was sweet, scented like the flower, and soft. It also had this heavenly taste to it. Maybe a pale yellow, with some petals as decoration... some sugar...

All in all, it was the best food Xie Lian had had in ages (literally).

Maybe that was a result in eating his own cooking...

But the sugary cake was definitely good...

Okay... maybe Xie Lian’s face brightened just a little bit after eating the cake...

But when he heard Mu Qing scoff, he knew it wasn’t just a little bit...

“You were reluctant to eat anything, now I make something in like what, five minutes, and you’re this happy?”

“...Mmn...” he was still eating the gui hua gao...

Mu Qing chuckled. “I guess I’ll just have to bring you some when I visit you... If you decide to stay alive for that, that is.”

Xie Lian, in his weakened (-ish?) state, nodded like an excited child, hopeful for the next time he would get this treat.

Mu Qing just smiled... just a little bit...

But he knew it wasn’t just a little bit when Xie Lian smiled too.

Chapter Text

“You made these?”

Xie Lian was looking at him, in a mix of surprise and wonder.

Mu Qing nodded. “Who else would’ve?”

“I thought they tasted familiar... You always had a knack of making good food...”

Mu Qing froze.

Instead of saying something like: ‘That’s not true’ or ‘thanks’,

He thought:

This was familiar...

Swept away by his thoughts...

He heard the sound of a chopping board, and smelt the light scent of spring onions. The kitchen around him was clean, neat, and full of supplies.

Ahh, so this was the Xie Lian’s royal kitchen when he was still the respected Crown Prince...

A small plate of osmanthus cakes was placed on the table, with its lingering, sweet, enchanting aroma filling the air...

Right now, he was making some lunch...

Then he heard footsteps getting louder... heading in his direction.

He didn’t need to turn around. The heavy, too-confident footsteps behind him were unmistakable- only one person stomped around like the world owed him a thankyou for showing up.

“You’re chopping them wrong.”

“As if you would know any better.” He scoffed, without turning, “What do you want now?”

“Who said I wouldn’t know? I still have the basic ability to cook, you know?”

Mu Qing turned, and tilted his head, as if asking Really? Because I would love to disagree...

Instead, he muttered, “What do you want now?” not even bothering to hide the annoyed tone in his voice.

Feng Xin looked a bit surprised by this response.

“Nothing? Why do you always think I’m trying to get something out of you? For the love of god...”

Just before Mu Qing could retaliate, Xie Lian came to interrupt their dispute.

“Stop fighting or there’s going to be another idiom chain!”

Silence.

“Mu Qing, that looks good! What are you making?” he smiled, gently, looking at the thin boy with wonder.

“...Osmanthus cake and I’m making some qiancengbing.” He said, quietly.

*qiancengbing is a savory pancake, and translates to 'thousand layer pancake' (I recommend; it's very good when you go to the right store!!!)

“Wow! Lovely! I’m looking forward to lunch, Mu Qing! How about you join us after to the market? You look like you need a break... We can buy some gifts for your mother when we’re there!” he said cheerfully.

Mu Qing wanted to go, obviously...

But he found himself looking uneasily at Feng Xin...

Feng Xin just shrugged.

“If dianxia wishes for me to go, I will follow...” replied Mu Qing, refusing eye contact.

“Great! That’s settled then! See you there!” he waved, his sleeve fluttering as he moved, and at the edges, the delicate gleam of gold caught the light. It was not an ostentatious display, but a quiet, elegant accent- gilded thread embroidered into the fabric, tracing the hem of his cuffs with a fine, intricate line. The gold was reserved, never overpowering, but it shone with a soft brilliance against the deep color of his robes, a subtle reminder of his royal status.

Each fold of his sleeve seemed to whisper of wealth and refinement, the gold tracing the fabric like the last glimmer of sunlight before it vanished beyond the horizon. It was not loud in its opulence, but rather, a quiet grace that spoke volumes of the careful craftsmanship and luxury that still clung to his garments, despite the tumultuous years. The gilded edge, like a memory of a flourishing kingdom, was a soft echo of Xianle's once-glorious court.

Right... this was young Xie Lian... before all of the pain...

After they left, Feng Xin following shortly after, Mu Qing was left to cook alone again.

Not that he minded.

Not that he cared.

Right?

Soon, the kitchen was thick with the smell of fresh dough and warm oil. Mu Qing stood at the counter, his hands steady as he worked, his brow furrowed in concentration. There was no rush; it was the kind of work he preferred- something that required skill, focus, and patience.

With swift, practiced movements, he measured out the flour, the oil, the water, and salt. His hands moved with a precision that spoke of years of repetition. There was no wasted gesture, no unnecessary motion. Every ingredient was accounted for, and the dough, when it began to come together, felt soft, smooth, and just right- as if it had been waiting for him to find it, as if it knew what he could do with it.

Mu Qing set the dough aside to rest, eyes never straying from it as he reached for the rolling pin. He pressed it down gently, then turned it with methodical movements. His mind was perfectly in tune with his hands, every layer building upon the last, a steady rhythm that neither rushed nor lingered. He could feel the dough’s elasticity, the slight resistance, the way it yielded just enough under pressure.

The edges of the dough began to thin as he rolled it out, careful not to push too hard. Each layer would depend on how delicate he could make it — thin enough to be translucent, but not so fragile that it would tear. There was a fine line between precision and perfection, and Mu Qing knew how to walk it.

When the dough was ready, he brushed it with a thin layer of oil, folding it over itself in a practiced motion that resulted in a neat, layered bundle. He pressed it down again, rolling the dough into a long, tight coil, before cutting it into even pieces. As he placed each piece on the counter, his eyes traced the perfect symmetry of them- they were all the same, no mistake, no flaw.

In the hot pan, the thousand-layer pancake began to sizzle, the faintest puff of steam rising from the thin, almost translucent layers. Mu Qing’s eyes flicked to the pancakes, assessing the heat, the browning. He could tell by the sound of the sizzle, by the way the layers began to curl up and crisp on the edges, that they were just right. Not too much, not too little. Golden, flaky, and impossibly delicate.

When they were done, he slid them onto a plate, the edges crisped to perfection. He couldn't help but admire them- the way they shimmered in the light, the layers revealing themselves in delicate folds. The crispness that broke away to reveal the soft, chewy interior.

"Just as it should be," Mu Qing muttered quietly to himself, his gaze lingering on the pancakes, a small, satisfied flicker in his eyes.

No one could make them quite like this- not with such care, not with such precision. It was a silent act of devotion, one that Xie Lian would never ask for but would always appreciate.

After sprinkling the pre-cut spring onions on top, Xie Lian came back just in time, with Feng Xin trailing closely behind.

“Ahh, that smells so good! I knew you always had a knack for cooking good food!”

Chapter Text

Feng Xin shouldn’t have been walking yet.

Every step dragged pain up from his ribs, each breath caught somewhere between shallow and sharp. But lying there while Xie Lian sat in silence wasn’t something he could stand- not again.

So he got up. Quietly. Carefully. The door creaked open under his hand, and he stepped into the room.

The first thing he saw was Xie Lian, curled slightly inward, hands folded too tightly in his lap, somewhat happy eating osmanthus cakes...?

The second thing was Mu Qing, who stood still near him with perfect posture, face blank.

Too blank.

Too still.

“You’re up,” Xie Lian said softly, lifting his head. His smile didn’t reach his eyes.

Feng Xin gave a short nod, keeping most of his weight off his bad leg as he crossed the room. “You alright?”

Xie Lian opened his mouth to answer, but Mu Qing cut in first. “Of course he isn't.”

The words were cold, but not cruel. Not exactly. Just... blunt, like a door closing.

Feng Xin turned to look at him- but Mu Qing wasn’t looking at anyone. His eyes were fixed somewhere distant, unfocused. Like he was still seeing something else. Something not here.

A beat of silence passed. Then another.

“...Mu Qing?” Feng Xin frowned.

Mu Qing blinked once. Snapped out of it. His expression tightened, like shutters slamming closed.

“I’m going to step out,” Mu Qing said, standing so abruptly the hem of his robe flared behind him. “It’s too hot in here.”

And without another word, he was gone.

The moment the door clicked shut behind him, Mu Qing exhaled sharply through his nose.

The hallway was dim, lit only by lanterns that cast long shadows across the stone floor. The silence should have been calming. It wasn’t.

Each step sent a dull, throbbing pulse up his side- like something buried deep beneath the muscle was stirring again, angry at being ignored. He pressed a hand lightly to his ribs through his robes, fingers brushing the place where the bruise had darkened to something nearly black.

Still wet.

Still bleeding?

No. He couldn’t afford that.

He walked faster.

His head was beginning to pound again, too- pressure building behind his eyes, curling like smoke. He clenched his jaw, forcing his back to stay straight, his breathing quiet. If anyone saw him like this-

No one did. No one ever did.

Even earlier, with both of them in the same room- Xie Lian still recovering, Feng Xin too preoccupied- neither of them had noticed.

And that was fine.

That was good.

Better invisible than weak.

He turned the corner, nearly stumbling over the uneven edge of a rug. The pain lanced sharper now. Something shifted wrong in his side, and for a breathless moment, the world tilted dangerously.

He stopped. Pressed his hand harder against his ribs. Waited.

It passed. It always did.

Just a few more steps. Just somewhere quiet. Somewhere he could breathe.

Chapter Text

The silence of the palace followed him.

It wasn’t large. Nothing like the one from before. This one had been rebuilt- quietly, with limited funds, after Xie Lian’s third ascension. Still graceful in style, still Xianle in architecture, but smaller. Less gold, more shadow. Stone pillars instead of jade. Red silk, but faded.

He stepped into one of the outer walkways, moonlight slipping through the open corridor. Somewhere in the courtyard, the osmanthus tree stood blooming—miraculously alive, its branches nodding slightly in the wind.

The scent followed him out. Clung to his sleeves. Sweet. Gentle. Invasive.

Mu Qing leaned against the wall. The lacquered wood was smooth beneath his hand, warm from the day's sun. He left a faint smear of red across it- dull, half-dried. Looked at it. Wiped it away.

The tear in his side was worse now. The dark silk of his robes stuck damp against it. It would be smart to treat it soon. Bind it before it got infected. Clean the blood.

He didn’t move.

No one had noticed.

He hadn’t let them. Stood tall. Made himself sharp. Wore silence like armor, pride like a second skin.

But...

His legs gave out slower than he expected, and he slid down the wall, careful not to jar his ribs too much. Even that hurt. Every breath dragged the wound open again.

Still, he said nothing.

He had people to take care of.

People who were injured.

People that he cared about.

Not that he would ever admit it.

He rested his head back and looked at the ceiling beams—plain wood, painted red, curling with delicate clouds in the corners. Someone had done their best with the design. It mimicked the old palace. It tried.

But it wasn’t the same.

The wind moved through the corridor, brushing the silk banners that hung limply from the eaves. They barely stirred.

And then—
Something flickered. At the far end of the walkway.

Red. Just for a moment.

A thread of light. A spark. A shape.

His breath caught. He turned too fast—pain spiked down his side—and whatever it was, it was already gone.

No butterfly.
No shadow.

Nothing.

He let his head fall back again. Closed his eyes.

Maybe he was imagining things.
Maybe not.

It didn’t matter.

Inside, Xie Lian was likely asleep now. Curled small. Silent. He hadn’t eaten more than half a cake.

That was fine too.

