Work Text:
Mu Qing presses the edge of his saber against Feng Xin’s throat.
As the blade sinks deeper into his flesh, a trickle of blood staining the steel deep red, Feng Xin keeps on staring at him, with a deep furrow of his brows and confusion flickering in his eyes.
The stagnant air in the cave is making his head hurt, the pain pulsing through his body in cold waves.
He should’ve known better than to underestimate the curse by trying to destroy it by himself. Normally he'd have no qualms about laying all the blame on Feng Xin, but now, with his blade bloody, he finds himself unable to blame anyone but himself.
Arrogant and proud, that’s what he’d been. Never one to admit such things, however, he merely tightens his hold on his weapon.
Feng Xin blinks, grabbing the edge of the saber on his neck. Not even flinching as it tears into the flesh of his palm, he cocks his head. “What are you doing?”
*
Instead of focusing on the severity of the curse or the evil qi within the cave, it is, embarrassingly, the murals that distract them.
The walls of the cave are filled with paintings. Row after row, there are pictures of couples with their limbs entwined and faces pulled close together, with or without clothes. If Mu Qing was any other god – such as Feng Xin, whose face immediately turned red upon the sight – the intimate positions would have made him turn away and flee.
He takes a step closer, lighting a palm torch with a flick of his wrist. In the dim light, the details are difficult to decipher, the worn paint slapped on top of the carved lines only making the images messier.
When he brings his hand closer to the wall, the light reflecting from the dim colors of the murals, he sighs.
There's no getting over it. These murals really do look like–
“What the fuck is this place? Some sort of sex cave?!”
He grimaces as Feng Xin’s booming voice bounces off the walls, echoing in the cave for what feels like an eternity.
Yes, sure, he was right, but he didn't need to say it like that.
Not all the images seem to be indecent, though. When he’s scanning through them, row by row, a thought crosses his mind.
"It's the same woman in every picture,” he says and points at the wall. "And look at that picture. They seem to be just cuddling."
Feng Xin walks to his side, boots scrunching against the gravel. Their shoulders almost bump, and Mu Qing steps to the side to give him room, moving further away from the radiating warmth of his body.
"Yeah," Feng Xin says, nodding. "They're definitely wearing proper clothes, and not, uh–"
“Exactly. And look – she has a red dress."
"Is it a wedding dress?" Feng Xin's eyes slip to the side, and immediately, they widen. "Uh, look. She's wearing the dress here, too."
Wearing the dress is a bit of an overstatement – the dress is almost ripped off her body, halfway on the floor. The picture is the most detailed and biggest of them all, and the only one in which the two are kissing.
Feng Xin gulps, his Adam's apple bobbing as he takes in the picture before him. The light casts a warm, golden glow over his face, highlighting his sharp jaw and cheekbone, making his eyes burn amber. When he starts gnawing on his bottom lip, plush and soft-looking between his teeth, Mu Qing finally averts his eyes.
He clears his throat. "Yes. Yes, it probably is a wedding dress. Didn't the report say that the ghost was a married woman?"
"Yeah," Feng Xin says, absentmindedly.
Mu Qing side-eyes him. “Never got a prayer from her?”
Finally, he tears his gaze away from the wall. He looks angry enough to pounce at him, but instead, he clenches his fists and lets out an annoyed scoff. “Even if I did, do you think I’d remember?”
Mu Qing huffs. His sarcastic comments are usually met without a punch or an insult right back at him, nowadays – something that had to do with Feng Xin trying to be the bigger person, according to his own words. How dull.
Instead of answering, he places his palm flat against the cold wall, right on top of the kissing couple. With his thumb, he caresses over the grooves, feeling the rough surface crumble beneath his touch.
Before, he could detect only a trace of evil qi wafting within the cave, weak and dissipating. With his palm against the stone, however, the energy feels stronger and more powerful as it pulses within the walls.
According to the report, mortals have come to this cave, touched these walls, and gotten cursed. No details were given on what exactly is the curse, only that it has caused conflict among families and was related to the ghost seen around the area. The ghost has been taken care of, but the curse remains.
Feng Xin shuffles on his feet. “Do you think the curse has anything to do with,” he says, gesturing at the walls, “this stuff?”
"Could be. It might be some sort of aphrodisiac," Mu Qing answers. When Feng Xin’s face pales, he shrugs, letting out a dry laugh. “Not that it matters, anyway. I’m going to get rid of it. It’s not like I’m going to get cursed."
Beneath his palm, the evil qi struggles, turning erratic as he focuses his spiritual power into the wall. The two energies clash, and slowly, he feels the curse beginning to disperse.
When he's almost done destroying the last remains of it, something cold slithers inside him. The tingling chill runs from his fingertip all the way up his arm, finally resting against his throat.
