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The best thing about Xie Lian and Crimson Rain Sought Flower’s wedding is that they keep it short. The celebration is still ongoing when they sneak away, obviously desperate to — to do what married couples do, Mu Qing thinks with disgust. Their absence means he feels no need to stay, at least.
“Isn’t this wonderful?” Shi Qingxuan asks dreamily, looping their arm through Mu Qing’s. Mu Qing doesn’t shake them off, because it’s impossible to be friends with Xie Lian these days and not develop a tolerance for Shi Qingxuan. Now that they’ve ascended for a second time, Mu Qing is regularly treated to Shi Qingxuan in both forms, always with the same never-ending enthusiasm for life that Mu Qing finds baffling.
“The ceremony was nice,” Mu Qing says through gritted teeth. It was, he can admit that. Xie Lian looked beautiful, stupidly in love and glowing in his red robes. His smile radiant, his eyes tender and true.
“You did His Highness’s hair, right?” Shi Qingxuan asks. “It looked lovely! If I ever marry, I may need your help, Xuan Zhen.”
Mu Qing locks away the memory of Xie Lian’s hair in his hands, the warmth of his body so close, and forces a smirk. “I don’t know if the heavens could handle another wedding of a god to a calamity anytime soon.”
Shi Qingxuan goes red, their fan waving faster. “I don’t know what you’re—”
“I saw Black Water around earlier, hiding near the food. If you like I could—”
“No! Stop!” Shi Qingxuan is flustered and hits Mu Qing with their closed fan. It’s a solid thwap, but Mu Qing bears the hurt with a laugh. “You’re awful,” Shi Qingxuan says with a pout.
Mu Qing just tips his head and shrugs. “I thought showing concern for the well-being of one’s friends was considered normal, Lord Wind Master, but how would I know?”
“Awful!” Shi Qingxuan squeaks, hiding their flushed face as they bustle away, pointedly away from the tables laden down with food.
“Do you always have to antagonize everyone?” It’s Feng Xin, and he’s smiling despite his words. The wine in his hand must not be his first cup, then.
“It’s the Wind Master, you should be thanking me. I seem to remember a certain beatdown in the desert—”
Feng Xin shoves Mu Qing’s shoulder with his own, and Mu Qing shoves right back. “Yeah, yeah, sure. I guess it’s not like Qingxuan can’t take it.”
Mu Qing hums. Ascending twice is no easy feat, even if the first was perhaps less earned than it should have been. Lord Wind Master is a talented and powerful god, despite the endless flirting and teasing. If anyone can take a joke, it’s Shi Qingxuan.
“Do you know where—”
“They left.”
“What?” Feng Xin asks, choking on his wine. “Already?”
“Yes.”
“Fuck,” Feng Xin says. “Ugh, you know they’re—”
“Yes.”
“I need more wine,” Feng Xin says. “Want any?”
Mu Qing waves him off. He has more interesting and useful things to do than watch a host of heavenly officials and ghosts get drunk this evening. He’s been meaning to reorganize his desk for some time, and he doesn’t trust any of his deputies to do it right. When he tells Feng Xin he means to leave, Feng Xin snorts.
“You don’t have to be a stick in the mud all the time, you know. You’re allowed to take the night off once in a while, you’ve got plenty of them left to color-code your armory or whatever.”
Mu Qing blushes, and he wishes he had Shi Qingxuan’s fan to hide behind. “Shut up, that’s not what I’m doing.”
“Sure,” Feng Xin says with a disbelieving sigh. He pats Mu Qing on the back. “Have fun sorting your ink pots from largest to smallest, then.”
“Fuck you,” Mu Qing says, though maybe he should take a look at his armory soon.
The second best thing about Xie Lian and Crimson Rain Sought Flower’s wedding is that they take an extended, languorous honeymoon. Mu Qing is freed of having to see Hua Cheng for so long it almost feels like the old days, when he didn’t have to constantly worry about running into a crazed ghost king who holds a grudge against him.
He has gotten used to seeing Xie Lian again, though, and his departure is felt much more keenly. Not that Mu Qing would ever tell him, or anyone. Mu Qing is so used to missing people that it almost feels natural. It’s a sharper feeling after so much time spent together recently.
When they finally get back, Feng Xin invites him to go to Xie Lian’s palace together. Xie Lian is rarely in the heavens, but after so long away he has to put in some time. The other officials have all decided they love him, but they’re not going to forget who he’s married to anytime soon. Mu Qing supposes that Xie Lian is trying to ruffle the fewest feathers possible.
“I heard you sparred with Quan Yizhen?” Feng Xin asks on the short walk.
“Am I only allowed to spar with you?” Mu Qing snaps.
“That’s not what I was saying at all!” Feng Xin says. “I was only curious.”
Mu Qing rolls his eyes. “He’s a good fighter, if that’s what you’re wondering, but you already know that. He’s too impulsive, but you know that, too. Strangely, he kept asking me about Yin Yu.”
“Yin Yu? Yin Yu of the whole Brocade Immortal debacle Yin Yu?” Feng Xin asks with furrowed brows.
“He’s the one in the ghost mask who works for Hua Cheng,” Mu Qing says with a shrug.
“Oh!” Feng Xin exclaims. “I didn’t even realize.”
“Of course you didn’t.”
“Hey now, I haven’t spent nearly as much time as Paradise Manor as you have,” Feng Xin says.
Mu Qing opens his mouth to disagree, and then closes it again. Quan Yizhen had pointed that out, too, like he thought Mu Qing might have some kind of insight into his shixiong’s life there. “I suppose so,” he allows.
“I don’t know how you do it. That place gives me the creeps,” Feng Xin says.
Ghost City used to make Mu Qing uncomfortable, but it hasn’t for some time now. He’s spent more than one night watching the idiots in the Gambler’s Den with disgust and some amount of awe over what they’re willing to risk, and he’s walked the streets as Xie Lian greets each and every stall owner. Some of Hua Cheng’s servants recognize him, and Hua Cheng’s household always seems to have Mu Qing’s favorite delicacies prepared. He’d assumed it was Xie Lian’s doing, but regardless he’s always gotten at least a lukewarm reception there.
Even Hua Cheng’s cruel tongue seems softened in Paradise Manor, and he’s offered a guest room more than once. Mu Qing has never accepted, partially because he doesn’t trust Hua Cheng, and mostly because he doesn’t want to think of overhearing anything Hua Cheng and Xie Lian might be getting up to. The simple knowledge they’re engaging in perverse acts is enough to turn Mu Qing’s stomach at the best of times, much less if he were just down the hall.
“Ghost City can be unsettling,” Mu Qing agrees.
Xie Lian is radiant with happiness when he meets them at the door. He’s darkened from the sun, his tan offset against beautiful white silk robes that even Mu Qing can appreciate. His robes are so much nicer now that Hua Cheng is back. No longer threadbare or stained. Still simple, but shining and always made of the finest fabric.
“A wedding present from San Lang,” Xie Lian says with a smile, his cheeks pink.
“I’m shocked he gave you any clothes he’d want you to keep on,” Mu Qing says dryly, and Feng Xin covers his shocked laugh with a cough.
Xie Lian simply shrugs, though his face goes redder. “Well, come in then.”
Mu Qing sighs and accepts Xie Lian’s greeting hug. “They’re very nice robes,” he says in apology, and Xie Lian squeezes him in thanks.
They’re soft under Mu Qing’s careful hands, and the heat of Xie Lian’s body is easy to feel through the delicate fabric. Mu Qing steps back, prompting Xie Lian to let go. Xie Lian looks away and then back, his smile softer.
“Are you playing favorites?” Feng Xin complains.
Xie Lian jerks to attention, as if he forgot he hasn’t hugged Feng Xin, too. He gives Mu Qing a somewhat sheepish look while he does so, and it’s a short, brief embrace in comparison to the one he gave Mu Qing. It’s odd, but Xie Lian has always been odd.
Xie Lian serves them tea, and he can’t seem to keep a smile off his face. It’s almost sweet, Mu Qing supposes. “San Lang will be here soon,” he reassures, as if either of them will be heartened by the news.
“So, tell us of your travels,” Feng Xin prompts.
“Oh, ah…” Xie Lian darts an indecipherable look to Mu Qing. “It was nice! Very nice.”
He waves his hands, the sleeves of his robes slipping down to show how tan his wrists and forearms are. Mu Qing thinks of Xie Lian stripped down to nothing, entwined with Hua Cheng in the sunlight, and he burns his tongue trying to drink his tea too fast.
Feng Xin frowns. “That’s it? You were gone for months.”
Xie Lian shrugs. “You know how it is.”
Feng Xin glances at Mu Qing, inviting him to share in his confusion. “Uh, we really don’t?”
“If he doesn’t want to talk about it, that’s his business, not yours,” Mu Qing says loftily. He doesn’t know why Xie Lian is being cagey, but he can’t help but be grateful for it. Maybe they really did spend all of their days in pleasure, both in the sun and out of it. It’s all too easy to imagine. He’s seen them kiss under the guise of sharing spiritual power enough, has seen the clever flick of Hua Cheng’s tongue against Xie Lian’s lips, begging entry, and how big Hua Cheng’s hands look on Xie Lian’s waist and hips.
Feng Xin is talking, something probably dumb and cutting in response to what Mu Qing said, but Mu Qing can’t make himself listen. Mu Qing’s smaller than Xie Lian through the torso, he knows from years of tightening Xie Lian’s sashes. Hua Cheng’s long fingers could go farther around Mu Qing, engulfing his narrow waist with ease.