Mu Qing lifted a hand, looked at the dried blood beneath his nails. He thought about getting up. Treating the wound. Cleaning his hands.

But the thought passed.

He said nothing, and no one asked.
It was easier that way.

...

Right...?

Chapter Text

In the dim, grey light that filtered through the patterned windows of the corridor...

Mu Qing stood, at last. He had stayed there for a bit too long...

His side throbbed, and his robe clung to the wound, damp with blood. His body was stiff, heavy with fatigue.

He didn’t go far.

He was bleeding.

Tired.

When he had stepped back inside, he didn't return to his own quarters. Instead, he paused right outside the outer room where Xie Lian slept. He overheard soft, tired speaking.

So, he hadn't slept yet. Huh.

Another familiar voice rang too. Ah, Feng Xin hadn't left.

Mu Qing listened for longer.

Right now, Feng Xin was busy convincing Xie Lian to let him stay.

“-Your Highness,” Feng Xin said, “you need care right now. I should stay. Who knows when you’ll do something stupid for Crimson Rain again.”

"-I'm not going to do anything, Feng Xin... trust me..." Xie Lian gently said, "I'm not that lovesick..."

...

Silence...

...

"Okay, fine... I-...-just... get some rest, okay? Today has been... a long day..."

Just before Feng Xin could press further. Mu Qing felt a sharp throb at his ribs.

Right... he still had wounds...

And he couldn't let his deputies see his wounds.

Another sharp jolt of pain came, forcefully dragging him to the present.

So it was that bad, huh.

He needed treatment...

And couldn't go get them. He couldn't just ask for them, no, he had to get them... discreetly.

Another throb reminded him why he was here... maybe he'll just make up a lie?

Mu Qing stepped into the room. His movements were steady. His face, blank. But each breath pulled at his ribs.

“I came for medical supplies,” he said, voice even. “One of my deputies was injured. The past week’s prayers piled up and they were caught in a Yao ambush. They’re still untreated.”

He added something vague about slow work rates. It didn’t matter if it made sense—only that it sounded like it did.

Xie Lian sat up a little straighter, concern already blooming across his face.

“Oh—are they alright? Did they get help?”

“Not yet. I was just informed.” Mu Qing’s tone didn’t change. “The room where we keep supplies is blocked. Scrolls, prayers. I came to borrow some from you, if that’s possible.”

“Take whatever you need." Xie Lian said, his voice soft with concern. "And… don’t hesitate to ask if you need anything else. You can stay here, if you like."

Mu Qing nodded, keeping his expression neutral. 'Thanks.' He bowed his head just slightly, a gesture that felt more like an obligation than a courtesy.”

The lie felt... wrong.

But...

It wasn't completely a lie...

But it wasn't necessarily true either...

Mu Qing felt a little bad for lying... partly.

He had prayers, just not that many...

There was no injured deputy...

But the borrowed room was just a bonus; now he could stay closer to Xie Lian while he recovered... and he couldn't face his followers noticing the bloody robes in the wash...

His robes were dark. The blood could’ve been mistaken as sweat. That was plausible.

If they didn't wash it, that is.

The sharp throb in his ribs reminded him why he was here. 

Again.

He left with the supplies.

He said nothing else.

As the healing Xie Lian was resting, Feng Xin had been the one to lead Mu Qing to his room. Feng Xin insisted that Xie Lian should rest, and refused to let go on that. Mu Qing was reluctant, but there was no reason for objecting.

So they walked silently for a bit... which was very unlike them...

"So... what's with the prayers?" Feng Xin asked cautiously, awkwardly.

Like there was a rift between them.

"Nothing much. You?" Mu Qing glanced at Feng Xin from the corner of his eye. The familiar irritation he used to feel toward him was gone. There was no room for it now- only a hollow space between them, one neither of them seemed willing to bridge.

The question was empty. Hollow.

"Not bad..."

The awkwardness didn't fade.

Not because of hate.

Not because of embarrassment.

But simply because there was nothing to say.

Lots of curses, complaints, arguments, played in their heads, ready to be fired...

But they both knew how broken everything was, and how pointless is was to worsen it...

Not that it would have been better.

The corridor was elegant, and soon began to become simpler as they walked further in the palace.

The actual distance wasn't very far.

But it felt like eternity.

Mu Qing stepped into the room. The air was warmer, filled with the faint scent of incense. 

Xie Lian’s guest quarters were simple, yet inviting. A neat bed covered with fresh linens, a small wooden shelf with trinkets and scrolls, and a stack of books sat by the window. A vase with dried osmanthus flowers, a delicate fan, a couple of gifts from grateful people- little things, but all of it gave the room a softness. It was unpretentious, like its owner, but there was always a sense of warmth, of care in every corner.

Mu Qing’s gaze flickered over the room- at the bed, at the quiet space.

But he wasn’t here for comfort.

He played back what Xie Lian had said. “-take whatever you need.”

His chest tightened. He couldn’t face Xie Lian right now.

He felt a brief pang of guilt for the lie- but it was fleeting.

It wasn't like he had never lied before; but the feeling of having left Xie Lian before...

The betrayal.

The loss.

He shook off the thought.

He needed this. He needed to stay close, if only for a while. Close enough to heal without questions. Close enough that no one would notice the bloodstained robes.

And close enough to care from a distance.

It should have been enough.

But as he stood there, the weight of the lie heavy in his chest, Mu Qing couldn’t help but wonder if it would ever be enough—for any of them.

Chapter Text

The early morning air was still. Pale light seeped into the quiet room, soft and cold like water over stone.

It was quiet. Just the type of quiet Mu Qing needed.

Mu Qing sat alone in the corner of the guest room. His outer robe lay folded beside him, damp from a discreet wash in the courtyard basin. A bowl of clean water rested near his knees, red blooming faintly through the surface. The sharp scent of alcohol lingered faintly in the air.

Last night, he’d been too tired to remove the bandages. They were bad enough to need dressing, but not- he had hoped- bad enough to worsen overnight. Not as fast as they had.

He unwound the makeshift bandages around his ribs slowly. The fabric stuck. When it pulled free, he hissed- low and quiet, through clenched teeth. He didn’t make another sound.

There was blood still seeping out the side of some wounds, especially the one along his ribs...

Some had closed off, but were forcefully torn open again by the cloth being pulled away...

He’d had experience with broken bones. Sparring with Feng Xin was... an efficient way to build pain tolerance.

So maybe the wounds were bad and bleeding.

So maybe he didn't tend to the smaller cuts and bruises.

So maybe he tried to heal the broken bone.

But that didn’t change the pain.

That didn’t change the throb of guilt when he saw the supplies he had gotten.

Yet his hands moved with practiced care.

No flinching.

No wincing.

Years ago, he had done this same thing in a far humbler place. A sick woman, pale and thin, coughing blood into her sleeve while he ground herbs beside a smoky fire. His mother never complained. Not even at the end.

Back then, he couldn’t afford proper medicine, only the knowledge scraped together from desperate hours reading whatever scrolls he could find. He had memorized every instruction, every warning, every method of boiling or binding or breathing carefully.

It hadn’t saved her.

But he remembered.

Out of sheer guilt and grief, he remembered everything.

Not that he wanted to.

But every wound he couldn’t heal then- he made sure he could now.

He didn’t want one tragedy to happen twice.

The pain in his side pulsed with a steady throb. He dabbed the wound with alcohol. Breathed through it. Bandaged it tight, clean, precise. Then dressed himself in fresh robes, dark and layered, hiding everything.

He washed the bloodstained ones himself.

The water turned red.

He scrubbed harder.

When he stepped into the corridor, the sun was just beginning to rise. The sky was a dull gray-blue, streaked with pale amber.

He expected that.

The pain in his ribs throbbed.

He expected that.

But he didn’t expect Feng Xin waiting by the wall, arms crossed.

“You’re limping,” Feng Xin said, bluntly.

Mu Qing didn’t stop. “I’m walking.”

Feng Xin followed.

“You’re hiding something.”

“I always am.”

“That’s not funny.”

“It wasn’t meant to be.”

A pause stretched between them. Feng Xin looked like he wanted to say something more, and Mu Qing looked like he wanted to say less.

Feng Xin cleared his throat. “I... noticed. Earlier. You were moving strangely.”

Mu Qing raised an eyebrow. “Congratulations. Maybe you're not blind, after all.”

“I’m saying- I wouldn’t have noticed if I wasn’t paying attention.”

Mu Qing turned to him, slowly. “And why were you doing that?”

Feng Xin looked away. “Trying.”

“Trying?”

“You know. Conversation. Caring.” He made a vague gesture with his hand. “I figured we’re all stuck here. Might as well stop pretending we hate each other, right?”

Mu Qing looked at him for a long moment. There was something about the way Feng Xin said it- like he wasn’t expecting anything back. Like he didn’t know what he was doing either.

Feng Xin admitted he didn’t hate him.

That was... new.

The silence between them settled, uneasy but not cruel.

Mu Qing didn’t answer. He didn’t need to.

They kept walking.

By the time Mu Qing decided to visit Xie Lian again, the light had shifted. Morning had arrived properly. The faint sounds of life stirred through the palace- water pouring into basins, birds somewhere in the trees.

The door was half open. Inside, the Crown Prince sat with his knees drawn up beside a low table, a prayer slip in his hands. A candle flickered gently beside him, though it had mostly melted. The golden light of the sun crept in through the windows, softening his face, casting faint warmth over the little gifts lining the shelf—trinkets, dried osmanthus flowers, a fan with worn edges.

Xie Lian looked up and smiled when he saw Mu Qing.

It was a small smile. Quiet. But real.

“San Lang will be back soon,” he said- not a question, not a guess. Just a soft, unshakable belief.

Mu Qing didn’t respond. Just gave a nod, short and almost imperceptible.

“Are you feeling alright?” Xie Lian asked.

Maybe he noticed his limping?
No- he hadn’t walked with him. He’d been too broken to notice earlier.
Flinching? Did he flinch that much-
He didn't know anymore...
Wincing? Unlikely-
Too quiet? That was normal though, at least for the current time being.

But instead of letting wild imagination take over...

“Yes,” Mu Qing lied.

Xie Lian didn’t press. He only returned to his prayer slip, fingers moving in careful strokes.

Mu Qing stood in the doorway for a moment longer before turning away.

That day passed slowly. The three of them drifted into their separate corners of the palace.
They didn’t speak much.

At least they were still together.

Feng Xin sat by the outer courtyard, staring up at the sky. There were words on his tongue, but none that felt worth saying.
How he wanted to just... return to the golden days of Xianle...
How... happy... was that simple, routined lifestyle?

Mu Qing cleaned his bandages again. Quiet. Alone. Efficient. He had to get better to take care of everyone. He couldn’t let Xie Lian suffer like his mother did. No. Xie Lian had to stay alive. He needed to.

Even though Feng Xin was a bit more stubborn and attentive, he was still injured. The extra efforts were nice... just not... now.

And Xie Lian lit a single lantern, placing it by the window with a soft breath. Hope flickered inside the glass, gold and trembling.

Just like how he hoped his San Lang would return soon.

None of them said it, but they were all trying.

They were tired, wounded, waiting-

But they were trying.

Chapter Text

Mu Qing had taken care of Xie Lian.
And Mu Qing had taken care of Feng Xin, too.

It wasn’t something he ever announced. It wasn’t something he expected praise for. He just did it. It simply was.