It’s freezing.
Feng Xin grabs his shoulder. “Are you alright?”
Mu Qing clenches his hand into a fist and opens it, flexing his fingers. They’re a bit numb.
"Yes. Of course." The words feel odd in his mouth, as if spoken through a filter. "I'm fine."
Feng Xin’s eyes scan him up and down, concern flashing in them. Then, he sighs. His hand slides off his shoulder, and the coldness returns tenfold.
“Well then,” Feng Xin sighs. He places his palm on the same spot as Mu Qing had, brows pinching in concentration. Then, he relaxes. “Seems like we’re done here. That was surprisingly easy."
Easy is an understatement, Mu Qing thinks, shivering, a bad feeling in the pit of his stomach.
When they leave the cave, he gives the murals one last lingering look – it’s as if the woman on the walls is mocking him, her flirtatious gaze shifting elsewhere the moment their eyes meet.
*
The bad feeling grows worse as the days pass.
It doesn't take long for him to realize that he’s been cursed. When he opens his mouth to speak, the words get stuck in his throat, leaving him gaping and frowning in front of his junior officials like an idiot, unable to use his words correctly.
It seems like a harmless curse, the only damage being his fractured ego and the lingering numbness all over his body. But still, a powerful martial god like him being affected by such a small, stupid thing – he feels ridiculous. And from a cave filled with such inelegant pictures?
Mu Qing shudders.
Just as he’s about to dive back into his paperwork, he’s interrupted by a loud voice.
“Mu Qing." Feng Xin taps into his communication array. “Are you free to chat for a bit?”
Oh?
Mu Qing places his brush down, giving Feng Xin his full attention. He wonders if the curse affects spiritual communication, too, or whether its effects are restricted to real, spoken words.
“Not really, but go ahead,” Mu Qing answers.
Leisurely, he starts organizing the reports into a neat pile. Having set five pieces of paper on top of it, Feng Xin still hasn't answered.
Did he disconnect?
He frowns. “Feng Xin–”
“We haven’t seen each other in a while,” Feng Xin says, words low and rushed. “So, uh. Do you maybe want to go to the mortal realm with me tomorrow? There’s a festival going on, and I have a prayer that I need to take care of.”
The corner of the paper in his hands crumples as his fingers twitch.
Ignoring the part about not seeing each other in a while – didn’t they meet two days ago? – he asks, “A prayer?”
“It’s nothing big, really! You can focus on relaxing.”
"Why would I need to relax?"
"No! That's not what I–,” his voice softens, and it’s the closest thing to a whisper that he’s ever heard from him. “I just think you deserve it. Deserve some time off. And I thought we could just, like, hang out. If you want to. Maybe."
He feels his face flush, heart stuttering in his chest. The paper in his hands is crumpled into a ball, and he hurls it across the table.
What the hell?
Why did he have to sound so sincere? When has he ever sounded so sincere? Was this some sort of strategy to fuck with him?
Was Feng Xin even capable of such strategies, being as straightforward as he was?
After his shaky confession at Mount Tonglu, their relationship has been… odd. Suddenly, Feng Xin started treating him like a real person with feelings, not resorting to anger as easily as before. And lately, he has even started to seek out Mu Qing for them to merely hang out.
He swallows thickly. "Yes, I can–"
The words won’t come out, his sentence cutting off.
Oh, fuck.
It did affect spiritual communication, too.
The curse forces him to lie. At first, Mu Qing was glad that at least it wasn't a truth curse. A curse forcing his deepest fears and desires out of him sounded like a nightmare that, frankly, he never wanted to experience. Lying, however, came as easy as breathing to him, so why should he be bothered by it?
But he was wrong.
He wants to answer Feng Xin in kind, for once not resorting to sarcasm or the mean, prickly words that he favors. He wants to accept Feng Xin’s tentative offer of peace, if only for an evening.
The curse forcing him to twist his words – something Feng Xin has made abundantly clear that he despises – feels just cruel.
His heart squeezes, painfully.
"You can?" Feng Xin's voice turns excited as he babbles on. "You want to hang out? I already checked the place out, and it seemed like fun! There’s even food that I think you’d like. Remember those pastries you told me about?”
Yes, Mu Qing wants to say. But I thought you had forgotten.
He squeezes his eyes shut. “No. I’m busy tomorrow.”
"The day after tomorrow, then?"
"No."
"Oh. I… I see.” The words are flat, devoid of both his previous excitement and the irritation he was expecting. "I'd continue asking whether two days after tomorrow would work for you, but that's a no too, right? I can take a hint."
He could – if the curse allows it – say that he can come, although he doesn’t want to. That’s not considered the truth, right? If he were lucky, the bitchy words could even annoy Feng Xin enough for them to start an argument, breaking the strange, hushed atmosphere they're wallowing in.