“Well?” Feng Xin demands.
“Whatever,” Mu Qing says with an eye roll. It’s a tried and true method to annoy Feng Xin enough that he’ll drop his minimal line of thought.
Feng Xin rolls his eyes right back, an exaggerated movement that makes Mu Qing fight not to laugh. “What are you all red for, anyway?”
Mu Qing drinks his tea and refuses to dignify that with a response until Xie Lian clears his throat and changes the subject. “So, how have things been here?”
“This one is on the council this rotation,” Feng Xin says, hooking a thumb at Mu Qing beside him, “so he’s making everyone suffer.”
Mu Qing scoffs. “What do you know? You’re not even there.”
“People talk!”
“It’s not my fault everyone is misguided!” Mu Qing yells back.
“Yeah, sure, everyone but you is always wrong!”
“Exactly!” Mu Qing cries, and he swears he hears Xie Lian laugh.
“Then why don’t you step into the role of Heavenly Emperor, huh?” Feng Xin asks.
Mu Qing crosses his arms. “Absolutely not. I don’t want a target on my back.”
“To be fair, everyone seemed to like Jun Wu until they found out who he was,” Feng Xin says consideringly.
Mu Qing looks away. “Speak for yourself.”
“I was! What do you even— hang on, what?” Feng Xin tips his head to the side like a dog, the way he always does when someone talks to him in the array. “Yeah, yeah, I’ll be right there. Get my armor ready.”
“Trouble in the Southeast?” Mu Qing asks when Feng Xin stands.
“Do you need help?” Xie Lian says.
“Eh, it’s nothing, just a ghost or two troubling a village,” Feng Xin says. Mu Qing stares at him until he groans. “I’ll let you both know if it gets bad, but it sounds like nothing. I promise it won’t get into your territory.”
“Take care, Feng Xin,” says Xie Lian with a smile, and Mu Qing nods.
Feng Xin hustles out of Xie Lian’s palace, leaving Mu Qing alone with his tea and Xie Lian. They sit in a contented silence for awhile, and Mu Qing tries not to imagine what Xie Lian’s honeymoon was like.
“So you had no fondness for our Heavenly Emperor?” Xie Lian asks with a small smile.
Mu Qing shifts uncomfortably. Knowing just how deep Jun Wu’s obsession ran is disturbing, even if Mu Qing had pieced some of it together before. He doesn’t want to hurt Xie Lian, but he’s been trying to be more direct, more straightforward. If Xie Lian is his friend, then Mu Qing should be able to trust him with this. He should be able to unload a little of his own burden. Xie Lian is strong, in every sense of the word.
“He…” Mu Qing clears his throat. “He used to ask me about you, about training together at the Royal Holy Pavilion.”
Xie Lian’s eyebrows rise. “Oh?”
Mu Qing looks down and notices his hands are twisting in his robes, causing creases. “When I was in the Middle Court, before I ascended, he would call me to his palace and ask for stories. He wanted to know what you were like when we were young, and what you were like when we were no longer young because of the— the war.”
Xie Lian nods, encouraging, but there’s something sad in the pull of his mouth.
“I never told him anything important,” Mu Qing rushes to say, tripping over the words. “I tried to avoid him as much as I could. You know now how much he— how he felt— how he was, about you. It scared me, even back then.”
Xie Lian nods, his eyes unfocused as if he’s looking through Mu Qing. “And after you’d ascended?”
Mu Qing scowls. “More of the same. He insisted I speak with him in the language of Xianle.”
Xie Lian’s gaze sharpens, and his mouth forms a stern line before he visibly relaxes and gestures for Mu Qing to go on.
“Do you recall it?”
Xie Lian looks at him for another long moment before shaking his head and forcing a smile. “It doesn’t surprise me that you do, though. You’ve always remembered everything.”
Mu Qing hums and looks away. “I asked him if we could stop. ‘Kingdoms fall,’ he told me, ‘you won’t be a god for long if you’re precious about any of them.’”
Xie Lian’s hand is a sudden, unexpected warmth against the back of his own where they’re folded on the table. “It was your home.”
Mu Qing blinks rapidly and Xie Lian politely keeps his eyes on their hands as Mu Qing collects himself.
“He knew how to press on the soft spots,” Xie Lian says, squeezing Mu Qing’s hands before he pulls away.
After their tea, Xie Lian sees Mu Qing out. Hua Cheng still hasn’t shown his devious face, and Mu Qing thinks he’s grateful for it.
“Maybe,” Xie Lian says, and then stops. He’s chewing his lip when Mu Qing looks back at him.
“Well?” Mu Qing prompts. “Spit it out, I don’t have all day.”
Xie Lian’s mouth ticks up in a brief smile at his impatience. “I think San Lang remembers, is all.”
“Remembers what?”
“The Xianle language,” Xie Lian says, and for some reason, Mu Qing’s heart beats faster. He can feel the press of it in his chest. “Maybe you two could speak it together?”
Mu Qing bites back every uncharitable thing he wants to say about Hua Cheng. “Why do you think I’d want that? I already told you I hated it when the emperor made me.”
Xie Lian smiles and shrugs one shoulder. The fabric bunches oddly before Ruoye slips up and taps Xie Lian’s cheek. Xie Lian tuts and tucks the silk bandage away again.
“Maybe things are different than they were before,” Xie Lian says. “I only thought a taste of home might be welcomed now.”
Mu Qing swallows. “I have to go.”
“I’ll talk to San Lang about it, hmm?”
“I— goodbye, Your Highness,” Mu Qing mumbles. He doesn’t know the last time he called Xie Lian by his title.
A few weeks pass between Xie Lian first mentioning the idea and putting it into motion — long enough that Mu Qing hopes he forgot about it, or, more realistically, that Hua Cheng has shot it down. Xie Lian comes to deliver the invitation in person at Mu Qing’s palace, as if he knows that Mu Qing can’t lie to his face about having plans that afternoon.
“So you’ll come to Puqi Shrine?” Xie Lian asks.
“...Yes,” Mu Qing says with a sigh.
“Great! San Lang and I will just be practicing his calligraphy, so stop by anytime!”
Mu Qing narrows his eyes. “I’ll let you know before I descend.”
“Oh, you don’t need to,” Xie Lian insists.
Mu Qing’s eyes narrow farther. “I know how you behaved when you weren’t newlyweds. I don’t need to walk in on… that,” he says, feeling his face heat. He thinks about if he did. If they were so wrapped up in each other that they didn’t hear the door open, that they didn’t realize Mu Qing was watching them.
Mu Qing had seen a woodcut in one of Feng Xin’s temples a few centuries ago, at the start of the Ju Yang business. In expert detail, it portrayed a person with their mouth around their partner’s cock. He wonders if Hua Cheng does that to Xie Lian, wonders how Hua Cheng’s red lips would look stretched around —
“Call ahead, then!” Xie Lian says, his face pink, and Mu Qing fears his own matches. “See you later, Mu Qing!” He hugs Mu Qing swiftly, a pattern he’s been developing lately. Maybe if Mu Qing keeps pretending he doesn’t like being touched he’ll stop.
He’s not sure he wants Xie Lian to stop.
Mu Qing notifies Xie Lian in his array well in advance that he’s coming, until he realizes he’s not just waiting because he doesn’t want a show, but because he’s nervous. Stupid, he thinks, and immediately descends.
The trees are a lush red this time of year, stark against the darkening gray of the sky. It’s going to rain again soon. Mu Qing tucks his hands into his sleeves, staving off the chill as he walks up the path.
Hua Cheng is fetching water when he arrives, striding up to the small shrine with a yoke and two buckets across his broad shoulders. His obnoxiously red tunic is nowhere to be found, and instead he’s in a thin, cream underlayer and black pants. Mu Qing doesn’t want to know if it’s a concession to the hard work, or because he and Xie Lian have been up to things other than writing practice.
“General,” Hua Cheng says, and Mu Qing merely nods in greeting.
He doesn’t offer to take one of the pails, but he does hold the door open. Hua Cheng’s sleeves are pushed back to his elbows, the muscles of his forearms clear under his death-bleached skin. There’s a scrawl of ink on his left arm, and Mu Qing tilts his head to examine it against his will. It looks like a poorly done tattoo, old and by an unpracticed hand. Mu Qing is intrigued, but Hua Cheng frowns when he sees him staring and pulls his sleeves down.
Mu Qing frowns right back. “What is that?”
“Keep your curiosity to yourself, General.”
Xie Lian takes the water from Hua Cheng. “Oh, were you looking at San Lang’s ta—”
“Gege,” Hua Cheng cuts in, imploring, and Xie Lian shuts his mouth, shrugging at Mu Qing.
Xie Lian sets them up in the kitchen for this forced conversation, bustling about making tea and something that already smells burnt. He pretends not to be listening to them, but he keeps glancing over his shoulder like he’s afraid they’ll fight. Or kill each other.
Mu Qing is rusty, as he hasn’t spoken this language since Jun Wu forced him to. He’d put a stop to that shortly after his ascension, when he had a little more power to yield and enough responsibilities that he could claim to be always busy. It’s easier to understand Hua Cheng’s words than to speak his own.
“I remember when we met,” Hua Cheng says in the Xianle language. It shocks Mu Qing, that Hua Cheng would pretend to have paid attention to anyone but Xie Lian that fateful day. His tone is ice cold, but the words are mild, even interesting.
“Me, too,” Mu Qing replies, testing out the words. “You were a dirty little child.”