With his experience as a servant- Xie Lian’s personal servant- he knew what Xie Lian liked and disliked. His tastes, his habits, his subtle shifts in mood, his polite lies.
Mu Qing knew when Xie Lian was lying about the pain not being there. When the words “I’m fine” meant “please don’t ask.” When his silence meant “I’m not.”
He knew the little ways Xie Lian folded in on himself when the silence got too loud.

During those times, he got to know Feng Xin’s same likes, dislikes, tastes, habits, and more. Some he had voiced—others were just silent observations.
He knew how Feng Xin exaggerated things, how he spoke plainly about pain but would always wait for Xie Lian to be treated first.

And even though those memories weren’t exactly the brightest parts of his history… it was nice. Knowing someone that well. Still being able to read him like a worn page.

In the past week, he had bandaged Xie Lian’s wounds first without fuss. Dabbed at bruises, soothed inflammation, and brought food that actually tasted like something.

Xie Lian, who still wouldn’t eat unless someone put food in front of him.
Xie Lian, who flinched at loud noises and smiled at nothing.
Xie Lian, who stared out windows like the clouds would part and hand him back something he'd lost.

“Mu Qing?”

He didn’t need to look. He knew that voice.

“What.”

“I brought the medicine,” Feng Xin said awkwardly. “For the ‘deputy.’ Xie Lian... apologises for not bringing it himself. He couldn’t... y’know. Leave the palace.”

Mu Qing didn’t answer. He already knew why. He'd known.

Xie Lian was waiting for Hua Cheng to come back.
Of course he was.

Gods, he didn’t get why they were so lovestruck. He really didn’t. It made his chest tight.
Not with jealousy. Not with bitterness. He wasn’t that self-absorbed.

It was worry.

Because Xie Lian was waiting for someone who might not even come back.

Sure, Crimson Rain was a very devoted follower of Xie Lian's.
Sure, Xie Lian still had his ashes.
Sure, he would come back.

But what would happen if he didn’t?
Even if he did, who knows how long it would take for him to come back?
What would happen to that fragile steadiness Xie Lian had just barely started to rebuild?
What would happen when the soft hope in his eyes curdled into something dark?

Mu Qing didn’t have the answer.

He didn’t want to know, either.

“Thanks,” Mu Qing muttered, curt. His voice scraped low in his throat. Feng Xin lingered- probably wanted to say something- but left without a word.

He had been waiting on the supplies—they were delivered to him daily, because surprisingly, he had taken care of his own wounds, too—alone, in silence, with the efficiency born of necessity. No one asked.

Perhaps it was easier that way.

Mu Qing sat down on the edge of his bed, the room empty but for the herbal scent of medicine and the metal tang of blood that refused to fade. He opened the little pouch, picked through the supplies like someone going through old memories.

He dealt with the nearly-healed cuts first. His cuts had mostly closed up. He’d scrubbed the dirt and blood from them until the skin stung raw. The burns, he’d ignore for now- they were covered by his robes, and summer was not until around three months. Plenty of time.

Plenty of time to be careless.

There was no audience for the way he bit down on a cloth when cleaning a burn or pressed his palm hard over his ribs to check if they were still shifting.
The dip in his chest- unnatural, the way his ribs had set—it ached when he breathed too deeply. He had considered surgery.

But surgery meant people. Healers asking questions. People keeping him still.

If he did it alone?

Well. He might faint. Or worse.
Maybe no one would find him. Maybe that’d be easier.

He didn’t care.

Whatever.

None of that was important right now.

What was important was Xie Lian.
Getting him healed to a somewhat normal Xie Lian.

After all, to heal them all, it had to start with healing Xie Lian.

That afternoon, Mu Qing brought lunch in a bamboo basket, just like he had every day this week. The weight of it was light, but somehow it still pulled at his shoulders like a burden. The contents were still warm: light lotus root soup, soft tofu, plain congee, and a few steamed buns tucked carefully to the side. Nothing heavy. Nothing fancy.

He found Xie Lian by the window again, the same way he had yesterday and the day before. Sitting with his back too straight and his eyes fixed on the sky, as if waiting for it to crack open and return someone.

“Ah, Mu Qing!” Xie Lian said, as if snapping awake. “Feng Xin just left with the supplies. Did you get them?” His gaze dropped to the basket. “Is that lunch?”

“Yeah,” Mu Qing said, putting it down on the table. “Feng Xin told me you still refuse to eat when you need to- so I brought some and came here personally to get you to eat.”

Xie Lian laughed softly. A breath of something not quite joy, not quite sorrow. “I appreciate the amazing food, but you know I’m a god. I can’t die from a missed meal. Food just... speeds up the healing process.”

“Exactly.” Mu Qing opened the basket, setting out the dishes one by one. “So eat.”

“Bossy,” Xie Lian teased.

But he ate. Small bites. Slow.

Mu Qing didn’t smile—but the knot in his stomach loosened slightly when Xie Lian finished all of it. Even if he said nothing. Even if his hands trembled just slightly when he picked up the bowl.

Mu Qing watched him in silence.

He didn’t say, “What if he doesn’t come back?”
He didn’t say, “I’m scared you’ll break again.”
He didn’t say, “Let me help.”

He just stayed until the bowl was empty.

Before he left, Xie Lian said quietly, “Thank you.”

Mu Qing paused by the door.
“...Don’t forget to eat again,” he said.

He didn’t wait for a reply.

And that was that.

Chapter Text

A few days ago, Mu Qing had visited Xie Lian, with yet another bamboo basket. At this point, the basket was basically part of his silhouette.

Xie Lian’s injuries... mostly treated? The worst cuts had been cleaned, salved, and left to fade. The pink flush of inflammation had receded. Movement was still stiff in places, but that would go away in time. The burns had healed, though they left behind faint marks. Today, Mu Qing had brought a different jar of salve- specifically for scarring.

Feng Xin’s injuries, however, were a whole other divine mess.

In the grand tradition of men who would rather die than admit pain, Feng Xin had refused proper treatment unless Xie Lian got it first. He didn’t want to rest, didn’t want to skip duty, and definitely didn’t want help from Mu Qing, of all people.

Yesterday, he had shown up again. Mu Qing observed from a distance. No limp. Limited movement in his left arm. A slight flinch at the word “burn.” A twitch at the mention of Mu Qing’s name that definitely qualified as a snarl.

Hatred, clearly, was an excellent motivator.

Despite that, Mu Qing had “convinced” him to accept treatment.
(“Convinced” = three rounds of bickering, a liberal application of healing salve administered like a punishment, a sharp “sit down, idiot,” Xie Lian threatening to start an idiom chain game, aggressively polite silence, more bickering, and then both of them lying awake later that night thinking: why did he help me? and why did I help him?)

Mu Qing’s own injuries were progressing at a snail’s pace. Cuts were mostly healed- though he probably missed a few on his back or the places he couldn’t reach without extreme pain. One patch of skin on his arm was now entirely clear of scabbing. Progress. Technically.

And so, limping ever so slightly, he stepped once again into the now-familiar incense-scented room.

His leg ached. Again.
Xie Lian was at the window. Again.
Waiting. Again.

“Good morning,” Mu Qing muttered, placing the basket down.
Xie Lian turned, smiling, and held something out- white, long, slightly knotted-

“...What is that,” Mu Qing said flatly.

“Ah! Right!” Xie Lian said, suddenly sheepish. “I know you don’t really sew anymore, but...” He held out Ruoye. Or what remained of it. “...Can you mend it?”

Mu Qing stared. He probably looked either disgusted or confused, because Xie Lian added:

“I- it’s fine if you don’t want to! I just... my own stitches aren’t great and they probably won’t hold, and-”

Mu Qing took it. Silently. And held it up like it was a crime scene.

“...Gods, what did you do to this poor thing?”

Frayed edges. Uneven holes. Stitches so chaotic even blind ghosts would be offended.

“...Surely it’s not that bad,” Xie Lian said.

The silence said otherwise.

Mu Qing, inspecting the delicate silk, ran his fingers over the fabric like he was identifying a corpse. “...This might take me about a week and a half.”

Xie Lian lit up like Mu Qing had promised him reincarnation. “Really?! That’s really fast! Thank you!”

Mu Qing didn’t smile, of course. He did look like maybe he wasn’t regretting being here for once.

Secretly.

“Now- eat,” he said, placing breakfast down. “And use this.” He set down the new salve. “For the scarring.”

“Oh! Thanks! You’re really observant, Mu Qing! I never knew you had this much medical knowledge!”

“Mn.”

“And you helped Feng Xin too! I didn’t expect that, honestly.”

Mu Qing choked on his rice.

“I didn’t help him,” he snapped. “He was just in the way!”

“Right. In the way of your salves. That ended up on his arm.”

“...Coincidence.”

“Sure.”

Mu Qing scowled into his bowl. Xie Lian smiled behind his sleeve.

And Ruoye lay between them on the table—torn, but waiting to be mended.

Chapter Text

The silk thread went in and out of the eye of the needle.

Mu Qing was still mending Ruoye, the lonely strands fraying off the edges.

Xie Lian had handed him the tangled mess two or three days ago. Now, the ribbon was about three-quarters of the way mended.
The soft, steady rhythm of sewing brought him a strange sort of calm.

He had learned this skill with his mother.

It had been a long time since he'd done it- years, maybe centuries. But his hands remembered the motion. His fingers worked on instinct, quiet and precise.

“Niang…”

He used to sit on a small wooden stool while she sat on the bed, stitching away at torn sleeves- or, when there wasn’t anything urgent, embroidering delicate patterns into worn robes. They rarely had excess silks; their status and income made sure of that. But she mended robes for villagers and worked part-time as a royal seamstress.

And sometimes, when luck was kind, they were given offcuts from the palace: expensive silks, leftover cloth from tailoring robes.

With her skill, she could make a patchwork robe look intentional- so little Mu Qing could wear the same one for years, and it would still look elegant. Colors expertly arranged. Threads strong. Even the poorest scraps, made noble by her touch.

There was a garden, too, tucked quietly behind the village- a small patch of wild gold.

A tall tree stood alone on a gentle hill, its branches splaying out like arms that could cradle the sky.

Its leaves whispered secrets in the wind, soft and golden, the color of fading sunlight.

Mu Qing used to climb that tree, his small hands gripping the bark, looking out over the world below.

From up there, the village was a blur of roofs and smoke, but the sky stretched wide- open, endless.

He would sit beneath those golden leaves and pretend the weight of the world was somewhere far away.

The petals drifted down like slow rain, settling softly on his hair and clothes.

Sometimes, the light through the leaves painted his skin in gold, as if he were part of the tree itself- rooted, yet reaching for something beyond.

That quiet moment, alone but safe, was one of the few places where the noise inside his head stilled.

Where the pain didn’t prick as sharply.

Where he could breathe without holding his breath.

When his mother called him home, her voice was like a gentle tether, pulling him back from that fragile peace.

Now, whenever he saw a golden leaf drift down, he felt the ghost of that safety- the echo of a time before everything broke.

“Qing-er, did you tear the sleeve again?”

Back then, she was beautiful.

Dark hair loose in the wind, delicate features softening with a smile. People knew her by name. If you said “Mu,” they'd go: “Oh! That beautiful girl?” or “I remember her- her embroidery was god-given!”

Her reputation was good.

