It took Mu Qing five seconds to work out Xie Lian was sick. He knew him well. He’d looked after him for a long time. All those tells had burned into his brain. Even if he was sick of looking after Xie Lian, old habits died hard. He couldn’t just not see it.
Xie Lian was one of those people who refused to acknowledge he was sick, until he’d had a coughing fit so bad that he nearly turned blue, had passed out, or had thrown up in the training fields. It was like he thought that if he pretended that he wasn’t sick, then he actually wouldn’t be sick, and he refused to give the illness the satisfaction.
He walked slowly and deliberately from stove to teapot to his little box of tea he kept specially for guests. He put one foot in front of the other with great deliberation. Like how they had all walked when the teachers at Mount Taicang had taken apart their gaits and put them back together. Whenever he stood still, he swayed lightly, like he kept losing his balance and having to catch himself.
It was annoying.
Mu Qing had just come to check on him, to show his face, to make sure Xie Lian wasn’t going strange or falling apart due to lack of company or Hua Cheng. It was frustrating to find that Feng Xin had already shown up, and for probably the same reason. But they were reasonable adults that could check in on a friend without causing massive property destruction. It was fine. Plus, if Xie Lian couldn’t cope with more than one guest any more, that was useful information. He did want to know if Xie Lian was turning into a skittery hermit or something.
But a simple social call had become a more complex and exasperating social call when he found Feng Xin already there. And now, Xie Lian was sick and pretending he wasn’t – and should gods of his calibre even be capable of getting sick? And Mu Qing might have to do something about it and—it was infuriating.
Mu Qing stood up. “Sit down.”
Xie Lian turned to him, looking confused. “Why would I—” He was cut off by a coughing fit. It started out mildly, like it’d be over in three coughs, but built and built and built until it echoed around the room. Built till Mu Qing worried about when Xie Lian would next get a chance to breathe, before remembering that he didn’t need to. It was wet and hacking, and Mu Qing could hear the movement of the phlegm in Xie Lian’s lungs.
Xie Lian shuffled backwards until his knees hit a chair, which he collapsed into. The coughing abated, eventually.
Xie Lian took a moment to get his breathing under control. Tried to make it sound like he hadn’t just run up the mountain. He brought his sleeve up to his mouth and swallowed very, very deliberately.
“I’m fine,” he said, smiling, though at least seeming to be aware how unconvincing his claim was.
Feng Xin shot up from the table, ready to fight the abstract concept of disease. “Are you alright?!”
Mu Qing looked at him. You just heard him give an answer to that question, and you think he’s going to give a believable answer the second time?
“With my luck, I just catch whatever’s going around.” The smile became a bit more strained. “I’ll be alright soon, don’t worry.”
Feng Xin relaxed, fractionally. Went from ‘ready to fight right now’ to ‘watching for threats’. He took over custody of the tea pot and the pouring thereof.
Mu Qing wasn’t going to complain. If someone was going to step in and do things , he wasn’t going to point that out and end up doing them himself. Feng Xin was almost certainly capable of making tea. It would be fine.
Even Xie Lian seemed a bit too tired and embarrassed to make a fuss about being a bad host.
They both kept him company that afternoon. That was the original plan – or at least, that was Mu Qing’s original plan, he didn’t know about Feng Xin’s plan. There was no reason to change it. Even if they kept having to pause for Xie Lian to try and cough his lungs out and then scull warm water.
As the sun set, Mu Qing and Feng Xin shared a look. It was strangely dizzying, to get back in that habit after such a long break. To be working together as themselves and not a role it was easier to collaborate in. To work together as the sort of people who could share a look. It was a look of We’re going to have to check in tomorrow, aren’t we, and make sure his lungs are on his insides and not his outsides.
Mu Qing returned the next morning.
He had long ago lost his illusions about royalty, about Xie Lian. He had lost them within a month of meeting him. Xie Lian was special, but not special , not a completely different category of being that was beyond human indignities. And even after he ascended above mortal frailty as a god—
Xie Lian put his pants on one leg at a time, like everyone else, even when someone else put his pants on for him. When he was sick, he was a snotty phlegmy mess that made you question why humans had to be filled with so much fluid.
Mu Qing was prepared for anything, and was not going to be shocked. He had lost the capacity some time ago.
There was a good chance Xie Lian’s prodigious spiritual energy would have burned through his illness and left him healthy and perky and annoyingly thankful about Mu Qing’s concern.