“And you were a monster,” Hua Cheng shoots back.
Mu Qing rolls his eyes. “It was a mask.”
“I meant underneath,” Hua Cheng says, but he smiles as he says, almost like he’s… joking. Teasing. It’s not as cruel as Mu Qing is used to.
“I remember you crying for His Highness to come back,” Mu Qing says. Then, boldly, “You wouldn’t let me hold you.”
Hua Cheng scoffs. “Because I wasn’t a baby.”
“You begged for Xie Lian to hold you.”
“Of course I did, wouldn’t you?” Hua Cheng asks with a smirk.
Mu Qing’s face heats. “Keep your curiosity to yourself!” he spits, echoing Hua Cheng’s words from before.
Hua Cheng’s eyebrows raise, his eyepatch shifting slightly with the movement. He glances at Xie Lian, who’s swaying to the soft song he’s humming, his back to them. Hua Cheng leans forward, elbows on the table and chin propped in his hands. “What if His Highness can understand more than he lets on?”
Mu Qing looks at Xie Lian again, but he hasn’t given any indication he’s listening. “Fuck you,” he says to Hua Cheng, fighting the urge to run back to the heavens.
Hua Cheng laughs. “Stupid bastard.”
“Sniveling son of a bitch,” Mu Qing says back. Things devolve from there, shooting insults back and forth at one another until Hua Cheng proves he has a much wider range of knowledge than Mu Qing of dirty words.
“What does that one mean?” Mu Qing can’t help to ask, switching back to their modern language.
“Slut,” Hua Cheng answers, smiling meanly.
“I thought slut was slut,” Mu Qing says, blushing.
“It’s both, plus…” Hua Cheng switches back to the Xianle language, and suddenly he’s teaching Mu Qing all kinds of filthy words that Mu Qing somehow missed despite where he grew up.
“That wasn’t so bad, was it?” Xie Lian asks at the door. Mu Qing is leaving before dinner, because he doesn’t relish the thought of spending the night sick and unable to move.
“I suppose it wasn’t,” Mu Qing allows softly, hoping Hua Cheng won’t hear him. He turns to leave, but a firm grip on his wrist stops him. It’s Ruoye, soft and warmed by Xie Lian’s body heat. Mu Qing clicks his tongue and raises his eyebrows at Xie Lian. “Really?”
Xie Lian says nothing, his cheeks awash with pink. Mu Qing tries to pull away, but Ruoye yanks him in sharply. He stumbles across the threshold, bumping straight into Xie Lian.
“Sorry!” Xie Lian gasps and Mu Qing realizes the pressure at his waist is Xie Lian’s strong grip. Xie Lian raises his hands, but Ruoye doesn’t let him back up.
Hua Cheng clears his throat from just inside the shrine, and it’s only then that Mu Qing sees his own hands on Xie Lian’s shoulders. They must have landed there when he was trying to balance himself. He lets go like he’s been burned, and now they really look ridiculous, chest to chest with their hands in the air.
Well, only one of Mu Qing’s hands, since Ruoye is still trying to pull him back by the opposite wrist.
“Will you control your spiritual device?” Mu Qing hisses.
“Ruoye,” Xie Lian says, a pleading note in his voice.
He reaches out to stroke where it’s wrapped around Mu Qing’s arm, all soft brushes against Mu Qing’s skin thanks to Ruoye wriggling in place. The silk pulls tight for a moment before releasing, disappearing back into Xie Lian’s sleeve. Xie Lian laughs. His cheeks are so red, and Mu Qing can feel the heat in his own face.
“Ah, well, it’s what Ruoye wants, so,” Xie Lian explains, before crushing Mu Qing in a quick hug. Mu Qing meets Hua Cheng’s eyes over Xie Lian’s shoulder, but Hua Cheng seems to be laughing, instead of plotting Mu Qing’s murder. Mu Qing pats Xie Lian’s back before he lets go.
Mu Qing is again invited to the shrine a few days later, and Feng Xin regards him strangely when he and Hua Cheng begin talking. Feng Xin doesn’t seem to remember much of the language either, but that’s hardly surprising. Soon after, Mu Qing meets up with Hua Cheng in Xie Lian’s palace in the heavens, and it doesn’t even seem strange when Xie Lian leaves them alone to take care of some task he won’t elaborate on and insists he needs no help with. The time after that, Mu Qing eats pomegranate seeds in Paradise Manor while Hua Cheng tells him about the latest Savage who tried to challenge him to a duel.
“It’s a surprise they still challenge you,” Mu Qing says, “considering the infamy of your blade.”
Hua Cheng smirks. “Was that a compliment, General?”
Mu Qing’s fingertips are sticky from the jewel-like seeds. “Of course not, it was a compliment for your sword.”
“Oh, E’ming? I hardly needed it,” Hua Cheng says dismissively. In its scabbard at Hua Cheng’s hip, the scimitar vibrates, and the disturbing red eye on its hilt pops open, peering up at Mu Qing. “...Huh,” Hua Cheng says, sounding surprised.
“What is it?”
“Nothing,” Hua Cheng says.
“Is it true?” Mu Qing asks before he can help himself. The eye is the same color as the seeds in his palm. “That the blade’s edge is cursed?”
Hua Cheng unsheathes the scimitar. It’s still staring intently at Mu Qing, though it seems more wide-eyed and curious than dangerous. “Would you like to find out?”
Hua Cheng is joking, even Mu Qing can tell that. He wonders when he stopped being afraid of a Supreme. He reaches out with his clean hand, slowly enough that Hua Cheng could move away or tell him to stop. Hua Cheng simply watches him the same way E’ming does, with interest. The curved blade is cold under Mu Qing’s careful fingers, and it shivers at his touch when he sweeps them lightly across its shining surface. Mu Qing has heard the rumors about Hua Cheng’s eye, about his rejected ascension.
Mu Qing draws back, pushing more seeds into his mouth for lack of anything to do with his hands. Neither of them speaks as Hua Cheng puts E’ming away. The rest of their visit is quiet but comfortable, and Hua Cheng even offers to roll the dice so Mu Qing can step directly back into his palace. The idea of Hua Cheng having direct access to his palace sits uneasily in his chest, so he declines. Instead, Hua Cheng walks him to the gates of Ghost City, where Mu Qing will be able to ascend as normal.
“I have a book,” Mu Qing blurts out, as Hua Cheng is turning to walk back into his city.
Hua Cheng raises an eyebrow but says nothing of Mu Qing’s blunder.
“A book from Xianle. It’s poetry,” Mu Qing explains.
“Okay?”
“If you’d want to— to read it, or borrow it, you—” Mu Qing bites his tongue and tries to focus on his words. “My palace, for next time.”
Both of Hua Cheng’s eyebrows shoot up. “Can I use the dice then? Or would you prefer me to send all of the Heavenly Capital into hysterics?”
Mu Qing crosses his arms. “Use your stupid dice, what do I care? I’ll tell my deputies to be scarce.”
Hua Cheng takes a step closer, getting into Mu Qing’s space. “So you can be alone with me, Xuan Zhen?”
“No!” Mu Qing splutters and fights the urge to move back. Or closer, to call Hua Cheng’s bluff. “Don’t be ridiculous. I just don’t want to subject them to your influence.”
“Whatever you say,” Hua Cheng says softly, and he follows it up with something that Mu Qing doesn’t know the direct translation of.
Mu Qing ascends in a huff, and it’s not until he’s home that he recognizes the word Hua Cheng used. It’s not of the regional language they’ve been using to communicate with each other, nor the one more widely common now. Mu Qing has only ever heard it used when he was a child, by an old neighbor when she discussed her late husband.
She wasn’t from Xianle originally, Mu Qing’s mother always said. She’d explained the word as a pet name to Mu Qing, as something fond a wife might say to a husband. Something silly, a way to tease. Like when I call you Little Cat, his mother had said, scrunching up her fingers on both sides of his face to look like whiskers. He’d still been so young when he’d begged her to show him respect and call him by his name instead.
It would make more sense if the old neighbor had hated her husband, for Hua Cheng to say the same word to him now. Maybe she had a hand in his death, even. Mu Qing wonders where Hua Cheng heard it, and he knows he’ll never ask.
When Hua Cheng walks through the door of Mu Qing’s private office with a smirk a week later, he doesn’t ask, and when he accompanies Xie Lian, Shi Qingxuan, and Hua Cheng on a mission that ends with them all at an inn for dinner, he doesn’t ask. The rest of them decide to stay the night, and Mu Qing thinks of having the room next to Xie Lian and Hua Cheng. He thinks of what he might hear, of what he might want to hear. He returns to the heavens alone.
Did you grow up in the city, in the slums? Mu Qing wants to ask, while he sits outside Puqi Shrine with Hua Cheng. Like me? He thinks of the boy who fell and changed Xie Lian’s fate, all of their fates. He thinks about the boy they carted up Mount Taicang. He thinks about the skinny slip of a thing with a talent for a saber who he kicked out of the army, of all the ways he reminded Mu Qing uncomfortably of what he could have been if Xie Lian hadn’t intervened.
Instead, they say nothing of their pasts, of how they were coarsely twisted together. Hua Cheng asks probing questions about the current politics of the heavens that Mu Qing is sure he already has the answers to thanks to his many spies. Mu Qing plays the game, giving him only vague answers full of red herrings. They watch Xie Lian chop wood and talk about everything and nothing, about the book Mu Qing leant him, about philosophy and contested history, and never, ever about who they used to be.