Once, when little Qing-er had gone to buy rice and flour, a seller squinted at him and asked, “Are you Miss Mu’s son? You must be!” He hadn’t known what to say, but the man just grinned. “Ai-ya, boy, take some more. Your mother mended so many of my clothes for so cheap- my son wore one of her robes to an interview, and now he works for the royals! I never got to thank her.”

Mu Qing remembered being pleasantly surprised.

The seller stuffed two warm steamed buns and an extra bag of rice into the basket.

Mu Qing tried to refuse. One bun, maybe- but two? And extra rice? But the seller insisted, and so...

He left that day with more food than he’d ever carried.

That night was one of the happiest. He recited every detail, and his mother listened, smiling, while she made rice and simple dishes.

Mu Qing's mother sighed as Qing-er handed over the torn outer robe.

She used to say:

“Ahh, that’s no good! You can’t keep coming to your mother for help. What will you do when you grow up?”

Then she'd pause, watching his reaction, before smiling again.

“Come. Let me teach you- so when my son becomes a mighty warrior, he can mend his own sleeves without asking anyone else!”

And now...

Now, here he was. Mending again.

Alone.

Usually, when she repaired a robe, the stitches held so well it never tore again- unless she tore it on purpose.
But Mu Qing had ripped part of his sleeve that day.

“Mn... Can you mend it for me?” he had asked, sheepish.

She had sighed in mock annoyance, then laughed- a warm, lilting sound.

Little Qing-er had loved it when she laughed.

Those were the good times.

When everything was nice.
When everything was peaceful.

When everything was happy.

But that was before.

Before the pain. Before the pretending began.

Before he learned to bury things so deep, they only surfaced when he sewed.

Maybe that was why he gravitated toward Xie Lian- so many small echoes of what he lost.

She was gone now.

The last quarter of Ruoye still remained. A few frayed strands, a burnt edge.

Then something soft brushed across his cheek- a gentle sweep of silk.

Ruoye.

Wiping away wetness he hadn’t realized was there.

Oh.

He’d cried.

He hadn't meant to. But at least no one saw. The little ribbon, mended and warm in his hands, clung to his sleeve like it was trying to say, Don’t cry.

Mu Qing sighed and stared down at the thread in his fingers. Memories would always be memories. No matter how much he wanted to hold them still, he couldn’t change what came after.

He wiped his eyes quickly. No use thinking about it now.

That was when he heard the knock at his door.

Ruoye curled close, patchwork and loyal.

Mu Qing rose stiffly and opened it.

He didn’t know who he had expected.
And the expectation sure wasn’t Feng Xin.

But the man stood there, holding a box of medicine.

“What are you doing here?” Mu Qing asked, already tense.

“Medicine,” Feng Xin replied bluntly. “Other than that, nothing much. I checked on His Highness, though.”

Mu Qing narrowed his eyes. “What did he say?”

“That he’s fine. Like always.” Feng Xin’s voice was dry.

Then Feng Xin looked up- and paused.

There was something glistening on Mu Qing’s lashes. A shimmer, faint in the dusklight. Not quite gone.

Feng Xin said nothing.
But the silence was too loud.
Mu Qing turned away first.

Then the silk ribbon flew out of Mu Qing’s hands and wrapped around Feng Xin’s wrist. Ruoye twisted smugly, like a child showing off a half-finished drawing.

“You’re mending it?” Feng Xin blinked down at the fraying edge, brow lifting. “I thought the great and mighty Sweeping General swore he’d never touch a needle again. Said it was ‘demeaning’ and ‘an insult to his martial spirit.’ Something dramatic like that.”

Mu Qing scoffed. “Shut up.”

“Is this what you’ve been hiding in here for?” Feng Xin tugged gently at the ribbon, not enough to pull it free. “Doing embroidery like some retired granny?”

Mu Qing didn’t answer. He snatched Ruoye back- not too hard, though, as if even that gesture had grown gentler with the memories stitched into it.

Feng Xin watched him for a beat too long. “...It’s good work,” he said, quieter now. “Cleaner than I thought you’d manage. Guess I forgot your hands weren’t always made for swords.”

Mu Qing's eyebrow twitched. “Is that your way of complimenting me?”

“I am complimenting you!” Feng Xin grinned, unbothered. “Your stitches are... straight. That’s rare, considering your personality’s all twisted.”

A tiny muscle in Mu Qing’s cheek jumped. He looked down at the thread. “I used to do this with my mother.”

Feng Xin went still. Not stiff, just... softer. “I know.”

There was a long silence. Not tense. Just... filled with old echoes.

Then:

“So,” Feng Xin said casually, “are you taking commissions, or is this a special Mu Qing Boutique exclusive?”

Mu Qing snorted- snorted- and immediately looked like he regretted making a sound resembling human amusement.

Feng Xin beamed like he’d won a prize.

“I’m raising your rent,” Mu Qing muttered.

“I don’t pay rent.”

“You will now.”

Chapter Text

Feng Xin had always tolerated Mu Qing.

It had always been years of bickering and bickering.

Biting remarks and rolled eyes.

It was... expected.

What else would that idiot be able to do anyway?

...

...

A lot, apparently.

After the battle, things had been messy. Everyone knew that. That one fight had depleted most of the Heavens’ medical supplies, and it was natural for Xie Lian to pass off help he needed to other people. And it was also natural for Feng Xin to force Xie Lian to get help.

Feng Xin had injuries too, but they weren’t as bad as Xie Lian’s.

(Correction: it was just as bad.)

Point is-

He didn’t get help until Xie Lian did.

That was normal.

But on that one day...

Something had shifted.

When Xie Lian was being fussed over by Mu Qing, by Feng Xin...

When Xie Lian was broken and possibly a bit guilty for ‘taking all the help’...

He remembered the look on Mu Qing’s face when he saw the injuries.

It wasn’t just calculating... or dutiful.

Worried.

That was not really a part of Mu Qing's character, was it?

Well...

Now that he thought of it…

The relationship between Xie Lian and Mu Qing was rocky… but they still had history.

Xie Lian had cared for Mu Qing.

So Mu Qing caring for him was normal.

So maybe, this was just something he didn’t expect?

But it kept happening.

“You. Stop flinching and then wincing after. It’s pathetic.”

Huh? Him? Since when did his own injuries look so obvious?

Xie Lian looked relieved, and told Mu Qing about Feng Xin's injuries with context.

Feng Xin glared at Xie Lian, but that wasn’t stopping him.

And he hated the fact that he noticed how Mu Qing’s face grew more and more worried as he inspected more wounds.

That wasn’t normal.

Mu Qing helping Xie Lian? Sure, maybe he’d do it out of obligation. Maybe Xie Lian had asked.

But the way Mu Qing had pushed him down, forced medicine onto him like it was urgent…

That felt almost... personal.

But it can’t be...

...

Whatever.

That idiot can... be all complicated like he always is.

Feng Xin shifted on the floor mat, feeling the weight of silence settle between them. Mu Qing was watching him with sharp eyes, as if daring him to say something else- anything else.

Feng Xin wanted to say more. To ask if he was really okay. But he didn’t. Because with Mu Qing, words were always a double-edged sword, and sometimes silence was the better fight.

So instead, he waited.
And Mu Qing let him stay.

Mu Qing had not kicked him out.
Maybe that was a start.

Others would say the great General Nanyang of the southeast would be too busy to notice minor acts of kindness. And if he did, he wouldn’t be a person that cared for such minor events.

Well...

Maybe...

He did notice.

And...

He did care.

When Mu Qing had gone with a less extreme remark when he could’ve-
when he tossed him help that he had claimed he didn’t want-

Feng Xin noticed.

And when Mu Qing had run out of the room in a panic when he came to get Xie Lian settled...

He noticed the stiffer movements- the faint scent of metal-

It was there.

“I came for medical supplies. One of my deputies was injured. The past week’s prayers piled up and they were caught in a Yao ambush. They’re still untreated.”

Sounded plausible. Mu Qing could make anything sound plausible.

But the lie was flimsy. And Mu Qing didn’t lie like that. Not straight to someone’s face.

No, normally he just dodged the truth. Danced around it. Distracted you with something else until you gave up.
So why say something that didn’t even hold up under basic scrutiny?

That was wrong.

But Feng Xin didn’t press it. Not yet.

Instead, he brought the medicine himself a few days later.

Mu Qing was, surprisingly, in the room.

On any other day, Mu Qing would probably be hunting Hua Cheng down, or dealing with Xie Lian’s wounds and making sure he was close enough to be there for emergencies.

That’s when things started lining up. The room Mu Qing had chosen was oddly placed- near Xie Lian’s quarters, but just far enough that no sound would carry. As if he wanted to be close, but not be heard. Not be seen.

When Feng Xin stepped inside, there was a faint metallic scent in the air. Something dried. Something old. In one corner, the floor dipped slightly, the wood still polished but tinted the barest pink. Like water had been poured out and scrubbed away—too late to stop the stain from setting in.

Blood, probably. Diluted. Rinsed down. From something heavy.

That’s when it clicked.
The timing. The way Mu Qing had looked. The stiffness in his movements. The silence.

If Feng Xin had to guess, the tub had been full of water. Maybe hot. Maybe mixed with herbs. Mu Qing had dragged it in, tried to treat whatever wounds he was hiding, and gotten caught off guard when Feng Xin showed up. So he’d rushed to clean it. Wipe away the mess. Cover the scent.

Why?

Because he didn’t want anyone to know.

Because he was injured. Badly. And not doing anything about it.

Feng Xin didn’t confront him. Not right away. That would’ve just pushed him further away. Mu Qing was stubborn like that.
So he waited.

He started noticing more.                     

Watched the slight limp he thought was just from fatigue.

Watched every flinch when Mu Qing moved too quickly.

Baited him with lies. Said things that should’ve gotten a scoff, a smirk, maybe even a comment about how dumb he sounded.

Instead, he got sharp, defensive silence.

Solid proof that Mu Qing was hiding it. The whole time.

And maybe Feng Xin hadn’t noticed at first. Maybe it took too long to put the pieces together. But he saw it now.

He saw all of it.

And the worst part wasn’t that Mu Qing was in pain.
The worst part was that he thought he had to hide it at all.

So Feng Xin sat there. Quiet. Watching. Waiting.

Letting the silence settle between them like dust.

Chapter Text

It had been… a week since Ruoye was given to him?

The early morning air was cold.

The light was dim, glowing, almost.

Mu Qing woke.

He reached for the resting Ruoye- now almost done. Just the edges needed a bit of… trimming. Maybe add a pattern, here or there. Maybe it was because of the way Ruoye flexed the details. Maybe it was just practical.

Mu Qing ran out of thread halfway and had to wait for a thread that was vaguely similar. That delayed things by... two, maybe three days?

His fingers curled around the new bundle of thread.

“The fucking lighting- ugh.”

He struck a match.

The candle refused to light on the first try.

Typical. Even fire seemed reluctant.

He struck the match again- harder this time. The spark flared, then dimmed.

Eventually, the wick caught.

The room was now lit by a lonely candle.

It looked... pretty.

And it was one of those special glittery ones from heaven too.

Coloured.

Warm, golden, comforting...

Like...

No.

Surely not...

...

He threaded the string through the needle once more.

So.

Basically...

Mu Qing sat up in the bed. He shuddered at the loss of warmth.

He didn’t think Ruoye liked him very much.

But the way it curled around his wrist, the way it perked up when its name was called, the way it followed Mu Qing everywhere…

Perhaps the mending was just an exception.