There was also a good chance he was still laid low by whatever this was.
Mu Qing opened the door to the little cottage.
There was a miserable and sweaty cocoon of blankets on the floor, that slowly lifted its head in the direction of Mu Qing. “Hello,” it said, in a croaky and painful voice, its face half covered in hair that had escaped from its bun.
Xie Lian tried to lever himself up with shaky arms, and got halfway before collapsing with an uncomfortably loud thud. “It’s okay, I’m—”
“Don’t,” Mu Qing said, cutting him off before he could say he was fine. Because if he said that while he was like this, Mu Qing would be obligated to kick him, and he would rather not kick him while he was down. (Other people, yes, he was willing to kick while they were down if he had a good reason. ‘Annoying,’ unfortunately, wasn’t quite good enough.)
“I appreciate you coming to check on me.”
Mu Qing didn’t say anything to that. He sent a quick array message to his middle court officials to check on nearby townships. Considering His Highness’s luck, it could be that he just got the worst possible symptoms of something minor. He could also, because he is a god, and a powerful one at that, have a mild case of highly contagious spontaneous human combustion. Hard to make a guess from the information they had.
A bowl sat in front of Xie Lian. From the smell and look of its contents, it could have been Xie Lian’s cooking—but it probably wasn’t. Or, more accurately, it had been Xie Lian’s cooking, but wasn’t any more.
Mu Qing internally sighed. He was tired of looking after Xie Lian’s needs. Of being his servant and not his equal. He was tired of this despite the eight hundred year-long break, and the new understanding between them.
The fatigue of the past wasn’t something easily recovered from.
But he picked up the bowl anyway, and walked towards the back door to go dump it outside. It was disgusting, but someone had to do it. Xie Lian certainly wouldn’t, and Mu Qing was here, so it fell to him. And he was a general and martial god—he has dealt with worse.
The blanket cocoon tried to follow him. “You don’t have to—” He broke into a prodigious coughing fit that cut him off, just from the mere effort of crawling a few metres forwards and speaking. He coughed hard enough that he was racked with it, hard enough that it sounded like there was a risk of more vomit coming up.
“Don’t make me clean anything I don’t have to.”
Xie Lian stopped trying to follow him. “Sorry. I appreciate it.” He sounded wrecked and tired and... honest. Earnestly appreciative.
It felt prickly to hear. Like being given a hair shirt of thanks. Mu Qing didn’t say anything. There wasn’t anything to say that wouldn’t just increase the prickliness. He dumped the contents of the bowl outside and set about getting it as clean as he could. It was self-centred: he didn’t want to be in a one-room cottage with a bowl of sick in it.
But also... it was one thing to look after Xie Lian because he was the crown prince and Mu Qing was a mere servant. He never intended to do that again. Ever. (He was not sure Xie Lian would let him if His Highness noticed him doing that, anyway.) He had done it for too long in the first place. He had paid off whatever debt you could claim he owed Xie Lian.
But looking after Xie Lian because he can’t do it himself is another thing.
He put the clean bowl down in front of him, because he probably still needed it, with the way his diaphragm was jostling everything about.
“Thank you,” he said, and pulled it a few centimetres closer, fingertips on the rim. Like he was trying to touch it as little as possible. Like he was disgusted by it, filled with that self-reinforcing nausea of having to carry a container around with you because you are nauseous.
If he was going to be here, he may as well be doing something productive, Mu Qing thought. He may not have chosen to be in circumstances where he was looking after Xie Lian again, but here he was. As such, he should make things easier for his future self, get things done now so he didn’t have to do them later. He took the mysterious bubbling pot off the stove. It would not be fit for human consumption, on account of having been made by Xie Lian when he was ill . He replaced it with a pot of water, partly for steam and keeping the air hot and humid and partly for warm drinks to soothe throats. Dehydration would not be good for him, though Mu Qing wasn’t sure how much he could stop that from happening.
He hated every second of this. Every thought, every action. It wasn’t the same as what he had done for Xie Lian when they were younger and mortal. This was time limited, this was a favour—But he could feel how easy it would be to fall back into the pattern of their youth. The one where he smoothed the way for Xie Lian in everything, looked after him so he never had to expend any effort maintaining himself. He could feel a pit opening underneath his feet at the thought of falling back in to that habit and not noticing.