Maybe it doesn’t matter, Mu Qing thinks. No matter what language they speak in secret, neither of them are those people — those children — that they once were. Kingdoms fall, after all.
Feng Xin’s inconsequential ghost problem in the Southeast rears its head again when he pops into Mu Qing’s personal array out of nowhere, knocking him rudely out of a light doze. Gods don’t need to sleep, but eternity is a lot longer if spent always awake, Mu Qing has found.
Remember that small ghost problem I was attending to? And how I said I’d tell you if it got bad? Feng Xin says, his voice gruff.
Let me guess, Mu Qing says back dryly.
It’s not one or two pesky ghosts, as Feng Xin had initially believed, and his investigation has revealed a sinister, more widespread plot. It doesn’t seem to have reached the Southwest yet, but it’s only a matter of time before villagers at the border start dying. Mu Qing descends in disguise with a dozen of his most trusted deputies, and they split up to find answers.
Feng Xin and his deputies are already spread thin, thanks to the reports being so sporadic and far-flung. He can’t nail down the source of all of this, and the more boots on the ground, the better. They’re tracking sightings and traces of resentment, following quite literal ghost stories from house to house. It’s exhausting and dull work, and Mu Qing finds himself wishing, more than once, that the ghost or ghosts responsible would leap out of the woodwork already. There are only so many patient, kind conversations he can have with superstitious humans.
In a way, his wish is granted. Or, at least, a ghost does come out of the woodwork and catch him off guard.
“Hello, Fu Yao,” comes an all too familiar voice from behind him, before a weight drops onto the low bench beside him. Hua Cheng straddles the seat next to Mu Qing, smiling in the specifically obnoxious way he can only due when he’s pretending to be the youth San Lang.
Mu Qing sighs, pushing away his plate of fish. “What are you doing here?”
“Ordering wine,” Hua Cheng says, waving his hand for a server. As soon as he’s caught someone’s attention, he starts to steal food off Mu Qing’s plate.
Once he’s settled with a bottle, Mu Qing turns to glare at him. Hua Cheng is sitting far too close, his bony knee digging into Mu Qing’s leg even through his thick traveling cloak. It’s hot and crowded, thanks to the early snowfall outside.
“I’m here to help,” Hua Cheng says in response to his glower. “Obviously.”
“Who asked you for help?” Mu Qing hisses.
“Gege,” Hua Cheng answers simply. He gestures at the plate as if offering Mu Qing his own food. Mu Qing ignores him.
“What do you mean?”
Hua Cheng shrugs. “Gege left to help the Wind Master with this whole thing further north, and he asked if I wouldn’t mind checking in on you.”
Anger flares in Mu Qing’s body, and he grits his teeth against raising his voice. “Does he think I’m not capable of—”
“Hush, don’t make a scene. He’s just being protective,” Hua Cheng says with a pat to Mu Qing’s shoulder that’s rougher than it needs to be. “He doesn’t think you’re useless or incapable. For some reason.”
“Asshole,” Mu Qing says, switching to the Xianle language.
Hua Cheng only drinks his wine. “You should go ask if you can get extra bedding.”
“Get your own room!”
“They’re at capacity,” Hua Cheng says, smiling darkly at Mu Qing. “So unless you want to share a bed, and not just a room, I’d recommend—”
“Ghosts don’t need to sleep,” Mu Qing points out. “Go haunt the streets for the night.”
“Gods don’t need to either. Why don’t you just ascend and spend the night in your palace, huh?”
“Because I’ve already established a disguise,” Mu Qing says lowly. “I can’t disappear out of nowhere without arousing suspicion.”
“Ah, yes, your brilliant disguise. Go ask for more bedding, Fu Yao.”
Seething, Mu Qing does, if only to avoid starting a fight that will level the inn, if not the entire town. The proprietor asks if he’d still like hot water brought up for a bath, and Mu Qing tries to will away his blush as he says yes. There’s dirt caked on his skin and cobwebs in his hair thanks to exploring abandoned places in search of ghosts. He could clean himself with spiritual energy, but it’s never as satisfying. He’s not forgoing a bath. Hua Cheng will just have to make himself scarce.
Hua Cheng does not make himself scarce. He follows Mu Qing into the rented room, close on his heels like a stray no one asked for. He surveys the room over Mu Qing’s shoulder with sharp eyes, looking at the screen that hides the tub with interest. His eyes are lighter in this form, or at least than the one Mu Qing is used to seeing. They’re bright and inquisitive, and there is something almost childish about the young man.
It’s not too different for Mu Qing. He and Feng Xin are much more willing to snipe at each other in these disguises, he’s found. Mu Qing is more likely to run his mouth and disregard trying to keep a cool countenance. He gets to be freer as Fu Yao than he’s ever been as himself.
As soon as the door closes behind the innkeeper, Mu Qing snaps, “Get out,” as he lets down his hair.
Hua Cheng reclines on the single bed. There’s a pile of extra bedding next to it, waiting to be laid out as a pallet. “There’s a screen, you’ll be fine.”
Mu Qing glares as he pulls off his boots. “Out!”
Hua Cheng just waves one hand in the air, watching him. “What are you so afraid of?”
He’s afraid Hua Cheng will do something to embarrass him, like taking a peek or summoning Xie Lian or any of his many dead servants into the room somehow. He doesn’t want to give him any ideas, though.
Mu Qing sniffs, his nose in the air. “Nothing, leave me alone.”
“I was,” Hua Cheng says with a laugh.
Mu Qing steps behind the screen and finishes undressing. He’ll have to use spiritual energy to get his clothes clean again, but the innkeeper left a spare set of simple robes he can wear to sleep so he doesn’t have to deal with it for now.
The room is quiet when Mu Qing steps into the tub, and the sound of the water moving as he gets comfortable seems so loud. Silence from Hua Cheng should be welcome, but it’s unnerving when Mu Qing can’t see him. Maybe he left altogether.
“Sure you don’t need any help?” Hua Cheng asks, his voice so close he must be right on the other side of the screen.
Mu Qing doesn’t jump, but it’s close. “What kind of help could I possibly need, you pervert?”
“Suit yourself,” Hua Cheng says.
Mu Qing hears the floorboards creak beneath Hua Cheng’s feet as he shifts his weight, not moving away, followed by a soft thump. “What are you doing?!”
The screen isn’t sheer, but the small gaps at the folds show a flash of red. “I didn’t want to shout across the room,” Hua Cheng says, like that makes any sense.
“You didn’t need to?!” Mu Qing draws his legs to his chest, hiding as much as he can. He has half a mind to get out of the tub, but then he’d be even more exposed if Hua Cheng decided to round the screen.
“I’m used to talking to gege when he bathes,” Hua Cheng says simply, “and when we bathe together. Do you really want a lonely, quiet bath?”
“Yes!” Mu Qing says, trying to keep from outright yelling so he doesn’t attract attention to their room.
Hua Cheng hums. “Hmm okay, I’ll sit silently, then. Forget I’m even here.”
As if that's possible when Mu Qing is hotly aware of every sound he makes as he washes. He feels vulnerable when he gets low enough in the water to submerge his hair, the position awkward and indefensible. If Hua Cheng tries anything, Mu Qing will have to break the tub to get away.
What could Hua Cheng even try, though? If he decided to risk Mu Qing’s wrath for a glimpse of him bare in the water, it wouldn’t matter. Mu Qing is not ashamed of his body, even if this one isn’t as finely crafted as his true form. Fu Yao is slighter and smaller, shorter than Mu Qing by half a head or so. He looks younger, too, much like Hua Cheng in his San Lang shape. He’s still playing at being a junior martial official, though, and some of his strength shows even in this lithe body.
The idea of it, though, of Hua Cheng spying on him like this, makes Mu Qing’s stomach swoop. Hua Cheng could easily send one of his meddlesome little butterflies over the screen and see through its eyes. He could watch as Mu Qing scrubs the dust and dirt from Fu Yao’s hair, his body. It’s easier to think of it that way, as if this is a body separate from Mu Qing’s.
Hua Cheng keeps his word, staying still and silent on the other side of the screen. Mu Qing finds himself relaxing in the hot water despite the inherent threat. He can hear the faint hum of conversation from the common room below, and he closes his eyes to reflect on what he’s learned so far.
It’s almost nothing, thanks to being unable to pin down what might actually be a ghost and what’s hearsay. There are reports in this town of a decapitated man asking frightened residents where his head is. Mu Qing had queried how he was asking after his head if he didn’t have a mouth to use, which had, in turn, pushed those recounting the tale to admit they’d heard it second or even thirdhand.
No beheaded ghosts had appeared in his investigation so far, and he’s ready to chalk it up to a local legend. He can’t even find record of anyone put to death by beheading in the last two centuries. His deputies have been reporting back daily, and they have found nothing either. Feng Xin is at a loss, yet corpses with no apparent cause of death keep popping up. It’s been a frustrating and fruitless experience so far, and Mu Qing has very little faith that the Temple of Nan Yang will be able to figure this out.
Mu Qing clears his throat and asks, “I assume you’ve talked to Xie Lian?”
“Mhmm, he’s well,” Hua Cheng says, and Mu Qing wants to insist that wasn’t what he was asking. “He and the Wind Master have found nothing of substance.”
Mu Qing sighs. He can’t wait for this whole thing to be wrapped up. It’s not that he misses the splendor of the heavens so much as he hates encountering non-stop dead ends. They’re not making progress, and innocent people keep dying.