Yeah, probably.

He started the first stitch.

Well... he may have noticed, in small moments-

When he pricked his finger, occasionally-

Ruoye would fly over and curl around one of the medicine bottles he’d misplaced and attempt to drag it over with its bundle of strands.

It undid some of the stitches when that happened.

But Mu Qing didn’t really mind. At least, not much.

Maybe that scrap of silk wasn’t the most stupid thing that existed.

Maybe.

Ruoye twitched, then wrapped around his wrist- quiet and warm, as if warding off the chill.

And he made another stitch.

...

When Mu Qing walked over to Xie Lian’s quarters with the bamboo basket...

Over and over again...

Day after day...

Week after week...

Bringing food, salves...

Mu Qing was... tired.

His body couldn’t tolerate the journeys. Not for long.

Not with the map of wounds scattered across his skin, the reddish tint starkly contrasting with his pale skin.

But even though he was tired… he still woke up like this.

Like this, at the crack of dawn, lighting a candle.

To sew.

And sewing Ruoye wasn’t something he hated, nor what he enjoyed, either.

But it was just that he couldn’t last long this way.

That was fine.

Now...

What was he thinking of?

Right.

The medicines helped. A bit.

But...

Something had changed.

Feng Xin no longer brought medicine just for the injuries the ‘injured deputy’ had. There was a broader range, as if he knew there was more injuries, but not sure of what it was specifically.

And, knowing him, with his temper and impulsive way of thinking,

He wasn’t the observant type.

In fact, he was rather... blind, in a way.

But if he was- changing the medicine... that meant...

He noticed. And...

He cared, apparently.

If he had done it on purpose, that is.

Maybe he just forgot what symptoms were listed.

Maybe that was just Feng Xin being his typical self.

Forgetting the details.

And especially with their dynamic and history…

Maybe he expected Mu Qing to laugh, to argue-

But whatever.

This was not worth overthinking about.

Idiots will always be idiots.

After all, why would Feng Xin change just to care for someone like... him?

...

But then again…

A few days ago, Feng Xin had visited. With that box of medicine- with the changed ones.

Maybe Mu Qing had been too tired to care. Maybe the battle had gotten him a concussion or something.
But he had let Feng Xin inside the room.

He definitely did not notice the flicker of hope in Feng Xin’s eyes.

They didn’t... argue, apparently.

It was...

What was that?

Right.

Feng Xin had been strangely conversational that night.

He checked on Xie Lian’s condition and whatnot.

He saw...

... nothing, hopefully.

He also asked about Ruoye.

There were... compliments too.

Strange.

But above all that, there was also...

Feng Xin opened the box, as if just remembering it existed. Inside were bottles, neatly arranged, some unfamiliar.

“By the way,” he said too casually, “I swapped out the tiger bone balm. Too heating for bruises on the lower ribs. Thought something gentler would work better.”

Mu Qing didn’t respond right away. He hadn’t mentioned where the bruises were.

When he finally looked up, his gaze was sharp.

Feng Xin blinked at him innocently, like a man who absolutely did not spend the last three nights reading up on trauma-specific herbal combinations while pretending to nap on a palace step.

“What?” he said. “I read the label.”

That told him enough.

He knows.

If Feng Xin, dense as he is, knew...

Then he had switched the medicines... on purpose?

So he... cared?

Whatever.

Mu Qing pushed the needle through the silk again.

The candle flickered.

He looped it.

Once.

Knotted it.

Twice.

...

A gust of wind put it out.

And Mu Qing cut the string.

The morning light poured into his room.

He got up from the bed, flexed his fingers, stiff from lack of sleep and lingering pain.

Fuck this.

Then he re-tied the excess bundle of thread. Just in case.

He changed into fresh robes, and he did his hair, pulling the long, black strands into a ribbon, then slipping the silver guan on.

Then, with Ruoye coiled loosely around his wrist, he thought of what he would make for breakfast.

What did he promise yesterday? Sweet or savoury?

Whatever- just make something in between...

Xie Lian used to be a picky eater, not that he was now... but...

He’d suffered enough.

Mu Qing cracked eggs into a small bowl, their yolks golden and thick. He added water- careful, measured- a little more than half the volume of the eggs, just like his mother had taught him long ago. He even added some fine sugar, just to enhance the flavour.

With a slender chopstick, he gently stirred, coaxing the yolks and whites to merge without agitating them too much.

He paused, listening to the soft, rhythmic swirl.

Then, he tugged at the silk.

“Move- unless you want to be cooked.”

Ruoye obediently uncoiled, but stayed close, as if waiting for instructions.

Mu Qing rolled his eyes. “Fine. Get me that cloth, won’t you?”

So the little silk went to get the small square of cloth.

But the way it brought it over was almost jealous- jealous of that square being wanted, unlike itself, just pried off Mu Qing’s wrist.

One side of the ribbon sunk, hanging its head in despair... then rose again, like it was begging, ‘Take pity on me and let me go back, please?’

And what was alarming?

It was working.

Mu Qing sighed. “…Don’t... Fine, you can come back…”

Ruoye contently wrapped itself around Mu Qing’s wrist again.

Mu Qing strained the mixture through the square of fine cloth stretched over a cup, letting only the smoothest liquid slip through. The act was meticulous, almost meditative- an unspoken hope for smoothness in a world full of jagged edges.

If Ruoye were human, it would’ve winced.

He poured the pale custard into a ceramic bowl. Then he set the bowl into a larger steaming vessel, the water bubbling softly beneath.

Steam curled upwards in gentle wisps, fogging the air and the edges of the bowl. Mu Qing’s breath caught on the warmth, his fingers brushing a stray lock of hair from his forehead.

Minutes passed in quiet patience. When he lifted the lid, a delicate, golden pudding sat perfectly still- silky, tender, holding its shape.

This jidangao would probably taste sweet- or maybe savory, somewhere in between.

He let it cool just enough before carrying the bowl to Xie Lian.

The warmth radiated through the ceramic, like a silent offering, unspoken but deeply felt.

Mu Qing placed the bowl in the bamboo basket, then carefully set out to deliver it.

Again.

Feng Xin had been mid-sentence, brow furrowed like he was trying not to sound too invested.

“...I mean, I just thought the balm might not be right for- anyway, it’s not like I was worried or anything,” he said, arms crossed, leaning against the wall near Xie Lian’s bed.

Xie Lian, still curled up in his usual too-thin blanket, nodded like he’d heard the whole thing. He probably had. He just didn’t comment. Typical.

That’s when the door opened with a soft creak.

Mu Qing stepped inside, bamboo basket balanced in both hands, Ruoye coiled like an obedient ribbon around his wrist. He was upright, barely, in the way a collapsing tower is technically still standing.

“Brought breakfast,” he said flatly, eyes barely flicking toward them.

Feng Xin looked over. “So. You got the ribbon fixed?”

Xie Lian glanced back at the mention of the ribbon. “Ruoye!” then his gaze flicked to Mu Qing, “Mu Qing, it likes you!”

Mu Qing took three steps forward. Then, unexpectedly-

Pain flared.

Then he stumbled.

But it was subtle.

His foot slid, his posture tilted slightly off-centre- and for a second, he tried to pretend it hadn’t happened. He adjusted the basket like it was the basket's fault.

Ruoye perched up. It felt the pulse points- something was wrong.

Xie Lian was watching- and years with this ribbon told him what he needed to know. He shot a look at Feng Xin.

Feng Xin’s stomach dropped. “Hey-”

Mu Qing didn’t answer.

He moved again, slower now, and his legs simply forgot how to leg.

His grip tightened on the basket.

Then relaxed it.

He put it down on the table.

He got one more step.

Away from the room.

Away from the gazes.

Away from the people.

But as his foot touched the floor-

His knees buckled-

He registered the pain first-

 Then Xie Lian calling his name-

Then falling-

Then- warmth.

Feng Xin caught him before he hit the ground.

Not just caught, but swept forward in a blur of motion- arms out, eyes wide, mouth parted like he’d just watched a star fall out of the sky.

And for a breathless second, Mu Qing wasn’t falling at all.

He was suspended- cradled like something breakable, precious. One arm behind his back, the other now curled under his knees. He hated how natural it felt.

He sagged in Feng Xin’s arms, light.

His breathing was shallow.

Damp hair clung to his temple, and the edge of his sleeve fell to reveal a burn.

It was a bad burn.

 At least, normal people would say so.

And apparently, idiots were normal today.

“You absolute-” Feng Xin didn’t finish the sentence.

Mu Qing stirred, eyelashes fluttering. “I’m fine,” he muttered, even as his head lolled against Feng Xin’s shoulder.

“Yeah,” Feng Xin said flatly. “Clearly.”

He lifted him with barely any effort. Too light. Too familiar. He didn’t look at Xie Lian, who had not moved from the bed, but whose eyes hadn’t left Mu Qing since he entered the room.

Feng Xin adjusted his grip and carried Mu Qing to the nearby bench.

The ribbon of silk- the ever-helpful Ruoye- lingered in the air, agitated.

Feng Xin sat down, Mu Qing half-conscious and stubbornly pretending otherwise in his arms. “Next time you think it’s a good idea to sew a sentient ribbon, leave injuries exposed, and make breakfast while dying, maybe mention it first.”

Mu Qing coughed once. “...Wasn’t dying.”

“You fainted.”

“Briefly.”

Feng Xin exhaled hard, staring at the smudge of blood on the bandage. “You need to lie down.”

Mu Qing closed his eyes. “Fuck you, I can stand perfectly fine-”

“You were falling.”

Ruoye twitched between them, clearly agreeing with Feng Xin, which somehow made things worse.

Mu Qing opened one eye, barely, stubbornly replied, “...Was not.”

Feng Xin stared at him. “You were.”

And just like that, the world narrowed.

To the weight in Feng Xin’s arms.

The way his grip tightened just slightly- like he was afraid Mu Qing might vanish.

The way Mu Qing’s breath hitched when their eyes met.

The way neither of them looked away.

Ruoye flailed awkwardly beside them, the only witness brave enough to comment.

...

Then-

A polite, pointed cough.

That sound- quiet, intentional- cut through the tension like a thread snapping.

Xie Lian. Still half-curled beneath his thin blanket, smiled knowingly. He shifted upright, enough to speak without strain.

“Apologies. Should I leave? Or…?”

Both of them stiffened like guilty teenagers caught kissing behind the prayer hall.

Feng Xin cleared his throat. “I- it’s not- he fainted,” he blurted.

Mu Qing, red-faced and still being held like someone’s concubine, muttered, “You lunged. You didn’t even think.”

“Well you fell!”

“I tripped!”

...

“Right…” Xie Lian took a calm sip of tea. “Maybe Mu Qing, you should rest?”

But how could he sleep while being held like this?

Being held by Feng Xin, being held like some… whatever.

He did fall asleep, though.

No one mentioned it.

However, Xie Lian just smiled, and he turned to Feng Xin. “Perhaps we should eat breakfast before it gets cold?”

Mu Qing didn’t react immediately. Might’ve been choosing not to.

Wait, nevermind.

He was asleep.

Xie Lian had gotten up from bed and removed the lid of the basket, revealing the pale, golden custard.

Feng Xin looked over at Xie Lian, incredulous. “Really?”

“The custard will lose its texture if it sets too long. Mu Qing wouldn’t like that.” A pause. Xie Lian tilted his head. “Unless you’d rather hold him?”