Xie Lian watched him, silent except when coughing fits took over. “Thank you,” he said, when Mu Qing sat down. His smile was weak and tired and apologetic. But it was an acknowledgement of the work, which was better than before. “Sorry for not being better company.”
“You don’t have to be.”
They lapsed back into silence.
It had been easier keeping up a conversation as Fu Yao. When he didn’t have to be himself, when he didn’t have to be who he was to Xie Lian, when the weight of eight hundred years or however you wanted to count it didn’t sit between them.
That weight of years sat like a wall between them, and the silence stretched out awkwardly.
“I hope I’m better before the market day,” Xie Lian said, blatantly attempting to break the silence. “I’ve got some fabric trim I’d like to sell on, assuming they’re still all in one piece.”
That set of three sentences sent him into an impressive coughing fit, wet and hacking and bone-shaking.
Mu Qing stood up, got a cup of hot water and pressed into his hands. “Do you really need to do that?”
“I’m the scrap collecting god. I can’t shirk my duties.”
Mu Qing rolled his eyes. “I’m sure we will all live if you lie down for once.”
“If you insist.” He started laughing, a short exhale of air at something mildly funny, but his throat wouldn’t even take that, making him cough and shake and cover his mouth with one hand while the other one held him up over the bowl. “Fuck,” he whispered.
Mu Qing did his best not to visibly startle.
Xie Lian raised a quizzical eyebrow. “You look like you haven’t heard me swear before?”
Logically, Mu Qing knew Xie Lian contained multitudes. That there were probably lots of words he had never heard him say that he did sometimes say. And it wasn’t like they had shielded His Highness’s delicate ears from the word. (Not that that would have mattered, considering the gap of time where they couldn’t have, even if they tried.) “I’m just surprised the Feng Xin has finally rubbed off on you.”
“I’ve done fucking what ?” Feng Xin stood in the recently opened doorway, looking just as surprised to have entered when people were talking about him as everyone else in the room was.
“You’ve given His Highness a potty mouth.”
Feng Xin spluttered, mouth opening and closing repeatedly. “...It could have been Qi Rong!”
“Yes, it could have been his fucking cousin.”
Xie Lian tried not to laugh, failed, started coughing, laughed harder at the fact he couldn’t even laugh without nearly extruding his lungs. He wheezed convulsively, halfway between laugh and cough, as he waved off Mu Qing’s offer of more hot water.
Mu Qing didn’t even bother not trying to laugh. General Xuan Zhen wouldn’t have laughed—but Fu Yao may have rubbed off on him, a little. He was trying to be friendlier, too, and this seemed a step in the right direction, and one that could be easily directed to being colder if necessary.
Feng Xin tried to remain offended and indignant, but even he couldn’t resist.
Their laughter stopped before Xie Lian’s coughing fit did.
“Your Highness?” Feng Xin asked, obviously concerned and not confident in this situation. He was well equipped to defend Xie Lian from any physical threat. That wasn’t necessary, not any more. There was a good chance Xie Lian was more powerful than him now, and the list of people who could take His Highness in a fight was short and mostly made of dead people. But Feng Xin knew what he would do if someone jumped through the door with a pike. He had no idea what he should do if Xie Lian caught ill.
Xie Lian swallowed. Lay back down in a vaguely dignified manner, instead of collapsing. He flashed Feng Xin a dazzling smile, which would have been reassuring if they didn’t know him so well. “I’m fine.”
Knowing how to handle a sick crown prince was a cold comfort, but Mu Qing would take it. The room was steaming up (and he was vaguely glad that cleaning up any mould was no longer his job). Any minute now, Xie Lian would drink the water, or he would prod him into doing it. And he was here to keep an eye on Xie Lian and stop him from doing anything stupid.
In the service of keeping an eye on Xie Lian, he stayed for the rest of the day. And to feel like he achieved something, Feng Xin did too.
They conversed. Xie Lian didn’t speak much, but seemed to enjoy the company. It was probably more entertaining than staring miserably at the ceiling.
The conversation started—not stiff and formal, but something like that. Two sparring opponents, circling each other, neither wanting to take the risk of the first move and making an opening. But after a few rounds of ‘Hmm, yes, the weather is very weather-y for this time of year,’ it started to become catching up on recent events, then the events of the nearly eight hundred years of Xie Lian’s absence from Heaven.