As clean as he’s going to get for tonight, Mu Qing climbs out of the tub. He dries and dresses in the borrowed robes, and he’s tightening the belt when he steps around the side of the screen. Hua Cheng smiles up at him, his crooked ponytail swinging behind him. His eyes skate down Mu Qing’s body, and Mu Qing pulls his collar so it’s closed more tightly.
“Feel better?” Hua Cheng asks, but Mu Qing just rolls his eyes and walks to the bed. He’s combing his hair when Hua Cheng speaks up again. “It’ll tangle if you sleep on it wet like that.”
“Thanks,” Mu Qing says flatly.
Hua Cheng stands and walks closer. “Let this one braid it for you.”
Mu Qing freezes. “What?”
“I don’t mind,” Hua Cheng reassures him, and Mu Qing is so confused that he forgets to shove Hua Cheng off the bed as he crawls onto it. Hua Cheng’s eyes shine in the low lamplight, and he settles confidently behind Mu Qing.
When Mu Qing turns to look, Hua Cheng nudges him to face front again. His long fingers are cold and firm against Mu Qing’s jaw. Mu Qing swallows, unsure why he doesn’t fight it. Hua Cheng then gathers Mu Qing’s hair in both hands. It’s shorter like this, when he’s in Fu Yao’s body, shorter and lighter in color. Mu Qing has a sudden and strange wish that Hua Cheng was touching his real hair.
Hua Cheng's fingertips are gentle on his scalp as he separates the damp hair into sections. “I do this for gege every night,” Hua Cheng says, “and he does it for me.”
Mu Qing feels a pang so sharp that for a moment he thinks Hua Cheng has somehow stabbed him in the chest without him noticing. He knows he shouldn’t respond, lest he break this careful peace where they pretend the ghosts of their past are well and truly dead.
“I used to do this for him,” he says softly, glad he can’t see Hua Cheng’s face. He expects Hua Cheng to use the grip on his hair to bash his head into the wall, and Hua Cheng’s hand does tighten as he crosses over the next pass.
After a long silence, Hua Cheng says, “Maybe he can do it for you someday.”
Mu Qing tries to stand, to get away, but Hua Cheng tightens his hold and pulls Mu Qing back to the bed. “Let me go!” Mu Qing cries, ignoring the sharp pain in his scalp as much as he’s able, ignoring the way it sends a flash of heat down his spine.
“Relax, I wasn’t messing with you,” Hua Cheng says.
Mu Qing says nothing and sits taut on the edge of the bed. Hua Cheng begins to braid again, and every gentle tug makes Mu Qing want to — want to sigh, or maybe whine for him to stop. He swallows any sounds his throat wants to make and does what he’s always done. He endures.
“Done,” Hua Cheng announces softly, draping the braid over Mu Qing's shoulder. “Does it meet the general’s exacting expectations?”
Mu Qing looks down and freezes. Hua Cheng has threaded his red ribbon throughout, using it to tie off the end. Mu Qing runs his fingers down the braid, feeling the contrast between the fabric and his hair. He wants to see the shine of the red against his real, pitch dark hair. He’s dimly aware that he’s breathing faster than he was a mere moment ago.
He turns to look at Hua Cheng over his shoulder. Hua Cheng’s hair is loose around his shoulders, giving him the rakish look he has when he’s not pretending to be San Lang. “Why?”
Hua Cheng only smirks, but it’s softer than usual. “I needed something to tie it with.” It’s a weak excuse, Mu Qing’s hair had been tied up before. “Oh, hang on,” Hua Cheng says, leaning in to fix some small section of hair that Mu Qing can’t see from this angle.
When Hua Cheng looks up again, they’re so close that Mu Qing can see the subtle makeup he uses to accentuate his eyes in this form. He could probably feel Hua Cheng’s breath, he realizes, if Hua Cheng had any to feel. Hua Cheng can certainly feel Mu Qing’s.
Hua Cheng’s head tips to the side and Mu Qing wants to mirror him for some reason, wants to tilt the other way so that they’ll be aligned, so that they can fit together for — for what? Hua Cheng’s lips are pale pink, wet from where he must have licked them while braiding Mu Qing’s hair.
“You should get some rest, Xuan Zhen,” Hua Cheng says, his voice warm and soft. “I’ll be fine on the floor.”
He hesitates before standing from the bed, leaving Mu Qing sitting alone, his heart hammering. Mu Qing watches Hua Cheng make up his pallet, forcing himself to lie down. His heart is beating so hard he can feel it through his back against the bed. He fears Hua Cheng can hear it.
“Goodnight,” Hua Cheng says and puts out the lamps.
Mu Qing nods at him, not trusting himself to speak. He lies awake in the dark, wishing he could hear Hua Cheng breathing. At least if they’d shared the small bed, Mu Qing would know whether or not Hua Cheng was still awake, too. He thinks about all the ways their bodies would have to overlap to fit, even in their younger, slimmer forms. He thinks about what the weight of Hua Cheng’s arm would feel like around him, and he meditates until he can sleep.
There’s an old estate that Mu Qing hasn’t had the chance to check out yet. It’s on the edge of town, backed up to a lush forest that’s heavy with new snow. The trees are so thick that the grounds have mostly been protected from the snow. It’s a good thing, Mu Qing thinks, eyeing the dilapidated buildings. He doubts that what’s left of the roof could have held up under the weight.
“Do you know anything about the family who lived here?” Hua Cheng asks. His hair is tied in a loose ponytail with what appears to be Mu Qing’s black ribbon. He’s wearing a long white cloak over his red tunic today. It’s thick and expensive-looking, though it’s not fur-lined like Mu Qing’s. Ghosts have no body heat, but even if gods can’t technically freeze to death, Mu Qing likes to be comfortable.
Mu Qing pushes back his hood. His hair is still braided, the red of the ribbon stark against his black coat. It had been easier to leave the braid in is all. He shakes his head. “It’s all stories faded with time. No one alive remembers anyone ever staying here, so the legends have run wild.”
“Tragic ghost stories?” Hua Cheng asks knowingly with a smile. “Do the local kids dare each other to spend the night?”
Mu Qing huffs a laugh. “Yeah, something like that.”
“The stories may not be real, but there’s malicious intent here.”
“I know, I can sense it, too!” Mu Qing says.
“Calm down, I never said you couldn’t,” Hua Cheng says, leading the way into the main residence. “This is you with a good night’s sleep?”
“Who said I—” Mu Qing snaps his mouth shut.
Hua Cheng raises his eyebrows. “Was the bed that uncomfortable? It seemed fine when I was sitting on it.” When I was touching you, Mu Qing fills in, and his face heats.
“It was fine,” Mu Qing says shortly. He shoulders past Hua Cheng, deeper into the dark house. “Let’s go.”
They light palm torches to see by, stepping carefully over the rotted floors and around discarded furniture from another era. It’s deathly quiet inside, far enough from town with everything blanketed by snowfall. Mu Qing’s sense of unease grows the more they explore, as does the taste of evil, but they’re not finding anything.
“You know,” Hua Cheng says from behind him as they search the servants' rooms, “as easy as it is to make fun of you, not everyone is doing it all the time.”
“I know that,” Mu Qing spits.
“I wasn’t underestimating your abilities,” Hua Cheng continues. “I know you’re a martial god. Even if you’re not as strong or as powerful as His Highness, and even if you had to rely on him to get where you are—”
“Wow, thanks,” Mu Qing says, his shoulders stiffa with annoyance.
Hua Cheng laughs. “You’re still a formidable god, I guess. Gege respects you.”
Mu Qing’s throat is tight. “Is this where you say I made a better servant?”
Hua Cheng laughs again. “I couldn’t say. Come sweep Paradise Manor sometime and then I’ll judge.”
Mu Qing rolls his eyes. “You’re an ass,” he says, using one of the more creative varieties of the slur he’s learned from their talks in the Xianle language.
“And you’re a fool,” Hua Cheng says with a smile. Mu Qing loses the battle not to smile back. “You know—” Hua Cheng starts, but he stops, stock still in the doorway leading to the courtyard.
“What is it?” Mu Qing asks.
“There’s something here.”
Mu Qing frowns. “We’ve known that this whole time.”
“No, it’s here,” Hua Cheng says, and Mu Qing knows he’s serious when he pulls E’ming out of its scabbard.
Mu Qing lets his hand rest on the hilt of his saber. It’s too long to unsheath in this part of the residence, it would be unwieldy in such a small space. “Go on then, I’m right behind you.”
Hua Cheng flashes a smirk at him over his shoulder. “When I kill more than you, I want a prize.”
“Who says you’ll kill more?!” Mu Qing asks, not bothering to wonder what gruesome prize Hua Cheng is imagining.
“Experience,” Hua Cheng says flippantly, but he’s out the door before Mu Qing can respond.
The courtyard had been empty when they’d glimpsed it before, but now it’s packed with ghosts. Some look as they must have when they died, some are headless, like the reports. Others are a blend of human and animal, similar to the ones Mu Qing has seen in Ghost City, and still others are the barest silhouettes.
Mu Qing has seen ghosts be downright scared of Hua Cheng, or at least deferential to him, but they must not recognize him in this form, or maybe these are too far from Ghost City to know who he is. Regardless, they attack in droves as soon as Hua Cheng and Mu Qing step foot onto the frozen ground.
They’re not particularly dangerous or worthy opponents, but their sheer numbers keep it from being an effortless victory. Mu Qing ends up back to back with Hua Cheng, slicing down ghosts who come in waves, the ones waiting in the wings ready as soon as the defeated dissipate when struck down.