Feng Xin opened his mouth to argue, then didn’t.

He looked down at the too-warm body still in his arms, chest rising unevenly. Still alive. Still here.

Ruoye floated indignantly between them.

Feng Xin grumbled something under his breath and carefully stood. “Fine.”

He shifted Mu Qing in his arms like one might adjust a fragile parcel- begrudgingly but gently.

He laid him down on the bench, following with his own outer robe as a makeshift blanket.

Then he got a cushion from Xie Lian’s bed and stuffed it under Mu Qing’s head with all the grace of a reluctant nursemaid. He straightened and walked over to the table, sitting at the table with a pointed huff.

Jidangao. Still warm.

Feng Xin picked up the bowl. “...He actually made this?”

“Yes,” Xie Lian said, “He made congee yesterday. Cake, a few times, cooked rice, street food, desserts, everything, actually.”

There was a pause. Feng Xin looked at the custard like it had insulted his mother. Then he picked up the spoon.

“...Is it poisoned?”

Xie Lian raised an eyebrow.

“...Fine.” Feng Xin took a small bite. Chewed. Paused.

“...Shit. It’s good.”

From the bench, a muffled voice muttered, “Of course it is..."

Feng Xin turned. Mu Qing had cracked one eye open again.

“You’re supposed to be asleep,” Feng Xin said, half-accusation, half-relieved curse.

“Then stop yelling,” Mu Qing murmured.

“I wasn’t- ! You know what, never mind.” Feng Xin returned to the table and spooned out another bite. “You want some?”

There was no response.

Then- softly- “…Later.”

Feng Xin looked at Xie Lian, who had resumed watching the ribbon that now hovered protectively above Mu Qing’s chest.

He said nothing, but the silence was full of something old and heavy and kind.

Breakfast was served. No one said thank you. No one had to.

Chapter Text

The next few days were awkward.

Mu Qing continued with his trips, though Feng Xin watched over him closely each time.

It was usually a silent walk, considering the lingering tension that hadn’t faded despite last time’s… mistake. Fumble. Slip. Something.

It had been a silent truce, that neither would start an argument- not because they wanted to, of course, it was obviously because of Xie Lian.

Though maybe, it was Xie Lian’s quick recovery that caused one of them to change their mind.

Mu Qing had been halfway though his trip, carrying a basket of some homemade tanghulu and some candies. Caramel candies. His boots clicking against the wood..

“Hey.”

The voice made him pause. He turned. Feng Xin stood in the doorway of a nearby room- his room now, ever since he had moved closer… since that. It was closer than Nanyang Palace was, which was an improvement. Part of Mu Qing wanted to believe that… after that… ‘thing’, this was… surely… for him. And it was stupid thought. A stupid, insane thought. Feng Xin had dated Jian Lan. He… knew that. Besides, of all the women- and men Feng Xin could choose from…

Why would he ever pick him, the man who he had rivalled with for more than eight hundred years?

Ridiculous, utterly ridiculous.

The logical side of him knew that… Feng Xin had only moved here because he was just worried for Xie Lian. Right.

That didn’t stop the stupid side of his heart to flutter slightly at the sight of this man, at the sound of his voice- hell, even the sheer thoughts he got were enough to trigger such a reaction.

He should ignore that.

He really should.

So he replied, normally. Quietly:

“Hey.”

Xie Lian watched his door creak open as his two friends knocked and opened the door. One glance and he could practically suffocate in the tension.
Ruoye perked up and saw her favourite and third favourite people through the door.

Mu Qing held his posture more rigidly than usual, Feng Xin next to him, also more tense than he was on other days. This was… probably the third time they had walked together, each more tense than the last.

Xie Lian thought that perhaps, something had changed. Maybe in they way they thought of each other? Possibly.

But what caught his eye was the familiar bamboo basket.

Mu Qing placed it on the table, fumbling once with the lid, lifted it, and revealed some gleaming caramelised candies.

“Ooh- Is that Tanghulu? That’ll go well with the tea. Thanks a lot, Mu Qing!” he exclaimed with a smile.

Feng Xin hummed, and sat at the table, looking at the candies. “I suppose they’re decent.”

Mu Qing had been setting up the tea and placing the candies onto a plate with chopsticks, careful to make none of them crack.

Feng Xin stole one.

Mu Qing's eye twitched.

“I’m not blind you-”

He cut off.

‘I suppose they’re decent.’

That…

‘Decent’ was the first compliment Mu Qing had gotten since he had… fell. Well, at least from Feng Xin.

Xie Lian noticed how his hands had stilled for a fraction of a second, how his ears had pinked, and how Feng Xin had not noticed a thing. Too busy smirking, maybe.

Oh?

He cleared his throat.

“So, Mu Qing, how was your recovery?”

Mu Qing winced. He laid down the cups, and poured the tea.

“Decent.” He replied.

Now it was Feng Xin’s turn to pause mid-motion, cup halfway to his mouth.

(flashback start)

“How about you take him to his room? He looks very tired and very injured, by the looks of it.” Xie Lian said.

They were sitting around a table, a small round table that was usually meant for four.

But with Hua Cheng gone, that meant three.

The usual three? No.

Mu Qing had been lying on the bench near the doorway, with a cushion and now a makeshift blanket- or Feng Xin’s coat- laid over him.

That meant there was only Feng Xin and Xie Lian, sitting around the table, portioning their servings of the egg-cake with chopsticks. Xie Lian was almost done. Feng Xin had half left.

“Isn’t his room like far away?” Feng Xin asked.

Xie Lian smiled. “Not really. He chose that room because it was the only room being close but not too close. You know how he gets.”

Close? Close to His Highness to take care of him? Then what about himself?

“Yeah. Right- right. I can take him.” He said.

They had said other things, he knew that, though they weren’t really important enough to be remembered. Not relevant enough to matter to him much.

Feng Xin remembers packing up the bamboo basket along with the plates and his own half-finished plate.

He recalls lifting Mu Qing off the bench, the warm body now sleeping soundly, with one arm around the shoulders and another under the knees. Then he carried the basket in right hand, careful to not let the basket cause discomfort, and Xie Lian had opened the door for him, and he walked to the room.

Mu Qing had been surprisingly light, though he shouldn’t be surprised, with his slender form and thin limbs- he really should’ve expected this.

So he walked, and hated to admit that… he treasured this time. This precious time he had to… be with Mu Qing. Make contact with him. Not argue.

He watched the golden light of sunset filter through the leaves of trees, and watched it shine on Mu Qing’s long hair, that reached up to Feng Xin’s knees.

Feng Xin could see their silhouette stretching, Mu Qing in his arms, the basket, and himself.

He watched the shadow of the building creep closer by each step he took, closer to the end of this. He liked it. That was…

It was…

It wasn’t new.

When Mu Qing was back at the mountain, bleeding through the dark fabric which he had learned to notice… he knew something was wrong.

Back then, he had dated Jian Lan and went to shop with her. It wasn’t the most useful thing, but he had been able to distinguish colours more. Dark brown was not the same as black, and not half as pretty. Spring green was different to grass green, which was different to forest green, despite all being green.

He had learned different shades of pink, purple, blue- and the one he knew most was red.

When he had first met Jian Lan, it was in a rather embarrassing way.

He had seen the blood on the back of her dress, and offered her a coat to cover it up.

Jian Lan was a beautiful girl who cared about her reputation, and thanked the handsome stranger, promising to meet him tomorrow to return the coat.

And obviously, the second day had gone well.

Feng Xin had never been so… in love.

But she was dead now, gone, sort of. She had left for his good and so he will make it worth it…

But the feeling…

It was so, so similar to what he had felt for Mu Qing.

He looked down at him.

He was peaceful, sleeping, youthful without the scowl that was almost permanently plastered on his face, the eye rolls-

Yeah. Without that.

He was… pretty. Beautiful, even.

He adjusted his grip, just enough for Mu Qing to lean on his chest. It was… only because Mu Qing was an injured person and… and Feng Xin had the heart to care for the injured. Nothing else.

What was he thinking?

He walked slightly faster, and approached the door, then laid the figure down, with the blanket.

Then he busied himself with cleaning the dishes.

He washed down a pair of chopsticks to cut around the egg-cake, ate it, and then put a bowl upside down to prevent dust and flies.

He, Feng Xin, he couldn’t… Like him, could he? He, being... the infamously sharp-tongued Mu Qing?

He was about to wipe the plates down, and grabbed a cloth to do it.

The cloth wriggled, and looked at Feng Xin disapprovingly with a slight tilt of the corner.

“Ruoye? What are you doing here?”

Ruoye just shook her head, and curled around his wrist.

So he would have to return Ruoye too.

Would Mu Qing be okay without him there? What if something happened when he was gone?

Like today, how he fell, how he was so tired, so drained…

Nonsense.

He shouldn’t worry too much, Mu Qing will be… fine.

The most he could do would be to live in His Highness’s place- maybe that spare room in the corridor halfway between the two occupied rooms- and he could take care of them both.

He walked back to Xie Lian’s room swiftly.

He paused at the door. Knocked three times.

“His Highness? Do you think I could borrow that room down the hall? My palace is a bit…”

Xie Lian didn’t wait for him to finish. He probably knew whatever came next was an excuse.

“Of course, of course! Stay for as long as you like!”

…

That was all- until Ruoye twitched under Feng Xin’s sleeve.

“Right- Ruoye tagged along with me when we walked back, I figured I’d return her.” He said.

He pushed open the door.

Ruoye uncurled and floated towards Xie Lian.

“Thanks!” Xie Lian said.

Feng Xin shifted awkwardly, half-heartedly excused himself, and left the room. He rushed back to Mu Qing, who… was still lying there.

“What an asshole,” he muttered under his breath, “Passing out without a warning.”

The body on the bed moved a bit, then rolled onto his side until he faced Feng Xin.

“Shut up or I’ll tear down your palace…” Mu Qing muttered sleepily.

Feng Xin paused, and scanned the figure.

“Honestly, I’d be glad if you could do that. But I’d like to see you try getting out of this bed first.” He replied with a sigh. “I haven’t checked your injuries, though, so maybe you’d want to change out of… that.”

He could swear that Mu Qing had shut his eyes tighter as he said that, and that the faint pinkish tint on the tips of his ears was not from ‘just ill’.

But Mu Qing obeyed, pushing himself up to sit against the backboard of the bed, tugging at the blanket slightly as he removed the outer robe. What remained were his white inner robes- or… stained ones. You could see the fading splashes of… what looked like blood. Perhaps it had just been hastily washed away, with the meal-making and such.

Huh.

So he was... shy.

That was most likely just the… sickness that had weakened him. Probably. Maybe. Definitely.

Then he realised he had been staring, and also realised how thin Mu Qing truly was, under those flowy sleeves and layered clothes.

Feng Xin coughed. “… You might need to remove those too- Salve doesn’t… work like that.”

.

Okay…

Now he could confirm the ‘faint pink tint’ on Mu Qing’s cheeks was not from some fucking… ‘illness’. It was now confirmed that it was most definitely because he was shy.

Which was strange, yet not surprising.

With a person like Mu Qing, he was a man that would gladly take on a war- but would be too… ‘courteous’ to remove his own shirt, despite it having no harm.

Perhaps some would say… ‘He’s probably just insecure.’ Or ‘maybe he’s hiding something.’ But Feng Xin knew better.