Which quickly became eye rolling and “Oh, so that’s what you say happened?”
“That’s how it did happen,” Feng Xin said. “And do you want me to tell His Highness about what happened with your middle court officials and the giant boar?!”
A head peeked halfway out of its blanket cocoon. “What giant boar?”
“It was an ordinary-sized boar,” Mu Qing corrected.
“That doesn’t make the story less embarrassing for you!”
For all that they were fighting, it wasn’t real. They were—sparring. Play fighting. Like kittens, all bouncing and retracted claws and no pounces or scratches. Staying carefully in bounds, testing each step before actually going there.
It was strange to not actually be fighting, to not have this conversation explode, but it was pleasant, at least. To not worry about it going up in flames, or making an ill Xie Lian try to send them out to train idioms. (That would have just been embarrassing .)
Xie Lian, despite the fact he was evidently tired and not able to use all of his brain power, seemed to notice this new, less dramatic form of conflict, and was smiling about it. Then again, this was a man who smiled on reflex and would thank you for the offer of a knife if you stabbed him, so it wasn’t strong proof that he was happy about it. But it was something.
They were there for most of the day. And over the course of the day, a trend emerged.
In the morning Xie Lian was miserable, but awake.
In the afternoon, he napped on and off. (Which was the perfect opportunity to press gang Feng Xin into helping and being useful for once.)
As the afternoon wore on, Xie Lian started being awake for a larger proportion of the time again, but...
The change was subtle. Mu Qing could not be certain that what he saw was really there. But he knew Xie Lian well. Knew how he liked to hide and pretend that nothing was wrong.
It started with him dropping the threads of conversations, forgetting things that only happened a minute ago. Blowing it off with an ‘oh, silly me, how forgetful’ or ‘I must have fallen asleep,’ It happened enough to be concerning.
And then later, he started doing something else.
Xie Lian looked around the cottage, desperately confused, like he didn’t recognise where he was or who he was with—and then when he saw them looking at him, he’d relax. And maybe it was ‘oh, Mu Qing and Feng Xin are here, that means it’s fine’. But it could have also been ‘I cannot let these mysterious strangers know I don’t know what’s going on or where I am.’
Mu Qing kept an eye on it. He didn’t really know what to do in this case. He had looked after Xie Lian when he was delirious once before. But he hadn’t hidden it like he might be doing now, like if that fact was exposed it would be dangerous. Last time it had happened, Xie Lian was fifteen, had woken up in the middle of the night, claiming that an imaginary person needed him to go deliver something. That was easy to deal with. Mu Qing asked him ‘what on Earth are you talking about?’ and herded him back to bed. But this—this was not something he really knew how to handle.
The sun started to set.
Xie Lian fell into one of his little catnaps.
Mu Qing opened an array with Feng Xin, and hoped His Highness would stay asleep the whole time, so he wouldn’t ask what they needed to use an array for around him? “I’ll stay with him tonight. You can keep an eye on him tomorrow.”
He didn’t want to automatically take the worst shift, be the one having to stay up all night—but if you wanted something done, you had to do it yourself. And it would be better if this wasn’t a discussion. Better if it was a fait accompli. Xie Lian was getting worse. He needed someone around to make sure he didn’t stop breathing or didn’t scare himself and run off into the woods and then stop breathing.
“Are you sure that’s necessary?” It wasn’t a denial. It was still a question, and Mu Qing would much rather he didn’t question him at all, but at least he was yielding to his expertise.
“Yes.”
“I’ll send some of my people at dawn to relieve you.”
“No. You’ll be sending yourself .”
Feng Xin looked at him, confused.
“ He would not do well with strangers.” He didn’t actually know this for certain, but it was a good enough guess that he felt it was reasonable to say it like it was certain. And he didn’t trust any of Feng Xin’s middle court officials with this. They didn’t have the history.
Feng Xin looked like he was about to argue with him, and Mu Qing didn’t want to have to explain it in little baby steps for someone who had never dealt with a bad fever that wasn’t his own—but Feng Xin relaxed and shrugged. “ I’ll send myself then.”
Mu Qing nodded.
Feng Xin took the opportunity to sneak out the door, looking a little bit sheepish about not saying goodbye to his host.
Considering his host was passed out, it could probably be forgiven.