But if they met, the curse could still be affecting him, and he refuses to face Feng Xin when he’s acting and feeling like this.
Before he can decide on what to answer, a shiver runs down his spine, making his mind blank as coldness takes over him.
Under the curse’s influence, his tone is cool and smooth. “Of course the answer is no. Why are you bothering me with stupid things like this? If it were an actual mission, I’d go, but – this? You really think I’d go on a date with you to eat greasy food from street vendors?”
The silence, deep and suffocating, rings in his ears.
Then, Feng Xin sighs.
“Not really,” he mumbles, words laced with regret. “I’ll leave you to it, then.”
The communication gets cut off.
Slowly, Mu Qing raises his hand to his throat. It’s cold.
*
Mu Qing has always wanted.
Wanted for his mother to be healthy, wanted enough power to never feel useless again, wanted to become a god.
Wanted people to have faith in him.
When he became the Martial God of the Southwest, he thought he had acquired it. His followers built him temples and prayed to him, lit lanterns to show their faith in him, trusting him to protect them.
At first, it had been enough.
But then, his longing didn't disappear. The emptiness within his chest remained regardless of the increasing number of followers, and it only grew stronger with time. He felt detached, still yearning.
And, the thing is – Mu Qing is painfully aware of his own feelings.
From the sidelines, he has seen the kind of faith he secretly yearned for. Feng Xin's faith in Xie Lian was so bright, so overpowering that it made him wonder what it would feel like to be on the receiving end of such affections.
Then, Xie Lian changed, Feng Xin changed, and he was given hope.
For whatever reason, after centuries of animosity, Feng Xin was willing to change his opinion on him. He didn't know whether it was due to his sense of justice, or because Xie Lian put him up to it – or, worst of all, because they felt sorry for him.
It might even be because of his misguided guilt. The first time Feng Xin sat down next to him and apologized, it was as if the ground beneath him had crumbled. He apologized for misjudging him and for always bringing up his past as a servant, even going as far as thanking him for protecting Cuocuo. Mu Qing felt awkward and exposed, only able to respond with a roll of his eyes and saying that there was no need for any of it. Have you hit your head, Nan Yang?
Neither of them was innocent, after all, so really – what could he possibly gain from apologizing?
As spiteful as it was, he wasn’t going to apologize back. The insults that had left Feng Xin’s mouth cut deeper than any meager surface wounds he’d managed to inflict in return.
Still. Feng Xin was kind, and it did nothing to quench his want.
Instead, he’s haunted by the thought of what it would feel like to hold his calloused hand in his, rather than clenching his hand into a fist and punching him in the face.
If he ever did try to take his hand between his palms, he would surely be met with anger. Instead of the gentle, loyal smile he’s horrified to admit that he’s dreamed of, Feng Xin’s face would be contorted in disgust.
Mu Qing sighs, head in his hands.
At least an angry Feng Xin would be easy to deal with; he knew what to say to get under his skin, how to defend himself and come out on top. But lately, he hasn't been angry.
What was their relationship, if not explosive? What was there beneath all the fighting and insults?
They don't get along. That is a fact he keeps repeating to himself over and over again, like a mantra, more vehemently the more Feng Xin tries to–
What, exactly? Tries to act nice? For them to be friends?
Mu Qing scoffs.
As if he'd want that. What is done is done, and the past cannot be undone.
As he's going through his prayers, deep in thought, one of them, neatly written on a piece of paper, catches his eye. Please give me the courage to tell the truth.
His hand lowers to touch his throat. The cold energy within pulses, as if mocking him.
With or without the curse, it's impossible. He's unable to be truthful, to others and to himself, let alone granting such ridiculous wishes.
*
The curse isn't as simple as he made it out to be. Not only forcing him to tell lies, it's also able to take control of his words, twisting them however it likes. And, from what he’s gathered, it's only able to do so if he's feeling negative emotions, such as anxiousness.
So the solution is to, well – to not be anxious. Easy. He just needs to keep his emotions in check while he's looking for a way to break the curse.
In the end, words are only words – and words hurt no one. The curse is such an idiotic, useless, pathetic little thing, and Mu Qing absolutely refuses to let it affect him.
A week later, there is an angry Feng Xin at the gates of his palace.
“Fucker, we have a mission, and you’re needed there! Stop ignoring me,” he shouts. As he's banging on the door, the sound of it reverberates across the courtyard. “And why the fuck did you change your password?!”
The volume of his yelling makes Mu Qing’s ears burst, but at the same time, the relief blooming in his chest has his lips quirking into a smile.
The anger is a familiar, safe territory.
Feng Xin is still yelling. “And this time, it is a mission, so get the stick out of your ass! Gonna leave all the work to me, huh?!”