He and Mu Qing had had the same training, though sometimes there was favouritism and bias- but relatively the same. They had fought each other, beside each other- so ‘insecurity’ wouldn’t… be accurate.

And he was proven right.

Despite the dim lighting and the blanket coverage, Feng Xin could see loud and clear that his physique was good.

He was slim, but the muscles were well defined and-

…

“You’re staring. Do you plan to duel me, or patch me up?” Mu Qing asked, now mostly awake.

Feng Xin blinked.

“I’m just… assessing injuries, if you knew better, you would know.”

Mu Qing rolled his eyes. “If you had actually assessed my injuries, you would’ve actually removed the bandages.” He said, gesturing to his arms, where there indeed were soaked bandages that had been left untouched.

Feng Xin followed the gesture. His throat tightened. He had noticed the faint dampness of blood earlier, but in that moment he had been too caught up in the tilt of Mu Qing’s jaw, the way his scowl looked more like embarrassment than true irritation. He should’ve focused.

“…Right. Fine. Give me your arm.”

Mu Qing hesitated, only for a second, ironic, considering he was the one who had… implied this-

…

Just the hesitation was enough to make something ache in Feng Xin’s chest. For eight hundred years, Mu Qing had never once hesitated to fight him, to throw back words sharper than blades. But now he looked like… like he was bracing for something.

Feng Xin gentled his tone without meaning to. “I’m not going to bite. Just- give it here.”

When Mu Qing extended his arm, Feng Xin undid the wrappings with careful fingers, more careful than he wanted them to be. The smell of faint herbs and iron rose up, and he realised the cuts beneath had been shallow, but numerous. Not a single wound large enough to kill, but enough to weaken him badly if left unchecked.

“You idiot,” Feng Xin muttered, though it came out almost soft. “You really think this counts as ‘decent recovery’?”

Mu Qing’s eyes flicked away, his lips pressing together. “…Not that you would know any better.”

.

A lie. A clear, obvious lie- because they had fought together, before becoming gods, before everything- and they both knew that the other was not incapable of medicine. All the small trips, grazes, bruises the young prince of Xianle had gone through- that was enough ‘training’ for Feng Xin.

He stilled for a moment. He wanted to argue, to scold, to demand why Mu Qing always let himself reach this point. But instead, he dipped the cloth into salve, and pressed it gently to the reddened skin. Mu Qing flinched.

“Hold still,” Feng Xin said. His voice had steadied, but his hand had not.

Mu Qing looked down at him then, and for one fragile instant, Feng Xin thought he saw something flicker behind his eyes- something that wasn’t disdain, or irritation, but a kind of tired trust.

…

When most of the wounds were cleaned and salve carefully pressed into place, the silence was broken—by a low rumble from Mu Qing’s stomach.

…Right. He hadn’t eaten since… breakfast? If he even had breakfast, that is.

Feng Xin heard it instantly, of course.
“Wait here,” he said, already rising to his feet.

He crossed to the table where the leftover jidangao sat, lifting the bowl and frowning at how little warmth was left clinging to it. He hesitated, then moved as if to reheat it.

Mu Qing blinked. “…You don’t have to. Cold food is fine.” His voice was flat, but his ears betrayed him again, just faintly pink.

Feng Xin gave him a look that said shut up and let me take care of you before he set chopsticks and a small wooden spoon onto the tray.

Mu Qing watched him fuss, something in his chest twisting. Maybe it was the faint sting of salve, or maybe it was the sheer exhaustion… but an uncharacteristic urge rose up- a flicker of... mischief.

He shifted slightly, then lifted his arm just enough to gesture at his wrist. The bandages were still wrapped neat and tight.

Feng Xin glanced down, puzzled at first- then the realisation hit him, and his eyes widened.

“…You- you mean-” He stammered, words tripping over themselves.

Mu Qing’s mouth tugged into the smallest, slyest curve.
“Well, it’s not like I can hold chopsticks properly right now.”

“Theres a spoon right there- ”

“Oh, so my fault for injuring my wrist then?”

“No- that’s not…” he said, paused… “Fine.”

Feng Xin walked over to the bed, sat on the edge, and portioned some egg-cake with the wooden spoon. He held it out, steady despite the way his ears were heating.

Mu Qing raised an eyebrow, lips quirking. “What, no grand speech about how this is beneath you?”

“Do you want to eat or not?” Feng Xin shot back, though it came out softer than it should have.

Mu Qing leaned forward just enough to take the bite, chewing with an infuriating calmness, as though he wasn’t the one who had started this in the first place.

Feng Xin looked away, focusing on the bowl. “You’re impossible.”

“And you’re loud,” Mu Qing muttered between mouthfuls, then, after a beat, added almost too quietly: “But this isn’t… bad.”

Feng Xin froze, spoon hovering mid-air. Not bad? Was that supposed to be another insult? A compliment? His heart thudded louder than it should have for three words.

He cleared his throat, scooping another piece, this time without meeting Mu Qing’s eyes. “Shut up and finish eating.”

(end flashback...)

The table was silent for a while.

Mu Qing wasn’t… close with Feng Xin. Just because… all that happened- as Xie Lian had recounted… that doesn’t mean… much…

Feng Xin sipped his tea. Mu Qing tapped the table.

…

*crack*

Xie Lian had bitten into the tanghulu- it was good. It wasn’t bitter like some street vendors’ scams, and it wasn’t overly sweet like children’s candy.

“Mmn- this is really good!” he remarked.

Mu Qing sat down at the table.

His wrist had recovered.

“Shut up and finish eating.” He said, defensive but not unkindly.

Chapter Text

Xie Lian had recovered now, mostly.

At least, his physical state was.

At first glance, anyone might think that he had already healed– but Mu Qing knew better.

Xie Lian smiled brightly at everyone—but the longing—the heartbreak—

Mu Qing knew all of it.

So while Xie Lian strolled the village in his plain white robes, offering help to mortals and returning their gratitude with a smile, Mu Qing kept searching. He was looking for that damned Crimson Rain.

He didn’t tell Xie Lian about the butterflies. About how they flickered at the edges of his vision, haunting the halls.

Sometimes, Mu Qing seethed at the thought: That stupid ghost is still skulking about, filling the place with illusions—so why won’t he just show himself and stop Xie Lian from fussing?

And why did he care so much?

The question followed him everywhere.

Why this urgency to find a ghost he frankly couldn't stand?

The answer came not as a thought, but as a memory—a sharp, sweet-and-sour taste of cherry wine, and the sight of a prince smiling through a different, older heartbreak. He had seen that look on Xie Lian's face before. He had worn it himself.

Maybe he just owed him one. Or maybe he knew that some pains were too familiar to ignore.

There had been a time when…

Bad decisions were made.

And when bad decisions are made… words follow.

Words better left unsaid.

And when do bad decisions most often happen?

Well. Perhaps when people drink.

(flashback start)

Mu Qing had left Xie Lian’s shrine—if it could even be called that. A ramshackle little place, hardly worth the title of temple.

He had requested to leave.

The words had come out soft but sharp, and he had seen how they struck Xie Lian. How His Highness’s hands froze on the knife, the onion half-cut beneath it.

It was painful, the way those words came out, soft yet sharp, short—but had made His Highness’s expression freeze, morph into shock—and into that expression of… concern.

“Pardon?” he said softly, with that ever-so-gentle smile, “It’s very loud in here, don’t you think, Mu Qing? How about you—”

For a fleeting moment, Mu Qing wanted to stay again. To help.

But he forced himself to repeat, firmer this time,“Your Highness.”

“—there’s some flowers down the road,” Xie Lian did not seem to hear him, picked up his knife and started chopping the onions again—faster, quicker, “how about you—”

“You Highness.” he repeated again, his tone like a blade.

A beat of silence.

but the chopping continued.

“Feng Xin’s there too—you could bring him for dinner?” Xie Lian said at last, his voice tight.

Mu Qing almost laughed at the absurdity. Why bring Feng Xin into this? Was His Highness using Feng Xin—as some sort of… bribe?

It shouldn’t have worked…

He pushed the thought away.

He knew these pathetic feelings had to go… a long time ago. They would be used. Like this.

“Your Highness,” he said coldly, “I have a sick mother. I’ve no time for your problems—or his.”

This time, no excuses followed.

Xie Lian only smiled, brittle, unconvincing.

The knife in hand slowed down.

Fine.

If Mu Qing wanted to go, so be it.

But who knew when they would meet again?

This could be the last time they met… ever, right?

Xie Lian lowered his head.

“Right. Right… um. Have… a nice trip. I…” his gaze flicked to Mu Qing, at the doorway, and back to the onion. “… I hope your mother has a fast recovery.”

Hm.

But before the air could settle, Feng Xin appeared at the door, basket of hastily-picked cherries in hand.

“What?”

He gaze flicked from Xie Lian’s solemn expression to Mu Qing’s bitter face.

“Your Highness, what did you say?”

…

“I…”

The atmosphere crackled.

Now that Feng Xin was here…

Mu Qing rolled his eyes. Then his gaze flicked to the basket of cherries, then away with disapproval,

“Nothing. Not everything is about you, you know—just—at least… separate the dented ones from the good ones, you idiot—” he muttered, “—and why are these not even ripe yet? Did you—”

Feng Xin looked taken aback by the random scolding for no reason at all. “That’s not—it doesn’t matter! It’s the same fucking thing!”

Mu Qing rolled his eyes. Again.

“No, it’s not! These are going to taste sour, not—”

“So what if they’re sour!” Feng Xin bit back, “maybe unlike some people, we’d know that these cherries were obviously not for eating!”

Xie Lian cleared his throat. The topic had changed, so he would let it.

Stall a bit longer.

“So, what can it be used for?”

Feng Xin stilled.

His brow scrunched, embarrassed by his apparent failure to pick fruit correctly—thinking of something—anything—he could use as defence.

“Cherry… wine!” he blurted.

…

A beat of silence.

“Are you really drinking sour cherry juice and calling it wine?” Mu Qing said dryly, “What are you, three?”

Xie Lian hummed.

Yeah.

Feng Xin was alone on this one.

“Then I don’t know, mix it with some… rice wine or something,” he said, gaining confidence as his excuse made more sense. And since Mu Qing was bitching about it, he added,“I just know you can’t drink a drop of it—”

Oh.

Oh, this challenge was so on.

“Really?” Mu Qing said with a smirk, “Try me.”

Xie Lian was more than simply… grateful for this change of… focus.

Mu Qing seemed… attached. He hadn’t left yet.

He wasn’t staying for him, he knew that. He was staying for the ‘cherry wine’. Just the wine… nothing else.

There were arguments, fights, and bickering on how the cherry was to be cut and crushed or just straight up crushed—though Xie Lian couldn’t really defend this one, as cherry pits were poisonous…

Whatever. They looked like they were having… fun. And maybe getting along.

Mu Qing was filtering the crushed cherries’ juice into a bowl, and Feng Xin was pouring the juice into a large jug.

“—your hands are shaky—”

“—no, they’re not, what the fuck are you on about?”

Mu Qing gestured to the juice. It was dripping at the rim, just slightly.

“It’s not… pouring right—”

Now it was Feng Xin’s turn to roll his eyes.

“What the hell. How do you even ‘pour right’? Just get the fucking wine…”

Mu Qing was going to tell him how to pour correctly and not like some clumsy oaf.

But whatever. That idiot didn’t care about precision.