Mu Qing isn’t in perfect sync with Hua Cheng, not the way he would be with Feng Xin, or even Xie Lian or another martial god. He doesn’t have years of experience fighting alongside Hua Cheng, and he hasn’t physically fought against him enough to know his swordplay. They’re both strong fighters, though, and it’s easy to fall into a rhythm while trusting Hua Cheng to watch his back. Xie Lian would probably be proud to see them fight together.
The ghosts finally begin to dwindle, and it’s been long enough that Mu Qing can feel a slight strain in his arms. He takes on his last opponent, ready to slash him down and add to his tally. If Hua Cheng isn’t lying about the numbers he calls out, they’re tied, and this will make Mu Qing the winner.
His saber is on a striking path when a swarm of silver butterflies overtakes the final ghost, leaving nothing behind in their wake. One rests primly on the blade of his sword, flapping its wings lazily as it surveys Mu Qing’s scowl. As annoyed as he is, it is nice to have the butterflies on his side for once, even if they still make him uneasy.
“Cheater,” Mu Qing accuses, whirling on Hua Cheng.
Hua Cheng is grinning, hair loose and wild, and E’ming already sheathed. The ribbon must have fallen free in the fight. Mu Qing hopes he didn't lose it. “You should have made the conditions of the bet more clear.”
Mu Qing puts away his sword. The pervading sense of evil has ebbed from this place, but Mu Qing is frustrated they still don’t have a solid lead as to what’s causing the attacks. “I didn’t even make the bet!”
“I’m still collecting,” Hua Cheng says, and anything Mu Qing was going to say is cut off by Hua Cheng’s mouth on his own.
It takes Mu Qing an embarrassingly long moment to shove Hua Cheng away, his hands frozen at his sides and whole body taut with surprise. When he does, hard enough that Hua Cheng has to take a few steps back so as not to fall, Hua Cheng laughs.
“What the fuck!” Mu Qing yells.
“That was my prize,” Hua Cheng says smugly.
“You can’t just—” Mu Qing says, but Hua Cheng grabs him by the shoulders and pulls him in again, delivering another unwanted kiss on Mu Qing’s open mouth. Mu Qing pushes him away, but Hua Cheng catches his wrists. “You can’t,” Mu Qing repeats. “What are you even— Xie Lian.”
“Gege knows,” Hua Cheng says. “He encouraged this.”
“Encouraged wha— Stop it!” Mu Qing has to dodge Hua Cheng’s mouth again, a bizarre parody of the fight they just finished.
“Do you actually want me to?” Hua Cheng asks. They’re as close as they were last night, on the bed, and Mu Qing is breathing so hard that Hua Cheng’s loose hair moves with it. Hua Cheng’s grip on his wrists is bruisingly tight, and Mu Qing can’t stop looking at Hua Cheng’s mouth. It’s wet because of him, because of his mouth.
“Do you care if I do?” Mu Qing counters. He’s not backing down from this, no matter how insane it is. He’s not losing to Hua Cheng and his dirty tactics again.
“Don’t be like that,” Hua Cheng says, and the next kiss feels more like what Mu Qing would expect a kiss to. It’s less like a punch and more like a caress, Hua Cheng’s lips soft against his, Hua Cheng’s hands on his face, tilting his head to the best angle so he can lick against Mu Qing’s teeth.
“That’s disgusting,” Mu Qing says, the words garbled against Hua Cheng’s lips.
Hua Cheng laughs. “You’re lying.”
Mu Qing’s back hits the grass before he realizes what’s happening. The ground is hard and cold with frost, and Hua Cheng doesn’t offer any warmth, but the wet drag of his tongue against Mu Qing’s is distraction enough. Hua Cheng is heavy on top of him, weighing him down and pressing deeper and deeper, his tongue full and invasive in Mu Qing’s mouth, licking behind his teeth.
He tastes like the snow, clean and cold, and when he pulls back, Mu Qing tries to follow without a second thought. Hua Cheng smirks down at him. Mu Qing is at least glad they were fighting ghosts so his clothes aren’t being ruined by blood right now. So he’s not looking up from his back surrounded by corpses.
“You’re better at this than I thought you’d be,” Hua Cheng says.
Mu Qing means to defend himself, but instead he says, “You’ve thought about this?”
“I have,” Hua Cheng answers. With his fingertips, he traces Mu Qing’s mouth. Mu Qing breathes unsteadily. “Gege, too.
Mu Qing scowls. “Don’t lie to— mmph!”
Hua Cheng has two fingers in Mu Qing’s mouth, keeping him quiet. Mu Qing wants to bite down. “If you won’t trust me, will you at least trust him?” Hua Cheng asks.
Mu Qing says nothing, because he’s not going to subject himself to the embarrassment of talking around Hua Cheng’s fingers. Hua Cheng strokes his tongue, and Mu Qing shivers. Hua Cheng's fingers are so long, teasing his throat.
“You’re good with your mouth,” Hua Cheng says. “You like this, don’t you? Having something in it?” Hua Cheng rocks his fingers deeper, and Mu Qing can’t hold back a soft sound at the feeling. “Let me give you something better.”
He pulls his fingers free and shoves his cloak out of the way. Mu Qing stares dumbly up at him until he realizes that Hua Cheng is busy moving the rest of his clothing out of the way, too.
“What are you doing?!”
“You’re going to suck my cock,” Hua Cheng says, self-assured and matter-of-fact.
Mu Qing’s face goes red. He pushes himself up to his elbows, struggling to buck Hua Cheng off him. “I am not! How dare you—”
Hua Cheng pushes two fingers back into Mu Qing’s mouth, and he uses his other hand to force Mu Qing to lie flat. “You’re going to, and don’t act like you don’t want to,” Hua Cheng says. He reaches behind and presses down where Mu Qing is growing stiff, even beneath so many layers. Mu Qing moans around his fingers, closing his eyes in shame.
“Is it going to be easier for you? If I pretend to force you?” Hua Cheng asks, and there’s no bite to the words. He sounds curious, almost gentle.
He pulls his fingers from Mu Qing’s mouth and pulls his cock out of his pants, wrapping his slick fingers around it. Mu Qing can’t breathe from staring at it. It looks huge from this angle, flushed dark and peeking out of Hua Cheng’s fist. Hua Cheng’s fingers are so long, and it’s still quite the handful.
“General?” Hua Cheng prompts.
“No,” Mu Qing says, eyes leaving Hua Cheng’s cock to look at his youthful face. Maybe they should be in their true forms for this, or maybe it’s easier that they’re not. “No, you don’t have to— to pretend to do… that.”
Hua Cheng’s grin is sharp. He shuffles forward on his knees, cock still in hand. “Open up, then.”
The angle is awkward, and Hua Cheng slips a hand around the back of Mu Qing’s head to support his neck better, so that his cock can reach farther as he rolls his hips. “That’s it, just let me,” Hua Cheng says, and Mu Qing moans at the slide of his heavy cock over his tongue, the bump against his hard palate.
Mu Qing has never given much thought to what this would taste like, what it would feel like, and somehow it still defies any expectations. He feels — full, and good. Good when Hua Cheng pets his face, feeling where his cheek is hollowed out, brushing loose hair back from his eyes. Good when Hua Cheng groans above him, when his hips pick up their pace. Hua Cheng is making these sounds, is losing control, because of him.
“I’m going to come,” Hua Cheng gasps, and Mu Qing has no idea how long they’ve been doing this. His jaw is sore, his lips uncomfortably stretched, but he can feel how aroused he is, too. “Can you swallow for me?”
Mu Qing nods as best he can, humming in agreement. He’s not too proud to admit he wants it, wants to know what it will feel like, but he doesn’t trust Hua Cheng not to finish on his face or his hair, either, or to not ruin his clothes.
“Gorgeous,” Hua Cheng says, his hand on Mu Qing’s cheek. “Can’t wait to tell gege how good you were for me.”
Mu Qing whines, and he feels Hua Cheng’s cock pulse against his tongue, and then his mouth is flooded with Hua Cheng’s spend. Hua Cheng keeps moving his hips, shallow thrusts that force the liquid toward the back of Mu Qing’s throat. He swallows and swallows, and somehow there’s more left when Hua Cheng pulls out.
The taste is still strong when Hua Cheng moves back, straddling Mu Qing where he’s hard and wanting and bending down to kiss him again. “Do you—”
San Lang! Mu Qing! We have news about the ghost plot! Xie Lian’s voice chimes through their arrays. Meet us at Puqi Shrine?
Mu Qing blushes, and Hua Cheng touches his temple. Be right there, gege.
Hua Cheng tucks away his cock and rights his clothes, leaving Mu Qing to stand on his own, not that he would have accepted Hua Cheng’s help anyway. Hua Cheng pulls him into another kiss, palming Mu Qing’s erection through his clothes. Mu Qing knows it’ll be invisible with his layers, but his lips feel bruised and obvious.
“Sorry you’ll have to wait,” Hua Cheng says, and he sounds sincere. He rolls his dice, and they step out of the courtyard and through the door to the small shrine.
“San Lang!” Xie Lian calls. “Mu Qing!”
He bustles over to hug Hua Cheng, earning a kiss on his cheek for the trouble. He turns to Mu Qing and his pleasant expression briefly turns to shock before he controls it again. He reaches forward to stroke Mu Qing’s hair, and Mu Qing realizes he’s still in Fu Yao’s shape, and that Hua Cheng’s ribbon is still woven into his braid.