When Mu Qing opens the door, he’s met with a red-faced Feng Xin, his brows furrowed and teeth gritted in annoyance.
“What do you want?”
Feng Xin crosses his arms. “Are you deaf? There’s a mission, and I need you there.”
“How so?”
“Because it’s your problem too, and I’m sure as hell not going to do it by myself,” he says. Then, he scratches his cheek, looking sheepish all of a sudden. “And I know you’ve been holed up in there forever. What’s up with that? At least answer my calls. Or Dianxia’s.”
Ah, Xie Lian – of course he would bring him into this. Why else would Feng Xin be concerned, if not for his Dianxia?
“Is that all?” Mu Qing quirks his brow, inspecting his nails. “If so, I’ll go now. I’m sure the mission is not urgent.”
Feng Xin takes one, heavy step forward. “You didn’t answer me. Why are you avoiding us?”
Mu Qing takes a deep breath, his annoyance spiking. Getting rid of Feng Xin is like trying to remove a particularly sticky piece of candy from the bottom of his boot.
“Mn. I'm not, though. Of course I’ve seen Dianxia – it’s just you I don’t want to see. Have you considered that he’s lying to you?”
Feng Xin’s eyes darken. “Don’t fucking lie to me.”
“I’m not.”
“You are,” Feng Xin scowls. “Why are you back to acting like this?”
“Like myself, you mean?”
He sees the way Feng Xin’s teeth clench, chest puffing out, and the fist coming his way is easy to dodge. Instead of his face, the punch lands on the wall behind him, making it crack, stones crumbling to the ground.
“What the fuck is your problem?” Feng Xin yells, face twisting up in anger. His arm is trembling, straining as it’s propped against the wall. “Fucking hell, Mu Qing, I thought we got along better by now. Why can't you act normal? Is it because I," his mouth purses, but quickly, he shakes his head, "That's no excuse! Is it so hard for you to be tolerable?!"
His face is so close to Mu Qing's that he can feel the warm puffs of air against his skin with every sentence shouted. He can see in detail the light, sparse freckles on his face, the way his bangs are sloppily pulled behind his ear, the dryness of his lips.
Ah, now he’s angry.
Mu Qing thought he missed it, the feeling of being yelled at and yelling at him in return, but instead, he feels hollow.
He's tired, and cannot think of anything to yell back at him.
The thing is – Mu Qing has long since realized how to break the curse.
His first thought had been dual cultivation. It’s a solution to many things, unfortunately, and based on the nature of the murals in the cave, the idea wasn’t far-fetched.
Although a chilling thought, it would be simple to carry out – just have sex with someone, and the curse would be gone. But then, after a night of research, he realized that the solution was far more complicated than simply laying with someone.
The curse was brought to existence by a woman who used to be happily married. A few years into the marriage, however, she was unfairly accused of betraying her husband's trust and being unfaithful. Ultimately, her husband killed her, and the innocent woman's resentment caused her to turn into a ghost – a ghost who then began to lie, sleep around, and kill out of spite.
To break the curse, he must prove the ghost wrong – that there is faith. That someone does trust him.
But there must be another way. That solution cannot possibly work for Mu Qing.
There is no one to trust him.
"Mu Qing, you, if you don't say something right this second, I'll–"
The world twists around him, corners of his vision blurry. Feng Xin is merely a silhouette in front of him, dark and far-away.
The curse really knew how to choose its targets. Mu Qing, who's yearned to be understood for the last 800 years, finally coming face-to-face with the fact that in the end, he was right – it's impossible.
Feng Xin’s voice is hoarse from all the shouting. "Mu Qing?"
"You're–"
Right.
You're right – that's what he wants to say but is unable to. I'm unable to act normal, my mind too twisted by the past, bitterness too ingrained in my flesh.
Ah.
So much for not being anxious.
The cold crawls up his arm, his chest, and nestles against his throat. Just as he’s about to open his mouth and let the curse say whatever it wants to, Feng Xin interrupts him.
“You’re shivering.”
Mu Qing blinks. “What?”
“You’re shivering,” he repeats, firmly. The deep furrow of his brows makes him seem… concerned? “Shivering and acting weird. Is something wrong?”
“I–”
Feng Xin’s hand raises to touch his forehead, and the words die in his throat. The touch is clumsy, his fingers splayed and flattening the hair on his forehead, but nevertheless, they feel warm against his skin.
“You don’t seem to have a fever.” His hand remains on his forehead as a pondering look crosses his face. “Wait, did something happen back in the cave with the awful murals? Now that I think of it, you were shivering back then, too.”
Mu Qing is at a loss. He tried to get rid of him, so how did it end up with Feng Xin’s hand on his forehead, with him being concerned instead of them having a fistfight?