So he went to the corner of the kitchen, where they stored food. For long-term storage, that was.

There was a small jug of rice wine from back when they had offerings at the temples. Those were nice memories. This jug wasn’t even that old—it had just… been through a lot. When people started to lose their belief in Xie Lian… they were stripped of everything. Maybe this wine was… lucky, in a way. A blessing.

He slid the jar across the bottom of the cabinet, and managed to lift it to the kitchen counter where Feng Xin was waiting.

There wasn’t a spill of cherry juice like he may have expected. So maybe he wasn’t a clumsy oaf. Just maybe.

Mu Qing tugged at the knot, fingers working the string loose until it unravelled. The cloth crinkled as he peeled it back from the jug’s mouth, releasing the faint, heady scent of old wine.

Then he lifted the jug, pouring out a pale golden liquid. It was still a young rice wine after all. The smell was unfamiliar, strong, in a way. Just a whiff and he had already felt… lightheaded.

He had served wine to others once, but pouring this much, knowing this wasn’t even a proper brew… it…

Ugh.

Maybe it was just because Mu Qing hadn’t had wine before. His cultivation… fuck. He hadn’t drank before.

What would his tolerance be like?

Didn’t people say things when they’re drunk? What if he said something about… them. All of them…

Whatever.

He was leaving soon, wasn’t he? Why hadn’t he gone yet?

With practiced motions, Feng Xin stretched the cloth across the mouth of the new jug, pulling it taut before winding the string around the neck, knotting it firm.

Mu Qing watched.

Right.

He was why.

Night had settled fully by the time they finished—tidying, cleaning, bickering, the small residue of chaos left behind. The moon poured through the blinds, silvering the small table outside. It was quiet here, calm enough to hear one’s own heartbeat.

Mu Qing had been the one to serve the wine. Obviously.

He had lifted the wine pot and carefully poured the… wine. It looked more like blood than wine, save for the golden shimmer clinging faintly to the surface. He really didn’t know what he had expected—but then remembered that this kind of… cheap, lousy drink was anything but the fine, exquisite wine they once had in Xianle.

Mu Qing lifted a small ceramic cup. The jug was cool in his hand. He drank, deliberately, though he knew he shouldn’t. Wine—an earthly indulgence, forbidden, reckless. But he needed it. Needed the warmth that slid down his throat, the cherry sweetness masking the bite.

The energy threading through him—the careful cultivation, the steady current of his being—snapped.

Pain flared. Sharp, sudden, as if someone had stabbed a needle through him, tugged the thread of his life, and yanked it free. He coughed, wine choking him, fingers clutching the edge of the wooden table to stay upright.

Feng Xin laughed, bright and careless.

“What, never had wine before? Can’t believe it…”

Feng Xin chugged his own cup with the easy arrogance only he could manage, muttering something like, ‘…can’t even handle his own liquor…’

The world blurred at the edges. The moon doubled. His pulse thundered.

Mu Qing watched, noticing how the moon caught his hair at different angles, the way his eyes caught the light and danced, how his lips moved when he spoke, imagined how they would feel right now against his own… and flinched at the thought.

Pain throbbed again.

So he poured again.

Each swallow dulled thought and sharpened feeling, until only heat and the taste of cherries remained.

See. These feelings bring nothing but pain.

They should’ve gone a long… a long time ago…

He picked up the glass again, rebellious, and swallowed, ignoring the sting, letting the wine burn down to steady him. Every sip carried warmth, sweetness, and a tiny, dangerous thrill. He knew the danger, knew he was indulging, and yet he could not stop…

Then Xie Lian raised his cup.

Instinct shot through Mu Qing before thought could catch it. His hand lashed out, striking the cup from Xie Lian’s fingers. Wine sloshed across the grass, shimmering under the moonlight.

“Mu Qing—” Xie Lian’s voice was soft, startled.

“Not good for cultivation,” Mu Qing said firmly. Every syllable hurt a little to speak, his chest aching.

Because he knew. He knew Xie Lian had the patience, the steadiness, the heart that could carve out a path where Mu Qing’s own would falter. He had the background, the talent, the will. If he strayed—if he tasted indulgence now, even once—he could lose it all.

Mu Qing could not allow it.

Xie Lian tilted his head, smiling faintly. “Mu Qing… you’re drunk.”

“I’m not,” Mu Qing said, voice tight, chest thrumming with heat and pain and a strange flutter he refused to name.

Feng Xin watched them both, confused. “What’s up with him?”

But Mu Qing barely heard. His hand still pressed against the table, his pulse hammering beneath his skin. The last of his cultivated energy seeped away into the wine he had drunk, leaving only warmth, ache, and the pull of forbidden things.

Will these stupid emotions be gone too?

He steadied himself, and felt the last of his energy drain into the wine, into the lingering ache in his chest, into the thrum between desire and duty. He could taste the sweetness, feel the warmth, and yet the thought of Xie Lian drinking, of breaking that careful, fragile thread… it made his heart tighten.

He let himself lean into it anyway. Let himself feel the ache, the tension, the pull of forbidden things, the way the night wrapped around them like a quiet witness.

Every glance at Feng Xin, every glance at Xie Lian, every breath he took, carried weight. And for the first time in a long while, Mu Qing allowed it to hurt. Allowed it to linger.

So his answer was no.

No, he was still stuck with that stupidly addictive flutter in his chest—like a drug. Ruinous, humiliating, yet the thrill was something he craved. A thirst that could never be quenched.

Maybe the flowing spiritual energy had always been his excuse.

Maybe he had…

Had…

Whatever.

Feng Xin had gone inside to get some water.

Xie Lian had just talked with them—or rather, just Feng Xin, considering Mu Qing’s current… state—and sat politely instead of trying to drink, knowing Mu Qing’s stubborn personality would only be amplified under the effect of wine.

He looked… tired, and unnervingly pale.

“Mu Qing… what happened to your cultivation?” he asked.

Xie Lian knew Mu Qing as a person of… high discipline.
Which meant that he knew Mu Qing was well aware of the rules of cultivating.

So what Xie Lian had thought was… maybe Mu Qing had lost his cultivation before and this was his way of telling them ‘it’s gone.’

But there had been that jerk of pain. And choking on the ruby-red drink.

Highly out-of character, everyone would say.

And especially now, Mu Qing was slouched on the table, head rested on folded arms.

“…Nothing.” Mu Qing murmured, “—the hell d’you mean…”

“Nothing?” Xie Lian said, tone light, “Then why are you drinking?”

He was careful to keep his questions easy and short, because… Mu Qing was one who rarely displayed emotion but frequently showed judgement. And he was also inexperienced with alcoholic drinks—the classic type of person that was highly likely to spill every single thought when drunk.

“Drinking because…”

“Hm?”

“…Xin.”

What…

Was that…

Xie Lian cleared his throat.

“…Pardon?”

Mu Qing looked up, with that dazed expression on his face—he was drunk.

There was a faint flush—sharp against his pale skin. His gaze was… relaxed, almost dreamlike.

“…Feng Xin.”

Oh.

Oh.

Um.

Xie Lian did not know what to do with this… revelation, nor what to think about it.

Did he really just…

“What about him?”

…

Mu Qing tilted his head.

“I think…. he likes someone… or something… dunno…” he slurred, “No point in keeping cultivation…”

That…

Made no sense.

What’s Feng Xin’s… so-called ‘crush’ got to do with cultivating?

“Really…” Xie Lian said instead, “How so?”

Then Mu Qing slouched again, head on folded arms…

“Saw him once… in the village… met a girl, and he looked… different…” he replied, tone dreamy, “The girl… seemed to be…. prostitute… so I figured… that’s his type, no?”

Oh my.

He was breaking his vows… for a man.

Permanently.

As once you fall for earthly desires… you are impure.

And you can’t ‘purify’ yourself.

It’s not a speck of dirt on the floor to be wiped.

It’s a tree grown wrong at the roots.

Then the drunken Mu Qing sat up straighter…

“But it’s useless… I…”

Footsteps.

Heavy, familiar footsteps paired with the faint rustle of grass, the chirping of crickets in the night—that Mu Qing could recognise anywhere.

Feng Xin.

He was holding a jug of water, and some warm… soup.

“Your Highness, I’ve brought the water.” he said, “and a sobering draught… this idiot’s lack of retorts is getting unsettling.”

So the porcelain hit the table with soft clinks, harder than Mu Qing would have placed them himself.

“Bastard… going to break the cups… I’m not compensating for the damage…”

“Yeah, yeah. Whatever,” Feng Xin said, pouring the water for Xie Lian. Then he blew lightly on the small bowl filled the draught. “Here. Drink.”

…

Mu Qing hesitated.

“…how do I know it’s not poisoned… or something…”

Idiot. Absolute idiot.

A dismissive snort escaped him.

He lifted the bowl to his own lips and took a sip.

“There. Happy?”

…

“Yeah.” Mu Qing said, “I’ll… drink it.”

Xie Lian coughed.

Anyway.

Feng Xin did not lay down the bowl, but instead tilted Mu Qing’s chin and poured the drink.

“You’re drunk and don’t want to compensate for a potential… breakage in the crockery… so… what can I do…”

…

Xie Lian watched this unfold, with the… knowledge that he did not know what to use for.

Mu Qing was so in love.

…

But he still left.

Must have been early in the morning.

Because when Xie Lian woke with a mild hangover, and stepped out of the room…

He saw Feng Xin, in shock, staring at a small, crumpled note.

To: Your Highness and Feng Xin,

I should have left yesterday, but I didn’t.
Sorry for the trouble.
I have better things to do.
I have other responsibilities, and I promise I will pay you all back someday. For the hospitality.

Thank you for your care and company for the past few years.

From, Mu Qing.

P.S. The cups have been replaced. Feng Xin cracked some.

P.P.S. I wish

Damn it.

The last bit was crossed out.

There were many lines scribbled out, blacked out, and what remained was Mu Qing's meticulous handwriting.

“Your Highness, what is he…”

“Let him be.” Xie Lian said, “He has nothing here anyway. Mu Qing is very talented, I’m sure he can get a decent job and make a living somewhere in the market. He can clean, cook, bargain… make money… we just kept him here, preventing it.”

“But—he left, Your Highness. That…” Feng Xin lowered his head, “That’s betrayal, isn’t it? Weren’t the most basic rules servants are taught: ‘Stay with the master.’? How could you let him leave—”

“Feng Xin.” he interrupted, tone gentle, “Just let him go.”

…

And Feng Xin's reaction was… unexpected.

A slump in the shoulders… a wince that flickered so fast Xie Lian almost didn’t catch it— and… fury.

Rage burned behind his gaze.

He turned away.

“I’m going to… find some food down at the market.”

…

Oh, but Feng Xin…

You’re too late…

...

(flashback end)

The memory faded, leaving only the bitter taste of regret and the sweet, cloying ghost of cherry wine on his tongue. The past was a closed wound, but the sight of Xie Lian’s smile now—a perfect mirror of that brittle, unconvincing expression from eight hundred years ago—picked at the stitches.

Some pains were too familiar to ignore.

A silver butterfly, no mere illusion but a tangible spark of spiritual energy, flickered at the edge of the courtyard and vanished. This time, Mu Qing didn’t seethe. He moved.

He was going to find that damn ghost king, drag him back by his silver vambraces if he had to, and make him fix this. It was a debt. It was empathy. It was, perhaps, the only way he knew how to say he understood.