“It looks nice on you,” Xie Lian says with a warm smile, and Mu Qing wonders how awkward it would be if he ascended right now without saying a word. His deputies would surely lie for him, hiding him in his own palace.
Feng Xin and Shi Qingxuan are sitting at the humble table, and Mu Qing catches Shi Qingxuan looking at his hair, too. He shifts back to his true form, pulling out the braid and its ribbon as his hair grows longer and darker. He has nothing else to tie it up with, his black ribbon missing somewhere on Hua Cheng's person, or back in the courtyard. He tucks the red ribbon into his sleeve and leaves his hair loose.
“How do you get it so shiny?” Shi Qingxuan asks, reaching forward.
Mu Qing bats their hand away before they can touch. “Mind your own business.”
“Feng Xin, tell them what you learned,” Xie Lian prompts, slipping into the spot next to Mu Qing, pressed close as Hua Cheng settles in on Xie Lian’s other side.
Feng Xin sighs. “The reason everything was so spread out and we couldn’t find any fucking leads was because someone,” he glares at Hua Cheng, and Hua Cheng just smiles smugly, “had already cut the head off the snake.”
“Oh, the Savage,” Mu Qing realizes, watching Hua Cheng. “The one who challenged you.”
“Yes, exactly!” Xie Lian says, at the same time Feng Xin says, “How did you know about that?”
Mu Qing ignores Feng Xin, business as usual. “The Savage organized all the attacks?”
Xie Lian nods. “Yes, or, well. It was organizing them, but once San Lang took care of it, the under-ghosts were left in disarray.”
“But still eager to fight,” Shi Qingxuan adds.
Hua Cheng pours tea for Xie Lian and himself, and then he reaches over to pour Mu Qing’s. Mu Qing stares at his cup as it fills. Hua Cheng never pours tea for Xie Lian’s guests, and Mu Qing is reminded all at once of what they did together. Xie Lian is a warm line down his side, and Mu Qing just had his husband’s cock in his mouth.
“What’s wrong with you?” Feng Xin asks.
“There’s nothing wrong with me!” Mu Qing says.
“You’re all… squirmy,” Feng Xin says, sounding baffled. Shi Qingxuan is looking between Mu Qing’s cup and his face and Hua Cheng and back, but Feng Xin at least seems oblivious.
“I…” Mu Qing realizes he doesn’t have an excuse ready. “I’m fine,” he says.
“You’re so weird,” Feng Xin says.
“Anyway!” Xie Lian says brightly. “We’re pretty sure that between the five of us, plus the generals’ deputies, we’ve managed to clear out most of the ghosts who were causing problems. The resentment of any remaining should fade without their leader, right, San Lang?”
Hua Cheng nods. “Gege is right, as always.” Feng Xin and Mu Qing both roll their eyes, and Shi Qingxuan hides a laugh behind their fan. “Their coup is worthless without someone to follow.”
“You really think it was a coup?” Mu Qing asks.
“They happen often,” Hua Cheng says with a shrug. “It’s not uncommon for some upstart to try to take over Ghost City.”
Mu Qing sips his tea and says nothing. From what he’s seen, Hua Cheng’s supremacy has been unchallenged, even in the heavens. He never thought he’d have to be concerned as to whether or not Hua Cheng was in danger. Not that he’s concerned, or would be. He doesn’t care which demon runs Ghost City, why should he? He just doesn’t want to deal with Xie Lian being upset if anything were to happen to Hua Cheng, that’s all.
You’re lying, Mu Qing thinks, the voice in his head a refrain of what Hua Cheng had said before, when Mu Qing had protested his touch. He thinks of Hua Cheng in Paradise Manor, surrounded by opulence. He thinks of him in his Gambler’s Den, on his makeshift throne in a room of desperate and disgraceful creatures. He thinks of Hua Cheng quieter, softer, the way he is with Xie Lian in Qiangdeng Temple. Ghost City is Hua Cheng’s, and not only because he built it.
He thinks of Hua Cheng calling him gorgeous, telling him that Xie Lian has thought about him, too. He supposes he can have more than one reason to not want to see Hua Cheng hurt, at least not by anyone’s hand but his own.
“Okay!” Shi Qingxuan chirps. “I really should be getting back. Feng Xin, are you coming?”
Feng Xin puts down his cup. “Do you need me to— alright, okay! I’m coming!” he says, fending off prods from Shi Qingxuan’s fan. “Mu Qing, are you— what is with you?!”
“Ah, Mu Qing, stick around for a bit? I have that… ah…” Xie Lian says, and it’s so obviously a ruse that Mu Qing wants to slap a hand over Xie Lian’s mouth.
“The scroll, gege,” Hua Cheng says.
“Yes! The scroll! That you wanted!” Xie Lian says, his voice too loud.
Mu Qing doesn’t want to know how red his face is. He determinedly sips his tea and doesn’t look anyone in the eye.
“I’m getting out of here,” Feng Xin mumbles.
“Yes!” Shi Qingxuan cries. “Escort me back to my palace, won’t you, General Nan Yang?”
“Why do you— fine, yeah, whatever. Let’s just go.”
“The scroll?” Mu Qing asks once it’s only the three of them in Puqi Shrine.
Xie Lian shrugs. His ears are pink. “I didn’t want you to go yet.”
“Xie Lian, I—”
“Gege knows,” Hua Cheng interrupts, slipping a hand around Xie Lian’s waist.
Mu Qing feels a little sick to his stomach. “Yes, but—”
Xie Lian’s hand is warm on his cheek. “Mu Qing, won’t you look at me?” Mu Qing does, hesitant, but Xie Lian only beams at him. “I have to go run an errand.”
Mu Qing frowns in confusion. “An errand?”
“Yes, an errand. And I won’t be home for some time,” Xie Lian says louder. “Will you keep my San Lang company while I’m away this evening?”
Hua Cheng smirks at him over Xie Lian’s shoulder, and Mu Qing realizes the feeling in the pit of his stomach isn’t nausea, it’s burgeoning arousal. Hua Cheng ducks his head to kiss Xie Lian’s neck, eyes on Mu Qing. Mu Qing shivers and nods.
“I’ll see you soon,” Xie Lian says to Mu Qing, and then he’s pressing a kiss to the corner of Mu Qing’s mouth before he stands. Mu Qing goes still, and Xie Lian laughs airily, happily.
“Can’t wait,” Hua Cheng says, pulling Xie Lian down for a kiss of his own.
Xie Lian straightens and looks at Mu Qing. “San Lang is really very good at— this.” Mu Qing’s cheeks burn, and he can’t meet Xie Lian’s steady gaze. “Take care of one another,” Xie Lian says.
“Of course, gege,” Hua Cheng says.
Xie Lian shuts the door softly behind him, but the thud of it rings in Mu Qing’s head. Or maybe that’s his heartbeat picking up speed. His passion had cooled when they were interrupted in the haunted courtyard, but heat runs through him now.
Hua Cheng leans into his space. “Scared, Xuan Zhen?”
“Never,” Mu Qing lies.
Hua Cheng’s eyes going wide and round is almost more satisfying than feeling the press of his mouth again when Mu Qing yanks him in by his tunic. The kiss feels new all over again, and Mu Qing doesn’t know if it’s due to relative inexperience or because this is the first time he’s kissed anyone in his true form.
“Switch back,” he growls against Hua Cheng’s mouth.
Hua Cheng laughs, his eyes boring into Mu Qing’s from so close it’s hard to focus. “If that’s what you want.”
“I’m not letting you do anything else as— as San Lang. You’re an insufferable teenager like this.”
“You’re sure? You could change back into that sweet little skin of yours, the deputy? He was fun,” Hua Cheng says with a smirk. “Young, supple.”
“Fuck you,” Mu Qing says, kissing him again.
He feels something in the air shift, the aura of evil that always surrounds Hua Cheng strengthens for a moment before settling. Like Mu Qing, he’s bigger like this, a little taller and much broader. His hair is loose and long, and his ostentatious jewelry clinks together when he shifts to tangle a hand in Mu Qing’s dark robes.
Hua Cheng bites Mu Qing's lip before he pulls back. “If you’re sure, General, then we should move to the bedroom.”
He bites him again when he peels off Mu Qing’s robes, scraping his teeth down Mu Qing’s slender neck, leaving angry red marks across his skin as he gets him out of his layers.
“You like it when it hurts, don’t you?” Hua Cheng says, almost to himself, like he doesn’t expect a response. “I can’t wait to tell gege.”
“Shut up,” Mu Qing says, making quick work of Hua Cheng’s belt. Mu Qing is certain it’s the one Xie Lian had painstakingly embroidered for Hua Cheng’s birthday, and when he looks at the inside, he sees the terrible stitching and is certain.
“Why did you help him with that?” Hua Cheng asks.
Mu Qing looks up from the ugly belt. Hua Cheng’s face is softer than usual. Mu Qing feels bold. “For the same reason you wear it in spite of what it looks like.”
The corner of Hua Cheng’s mouth ticks up in a smile. “Is that also why you fixed Ruoye?”
“The silk?” Mu Qing asks, as though he doesn’t know. He shrugs. “I knew he’d mess it up if he tried.” As though he didn’t spend days soothing the band while it twitched and shuddered while he carefully mended it, only to caress his hands in thanks afterward. When he’d given it back to Xie Lian, Ruoye had refused to let go of Mu Qing’s wrists until Xie Lian opened the door.