He tries to feel angry about it, he really does – but as Feng Xin’s eyes bore into his, he cannot open his mouth to say the mean words ready on his tongue.
Ah, he hates this. But maybe this is the easiest way out.
Feng Xin pulls his hand away. “Mu Qing?”
“No,” he says.
“No?”
Mu Qing nods. “No, nothing happened.”
Feng Xin opens his mouth, then closes it. He frowns. "What the fuck does that mean?"
“I love Xie Lian’s cooking.”
“Huh?!”
“I’m ugly. It’s raining. Those flowers are, um–” he glances at the flowerbed beside them, “–white.”
Feng Xin’s gaze follows to where he's looking. “They’re fucking red?”
“No they aren’t.”
“Is this a puzzle?”
Mu Qing glares at him. Feng Xin squints at him in return, looking ruffled and confused as thoughts flash behind his eyes. Then, the realization strikes.
“Oh,” Feng Xin opens his mouth. “Oh. Are you cursed?”
“No, I’m not.”
“You–”
“No, I’m not,” Mu Qing repeats, slowly, while pointing at his mouth and nodding his head.
Feng Xin blinks. “Right,” he finally says. He’s still staring at his lips. “You can’t speak the truth. It’s that kind of curse.”
One last time, Mu Qing nods. Something warm fills his chest when he sees Feng Xin’s shoulders relaxing, the final remains of his anger dissipating.
Feng Xin scratches the back of his head. “We best leave the mission for later, then. Breaking the curse comes first. So, do you have any idea how to break it?”
Mu Qing's mind blanks.
Out of all the things he expected Feng Xin to say, an offer of help was not one of them.
When he shakes his head, Feng Xin raises his brows. "Really?" he asks, surprised. "I was sure you'd have some sort of plan already. Should we go back to the cave?”
Again, he used that word. We.
Mu Qing refuses to acknowledge the feeling of relief blooming in his chest. Without saying anything, he nods. A curse forcing him to lie is still a truth curse, in a way – if he accidentally says something unnecessary, all Feng Xin has to do is to reverse the meaning, and he has him exposed.
Feng Xin nods back at him, a bright smile adorning his face, as if he’s happy to help.
Then, he averts his eyes, suddenly shy. “But, do you think that in order to break the curse, we have to…” His face flushes. “Uh, remember the murals..?”
Mu Qing glares at him, his face hot, and Feng Xin promptly shuts his mouth.
*
The murals inside the cave are as awful as he remembers them being, if not a bit fainter as the paint has started to crack after the removal of the curse. Unlike last time, there are no traces of evil qi, neither in the air nor within the walls.
It's logical, as the evil qi has been transferred to him. When Feng Xin grabbed his wrist on their way here to check his meridians, he wasn't prepared for it – he was too slow to yank his hand away. He could still feel the scorching, gentle touch on his wrist.
When Mu Qing wanders around the small cave, nothing seems out of place. Now that he knows who the woman is, however, the murals make more sense: she's with multiple different men, probably to rub her unfaithfulness in her murderer husband's face.
Feng Xin is still examining the wall, his back facing him, when someone speaks to him.
It’s a woman’s voice, soft and silky. I’m disappointed. How come he’s trying to help you?
Feng Xin isn't reacting, so it must be the ghost.
He wants to laugh. Is she trying to taunt him, sounding desperate like that?
It’s so, so sad not to be trusted. I was hoping for you to be like me, but that man is clearly crazy. Still, I control you. I have a deal – just lay your blade on his neck, teach him a lesson, and I’ll break the curse.
Mu Qing scoffs, resisting the urge to roll his eyes. Feng Xin glances at him over his shoulder, a curious look on his face, but Mu Qing waves his hand in dismissal.
The ghost continues. Aren’t you angry? He’s never trusted you, always thought you’re scheming and up to no good. How can you forgive him so easily, after all the accusations he’s had against you?
Her voice is grating on his nerves. Mu Qing closes his eyes, trying to tune her out, but failing.
Isn’t it odd that he’s helping you now? I know he thinks you’re just a poor, pathetic street rat. You’re naive, Xuan Zhen, for believing his apology.
His eyes blink open.
Feng Xin is crouching on the ground, oblivious to Mu Qing's stare burning holes in the back of his head. His bun is slightly askew, probably from running his fingers through it so much.
Mu Qing shakes his head.
Oh, but remember all the awful things the prince said about you, what was his name… Ah, Xie Lian! If even a kind man like him is insulting you, then just imagine what Nan Yang must be thinking of you! You really think they would ever stoop so low as to want to be your friend? Hahaha!
Mu Qing knows she's taunting him on purpose. He knows, but still, despite the logical part of his brain telling him not to mind any of it – what does she even know of him, of them? – he cannot stop his cheeks from flushing. Humiliation burns deep in his chest, the insults thrown at him despite his attempts to do the right thing ringing in his ears.
He tries to trust them. He does trust them. At least he thinks he does.
Before he manages to take a deep breath and smother the unnecessary thoughts, the ghost grows silent.
To Mu Qing’s horror, the curse's effect isn’t only limited to words.
He takes a step forward and puts his hand on Feng Xin's shoulder.
Feng Xin jolts, tilting his chin up to look at him. “Mu Qing?”
His eyes follow the movement of Mu Qing’s hand as it’s sliding along his shoulder, towards his neck, finally fiddling with the soft fabric of his collar. As the tips of his cold fingers slip inside the collar, caressing the warm skin of his neck, Feng Xin’s eyes widen and snap up to meet his. Before he can say anything, Mu Qing tightens his grip on his robes and yanks him up.
Feng Xin lets out a groan as he’s turned around and slammed against the murals. Then, Mu Qing’s blade is set against the flesh of his throat, right under his jaw.
Feng Xin chokes out, “Mu Qing?”
At first, it's like he doesn't even notice the blade tearing deeper into his flesh, only staring at Mu Qing with a crease between his brows. But then, his eyes flick down to it, and he frowns.
He grabs the blade with one hand, stopping it from sinking into his neck. His other hand rises to hold Mu Qing's bicep, fingers helplessly grasping his sleeve.
Instead of fighting back, he merely tilts his head. “What are you doing?”
“What does it look like I'm doing, pretty boy?” Mu Qing feels his mouth twisting into a sneer. “Why are you helping him?”
"What?"
Mu Qing's grip on the blade tightens. "Why are you helping me?!"
"What?!" Feng Xin repeats. Both his hands are grabbing the saber now – blood is seeping through his gloves, running down the blade in small, red rivulets. "Wait, is the curse controlling you? I thought it could only affect your words?"
"Answer the question. Why are you helping me? What could you possibly gain from helping someone like me? Aren’t you supposed to despise me?"
Feng Xin opens his mouth, closes it, and opens it again, a helpless look on his face. He huffs in exertion, and the crease between his brows deepens.
"What do you mean?" he finally asks.
"Like you wouldn't know," Mu Qing scowls, pushing the blade more firmly against his neck. "Suddenly being oh-so-considerate, treating me like a, a – a fucking friend. Why?"
Feng Xin winces. “Why wouldn’t I treat you like a friend? Haven't we–”
Mu Qing lets out an incredulous laugh. "Because I'm trying to kill you."
"You wouldn't do that."
"You’re an idiot for thinking that I wouldn’t."
"It’s just the curse. We fight and hurt each other all the time, but never–,” he says weakly, trailing off. “You would never kill me. I trust you."
As the words leave his mouth, Feng Xin puts all his strength into shoving the blade off his neck. His face contorts in pain as the sharp edge of the saber tears deeper into his palms, blood dripping down in fat drops and staining his sleeves.
The curse’s control weakens, and Mu Qing’s grip on the saber falters. The blade finally slips off Feng Xin’s neck, clashing to the ground. With his foot, Feng Xin tries to nudge it further away from them, but misses. He swears under his breath and tries to reach for it with his hand instead, but Mu Qing stops him – he shoves Feng Xin down on his back and crashes on top of him, knees on both sides of Feng Xin’s thighs.
Feng Xin blinks up at him, his tousled hair falling into his eyes and a bead of sweat glistening on his temple. His brows are furrowed in irritation, and Mu Qing feels a spark of hope that he’ll finally fight back – punch him, kick him, anything.
But he doesn't. He’s merely lying beneath him, breathing heavily.
How can he be this stupid? Good for him for realizing that Mu Qing would never hurt him, not anymore, but is he forgetting that he's cursed? How is he supposed to stop himself, his body frozen and out of his control, as pathetic as it was?
Instead of brushing the loose lock of hair behind Feng Xin’s ear, he reaches for the saber lying next to his head.
When Feng Xin sees what he's intending to do, he grabs Mu Qing's hand, stopping its movement by holding it tight.
“I trust you,” Feng Xin repeats, firmly. Between their palms, Feng Xin’s blood feels warm. “I’m not going to lie and say that I’ve always trusted you, because I definitely haven’t. I’ve hated you, actually. You’re annoying, mean, never say anything straight, always so sarcastic, constantly roll your eyes at people, expect others to read your mind–”
Mu Qing’s hand trembles in his hold. His other hand reaches for the saber, too, but Feng Xin prevents it – now, he’s holding both of his hands.
He’s just about to shove his knee to where it would hurt the most when a soft look appears on Feng Xin’s face.