“You care for him,” Hua Cheng says. The words aren’t hiding any anger today, and the wound is an old one besides. His hands are cold on Mu Qing’s trim waist. “He has care for you, too.”
Mu Qing pulls Hua Cheng’s tunic off so he won’t have to see his face for a moment. “Why are you telling me this?”
Hua Cheng sighs, drawing Mu Qing in close, almost as though he’s going to hug him. They're down to so few clothes, and Mu Qing feels naked in only his pants. He can’t tell if he’s glad there’s not a screen between them.
“His Highness wouldn’t encourage this if he didn’t want it,” Hua Cheng says.
Mu Qing rolls his eyes. “His Highness isn’t the best at knowing what’s good for him.”
Hua Cheng shoves him down onto the bed, knocking the air from Mu Qing’s lungs when he lands on his back. “Don’t bad-mouth him,” Hua Cheng warns. “Just because I want to fuck you doesn’t mean I wouldn’t still be happy seeing you bleed.”
“It’s mutual,” Mu Qing assures him, his cock twitching at the words. He lashes out to grab Hua Cheng’s ankle and tumble him down. Hua Cheng lands on top of him, and Mu Qing groans at how heavy he is.
Their kisses are hotter now, deeper and wetter than before. Mu Qing feels a little like Hua Cheng is trying to eat him alive. He’d be more concerned about it if he didn’t feel the same hunger. Hua Cheng is hard again, his erection a thick, inescapable presence against Mu Qing’s own through their underclothes. Hua Cheng kisses his neck, his ear, the sharpness of his teeth a warning. A promise.
“I am going to pretend to force you this time,” Hua Cheng whispers against his jaw, and Mu Qing shudders. He strips the rest of Mu Qing’s clothes off, followed by his own. Mu Qing sees the scrawl of his tattoo, but he doesn’t try to ask again.
“You don’t need to—”
“Oh, I know you want it,” Hua Cheng says, palming his stiff cock, “but it’ll be more fun this way. I think you might like to be pushed around a little.”
Hua Cheng forcibly rolls Mu Qing onto his stomach, and Mu Qing will never admit how the rough handling makes him whimper. He tries to shift away, but he can’t get any leverage like this. Hua Cheng shoves his thighs apart and gropes his ass.
“Brute,” Mu Qing gasps.
Hua Cheng only wraps a hand around his hip, holding so tight that Mu Qing is sure his bones creak. “Stay.”
He lets go of Mu Qing altogether, rummaging around for something, but Mu Qing doesn’t try to move. When Hua Cheng’s hand comes back, it's slick with some kind of oil. The first finger slides in too easily, and Mu Qing’s cheeks burn.
“I can’t wait to watch him fuck you,” Hua Cheng says from above him in their shared dead language, and Mu Qing holds back a moan. “You’ll go to pieces as soon as he touches you, won't you? You’ll take his fingers even easier than you’re taking mine.”
“Shut up, I will no— ah!”
“That’s two already, General. Your body’s so eager to be filled it’s swallowing my fingers right up.”
Mu Qing buries his face in his crossed arms, focusing everything in him on not rocking his hips back into the stretch. He squirms and tries to get his knees under him, as if he’s trying to get away. Hua Cheng slaps a hand down between his shoulder blades, and Mu Qing cries out at the sting. Hua Cheng anchors him there, pressing him to the bed.
“You’ll cry and beg for him for real,” Hua Cheng says, moving his fingers faster. “He won't have to play any games with you.”
“I w-won’t!”
Hua Cheng leans over Mu Qing, his weight balanced on Mu Qing’s back, fingers spread wide over his spine. “You’ll cry this time, too,” he says lowly, then he sinks his teeth into Mu Qing’s upper arm where his hair has shifted to bare it. Mu Qing whines, his eyes already hot. “You’ll cry, and you’ll like it.”
Mu Qing tries to argue, but Hua Cheng pushes in with another finger, and instead he moans, the sound muffled by his forearms. He’s glad his hair is down, helping to hide his face. He’s glad Hua Cheng is letting him hide.
“You’re even more sensitive than he was,” Hua Cheng says softly, and Mu Qing clenches around his fingers without meaning to. Hua Cheng laughs. “Gege likes to be filled with my seed. I wonder if you will, too. You didn’t complain when I came down your throat.”
Mu Qing shivers beneath him, hips canted up to let Hua Cheng’s fingers sink deeper. If he asked, maybe Hua Cheng would tell him all about how Xie Lian is in bed. If he asked, maybe Xie Lian would let him see for himself.
Hua Cheng’s fingers shift suddenly, and Mu Qing moans so loud that he wishes he could disappear. “That’s it,” Hua Cheng says, and Mu Qing barely knows which language he’s speaking. “Take it, General.”
“I am,” Mu Qing grouses. Hua Cheng laughs and pulls his hand back a little too fast, making Mu Qing groan at the burn. Mu Qing pushes himself up on his elbows. His arms are shaking. “Are you going to—”
“Yes,” Hua Cheng interrupts, and the slicked head of his cock is already there.
He pushes in, slow and steady, inexorable and impossibly big. Mu Qing drops back to the bed, shuddering with the stretch of Hua Cheng’s cock. It can’t fit, there’s no way — Hua Cheng’s hips just keep moving forward, little movements that seat him in further and further.
“I can’t—”
“You can,” Hua Cheng says, smoothing a hand up Mu Qing’s sweat-damp spine. “Your ass feels almost as good as your mouth.”
“Vulgar little— ah!”
“Little?” Hua Cheng says, and Mu Qing can hear the smirk.
“Just— move already. Put it in!”
“I am,” Hua Cheng says with a laugh.
“All of it, Crimson Rain.” If they’re doing this, they’re doing it. Mu Qing doesn’t like half measures. Hua Cheng shoves forward, and Mu Qing cries out, the sound filling up the small room.
“Like that?” Hua Cheng asks smugly.
“Yes,” Mu Qing gasps. “Keep— keep going.”
“Yes, General.”
Hua Cheng picks up the pace a little too fast, but Mu Qing can’t stop himself from pushing back into his thrusts. He only hits the perfect angle his fingers achieved every so often, but it’s more than enough. Mu Qing hasn’t been aroused for lifetimes, and he’s never felt like this before. He’s going to lose control, or maybe he already has. He’s ruining his cultivation, and he feels more alive than he has since Xianle fell.
Hua Cheng runs his thumb along the bite mark he left on Mu Qing’s upper arm, the skin hot and irritated under his touch. Mu Qing moans, turning his face to the side so he can look at Hua Cheng over his shoulder.
“You really do like the pain, don’t you?” Hua Cheng asks, moving his hips faster. “Come on, tell me.”
“Fuck off,” Mu Qing gasps.
“You do,” Hua Cheng says, leaning closer, caging Mu Qing in with his body. He’s a solid, cool weight on Mu Qing’s back. “Adventurous, considering your celibacy.”
“Shut up,” Mu Qing says. He tries to get his hands under him, but he can’t move under Hua Cheng without putting real force behind it. He doesn’t want to get free more than he wants Hua Cheng to keep going.
“Is that why you’re always fighting with Feng Xin?” Hua Cheng asks.
“Shut up! Just… shut up and fuck me, you fucking—”
“Settle down, Mu Qing,” Hua Cheng says, and then he’s sweeping aside Mu Qing’s hair to bite the nape of his neck. His teeth sink in hard enough that Mu Qing doesn’t realize Hua Cheng has used his given name for several long moments.
Mu Qing comes like that, with Hua Cheng’s teeth in his skin and Hua Cheng’s cock pumping inside him, thinking about his name in Hua Cheng’s mouth. He falls apart, shaking and whining while he spills on Hua Cheng and Xie Lian’s bedding, his face wet with tears. He feels the shift in the air when his spiritual energy flares and dies, like a fire sparked with oil in one moment and snuffed out the next.
Hua Cheng still moves inside him, and it’s too much and exactly what he wants. He’s full and warm and tired. He feels like he could stay here forever, so long as no one needs him to move.
“Good,” Hua Cheng says softly. “Feeling good? I’m going to come inside you.”
Mu Qing groans. He doesn’t have the words to argue.
Hua Cheng laughs, and the drag of his cock grows quicker, more constant. “I’ll leave you alone soon, I promise.”
“You don’t have to,” Mu Qing mumbles.
“Whatever you say,” Hua Cheng says, and he follows it up with the pet name from before, the one Mu Qing’s childhood neighbor used.
When he comes, it feels warmer than Mu Qing expects it to, hot in comparison to the coolness of Hua Cheng’s body, even his cock. The rush of it just adds to the feeling of fullness, and Mu Qing’s spent cock twitches. Hua Cheng pulls out carefully, and Mu Qing can feel his spend already trying to leak out. He needs to bathe. He can’t move.
Hua Cheng smoothes a hand down his back before covering him with a blanket. Mu Qing thinks he says thank you, but the words are slurred, probably nonsense.
“Gege will be back soon. You should stay,” Hua Cheng says.
Good, Mu Qing thinks, because he certainly can’t ascend to his palace now. He doesn’t have the energy, much less that he’s naked and covered in sweat and less savory fluids. He expects Hua Cheng to get up, but he reclines next to Mu Qing instead, curled around him.
It takes a few tries for Mu Qing to make his thoughts make any sense. “What does that word mean? The one that—” he tries to make an approximation of the sounds. He doesn’t do a great job, judging by Hua Cheng’s snort.
“Just sleep,” Hua Cheng says. He kisses Mu Qing’s neck, right over the stinging bite he left behind. “You know what it means.”