“–but, I don’t hate you,” he says. He grasps Mu Qing’s hands tighter, blood squelching between their palms. “To answer your question, I guess I just wanted to… get to know you better.”
Mu Qing tries to struggle out of the hold. “Get to know me better? Haven’t we known each other for centuries?”
“We have! Sure! I’m shit at words – I’m not a civil god, for fuck’s sake – but all I want to say is that,” he trails off as Mu Qing keeps on tugging his hands, trying to break free. He growls and pulls their entwined hands to his chest. “Stop fucking struggling, okay! As I was saying, we’ve known each other for centuries, but only lately I’ve realized that you’re actually nice! I have a fucking crush on you! I’m trying to be your friend! Just believe me when I say that I trust you, and that I want to help you!”
The loud confession echoes in the cave as Feng Xin snaps his mouth shut, head tilting backwards and hitting the ground with a loud thunk. His face is red from exertion, eyes closed in a frustrated scowl.
It’s as if the wind is knocked out of him. Mu Qing can only stare at him in a daze.
His face must be in flames by now. He feels the coldness disappearing, giving way to the warmth which spreads all over his body, reaching all the way to the tips of his fingers. Their intertwined hands burn.
The last thing he hears from the ghost is a distant you bitch, and then, she’s gone.
Feng Xin stays oblivious to it all.
“We came here to break your curse but it’s not really working, is it? Fuck.” He lets out a small laugh, still staring at the ceiling of the cave, still squeezing his fingers tight. “Well, maybe – wait.”
His eyes widen, shining with realization. He tilts his face to look at the murals, and even in the dimness of the cave, Mu Qing can recognize the blush forming on his cheeks.
His pulse quickens. As he shifts on top of Feng Xin, he feels their thighs rubbing against each other, Feng Xin's body warm beneath his.
Feng Xin gulps, and their eyes lock. “I may have to kiss you.”
Wait, what? Kiss? Not–
That’s how he’s interpreting the murals? A kiss, instead of – dual cultivation?
What kind of curse would be broken by a mere kiss in the first place?
Not that he thought that Feng Xin was brave enough to suggest having sex in a stuffy cave filled with pictures of women, but still–
"The solution’s not that simple,” Mu Qing hisses. “I’m not even cursed anymore!”
Feng Xin shakes his head. His eyes burn with determination, his mouth a thin line.
"That’s just the curse lying," he says, voice brimming with confidence. “I’ll help you.”
Gentle yet firm, he cups Mu Qing’s face in his hands. The feeling of his wide palms holding his face in place has Mu Qing’s brain malfunctioning, all thoughts leaving his head. Against his cheeks, the palms feel warm and damp – a hot trail of blood trickles down his jaw, dripping down onto Feng Xin’s cheek.
Then, he pulls Mu Qing down and presses their lips together.
The softness of his lips is unlike anything he’s ever experienced. Although a bit dry, it feels warm, comfortable, and as their mouths slot together, something inside Mu Qing’s chest lightens. The heaviness in his heart gives way to warmth when he feels Feng Xin inhaling sharply as he’s smiling against his lips.
Then, gently, Feng Xin pushes him away. Eyes searching, he licks his lips and murmurs, “Was that enough?”
Feng Xin’s lips are wet, and red, and inviting. A drop of blood has fallen on them, smudged by their kiss.
He puts his hand on top of Feng Xin’s where it’s still laying on his cheek. To hide his wrecked expression and wobbling lower lip, he leans in, capturing his lips in another kiss.
Feng Xin lets out a surprised gasp, but soon, the tension seeps out of his shoulders and he opens his mouth for Mu Qing. The smell of iron lingers in the air, and when he bites Feng Xin’s lower lip, he can taste it on his tongue. Feng Xin’s hands find their way into his hair, fingers tangling in his locks – the bloodied hands are probably making a mess of it, but despite himself, Mu Qing doesn’t care, too immersed in the feeling of skin against skin.
When they finally separate, he collapses on Feng Xin’s chest, muscles going limp. His chest is soft and warm, almost like a pillow, and combined with the earthy, musky scent invading his senses, he feels light-headed.
Mu Qing’s mind is blank. The only sounds in the cave are their heavy breathing and loud, erratic heartbeats.
What the fuck, he thinks.
He can think of nothing to say, except, “The curse’s gone now.”
“Really?” Feng Xin lays his fingers on the back of Mu Qing’s head and pats him, once. His voice sounds shaky, his chest heaving beneath Mu Qing’s cheek. “I’m glad.”
“Me too,” Mu Qing manages to mumble.
After a beat of silence, before he accidentally falls asleep, Mu Qing rolls off his chest and rises to his knees. Beside him, he can hear Feng Xin do the same, and then, the silence continues.
They should talk about this, probably, they really should, but coming up with anything coherent is difficult with his heart beating loud in his ears.
His lips are still tingling, and he can barely resist the urge to touch them. Being pressed against Feng Xin was nothing unusual in itself – some of their brawls have been quite physical, after all – but laying on top of him like that, doing that with their lips, was definitely something they’ve never done before.
Not that he hasn’t had some frankly embarrassing dreams of it, but – still.
Suddenly, Feng Xin snorts.
“Your cheeks are all red,” he says, looking at Mu Qing with a fond expression. Awkwardly, he adds, “From the blood, I mean. Sorry about that.”
Mu Qing raises his hand to his cheek. The blood has smudged his face, now sticky against his skin. Some of it must be in his hair, too.
Then, he remembers.
He grabs Feng Xin’s wrists and pulls them towards him, palms up. They’re red from all the spilled blood, deep cuts across both of his palms. On Feng Xin’s throat, too, there is a deep cut.
The corners of Mu Qing’s eyes sting. Why must Feng Xin be so stupid–
“It’s alright,” Feng Xin says nonchalantly. “I don’t mind. As long as the curse is gone, everything’s fine. The cuts will heal.”
The wounds are still bleeding. Blood is trickling down from the cut on his neck in a steady flow, staining his shirt and showing no sign of stopping.
Mu Qing lets out an annoyed huff.
“Shut up,” he says. “It’s not okay. I mind.”
“Well, you shouldn’t. Honestly, it’s–”
“It’s not.”
Mu Qing grabs the hem of Feng Xin’s robes and promptly starts tearing it to pieces. The sound of ripping cloth echoes loud in the cave, along with the alarmed noise leaving Feng Xin's mouth.
Feng Xin's looking at his now-ruined robes in shock.
“Hey,” he gruffs, frowning. “Those are my robes, what the fuck?”
Mu Qing rolls his eyes. “They’re your cuts. I’m not going to ruin my own robes for you. Like you care, anyway.”
“You could've at least asked."
“Shut up,” Mu Qing says. He checks the three strips of cloth in his hands, and hums. “Let me do this.”
The cotton feels soft between his fingers as he wraps it around Feng Xin’s palm, then moving on to the other. Feng Xin stares at him with a complicated expression, but despite his earlier protests, does nothing to stop him.
Mu Qing starts wrapping the dark fabric around his throat. “You should be more selfish,” he blurts out. “What’s up with you? Letting me almost kill you and not minding me cutting you, are you insane?”
Feng Xin averts his eyes. “I am.”
“Selfish?" Mu Qing asks, deadpan. "Or did you mean insane?"
Feng Xin pouts, a sullen look on his face.
Something painful twists in his chest at the expression. What right does he have to look so sad? Isn't it Mu Qing who should–
Ah. Maybe he has been too harsh.
Mu Qing sighs. "Sorry. And thank you."
"For what?"
Mu Qing doesn't answer, merely patting the tight bandage around his throat. “There. Now they’re not bleeding.”
*
"Wait a minute,” Feng Xin says as they’re exiting the cave. "Were you cursed when I asked you to come to the mortal realm with me?"
Mu Qing glances at him. He’s fiddling with the cloth wrapped around his palm, but when he notices Mu Qing’s glare, the fingers freeze.
"Yes,” Mu Qing says. “Why?”
Feng Xin clears his throat, scratching the back of his neck. "It hasn't ended yet. The festival. Do you want to go with me?"
Mu Qing blinks. He’s willing to ask again?
He bites his cheek to hide his smile. “Yes. I’d like that.”
With the curse gone, the words feel pleasant in his mouth. Feng Xin’s pinched expression transforms into that of wonder, and it becomes harder to hide his smile.
“Alright!” Feng Xin exclaims, linking their arms in his excitement. “Tomorrow?”
Mu Qing does not blush. “Sure.”
Having gained courage, Feng Xin goes on. “And also, back then, I just asked you to hang out with me,” he says, squeezing Mu Qing's arm. “Why did you say that it would be a date?”
“I was cursed!” Mu Qing bristles. Gritting his teeth, he continues, "But if it was, you should pay."
"Why the fuck would I have to pay?"
"Ling Wen forced me to pay for the repairs of the Grand Avenue last time because you were nowhere to be found."
"What the hell? The fight was your fault, anyway."
Mu Qing jabs his elbow into his side, and Feng Xin yelps. "Alright, alright! I'll pay."
Humming happily, Mu Qing continues walking.
“Anyway,” he says after a beat of silence. "It wasn't me who yelled about having a crush. Who in their right mind confesses something like that when they're about to be murdered?"
Feng Xin flushes. “Shut the fuck up. You heard wrong.”