Mu Qing went about quietly getting things ready. Refilled the pot of water, checked how long they could go without getting someone to do the laundry. Stepping into that routine felt like being in a cart falling into wheel ruts. Even if he didn’t want to go back into looking after Xie Lian, it was as natural and inevitable as gravity. And not completely unpleasant?
He felt it should have been unpleasant. He hated being his servant. Being a subordinate and not an equal. Feeling that distance between them, that despite how empathetic Xie Lian was, he didn’t get it .
But going about the tasks themselves was dull grey neutrality, any unpleasantness long washed away into ‘it is what it is’ routine.
He found some vegetables that seemed past their prime. Still edible, but maybe not for much longer. He set about making soup. Xie Lian was more or less keeping the water he’d drunk down—and even then, the problem seemed to be less of an upset stomach, and more an upset diaphragm jostling everything. Sooner rather than later he would need to eat. Ideally, he would eat actual food, not whatever bizarre concoctions he made.
Mu Qing filled another pot with water, and peeled and cubed vegetables while he waited for it to boil.
There was a hacking wet cough behind him, followed by a groan.
So Xie Lian was alive and awake. Good to know.
Xie Lian crawled, and Mu Qing heard the blankets dragging behind him.
He wondered where Xie Lian was going. Hopefully not into the woods or something equally stupid. He started to turn, and it sounded like he was crawling towards him?—
Xie Lian grabbed onto his ankles, tight enough Mu Qing wasn’t sure he could step out of his grip if he tried. “You’re back,” he said, voice hoarse and scratchy.
“I didn’t leave.” So, this was happening. He felt acutely unqualified. He knew how to tell him to go back to bed, but he wasn’t sure how to—comfort him. Or if comforting was the right thing to do for someone who had spooked themselves in their delirium.
Xie Lian proceeded to bury his face in his calves. “I didn’t think you were ever coming back.”
It was a testament to his self-control that he didn’t end up collapsing on the floor with Xie Lian. That he didn’t kick him, or cry out, or do anything but exhale hard like he was trying to force all the air out of his lungs at once. He hadn’t left this room recently, he knew that, but he had left—before. He’d left eight hundred years ago. And of course Xie Lian wasn’t in a state to know what time it was, what year. Maybe he had hallucinated Mu Qing leaving this room, but maybe he hadn’t. Maybe for him, he was back on the run in Yong’an and Mu Qing had returned.
Mu Qing didn’t regret leaving. It was perfectly sensible and reasonable and if he had a do-over of his life he would do it again. It was the best choice he’d had. If all your friends decided to self-immolate, you didn’t have to join them.
That didn’t mean that leaving hadn’t hurt. Didn’t mean it hadn’t felt like tearing a ten-inch chunk of his rib muscles out and handing it to His Highness while Feng Xin tried to break him down.
It didn’t mean it hadn’t hurt all those years he hadn’t come back. And he hadn’t come back. Not by any reasonable definition of the word. He might have helped Xie Lian when he ascended for a third time, but that wasn’t going back. It was a different identity, a different role, and that parting still stood between them, heavy and painful and final.
You could just as easily say that Xie Lian had returned to him .
...He wasn’t going to get into that. Not with someone who wasn’t lucid. If it really had to be said, he could say it later. And it probably didn’t have to be said. (Saying things had been—more successful than he expected, but it didn’t mean he wanted to do it again. Not so soon. Maybe in the next decade or so. Maybe. ) And he couldn’t even be sure that that was what Xie Lian meant. “I’m still here.”
“San Lang—”
It was very much a testament to his self-control that he didn’t kick him in the face then, either. Of course Xie Lian was so out of it he couldn’t recognise who he was talking to. That was how it would go. It was inevitable because it was the worst option. And of course Xie Lian didn’t miss him . He missed Crimson Rain Sought Flower.
He shouldn’t judge Hua Cheng, he had sacrificed himself to save them and that should be acknowledged—but of course he was who Xie Lian missed. Mu Qing was just the help, just the furniture .
“San Lang?” Xie Lian sounded very lonely and tired and scared and adrift in a way that made being angry and feeling justified in his anger impossible.
“I am making soup,” he said, because dry, factual statements were the only thing he trusted himself with now.
Xie Lian hugged his legs tighter, and then paused. He lost the thread of the conversation.
Mu Qing did not physically sag with relief, but he would admit that mentally, he did.
“—That’s nice.” Xie Lian said, audibly confused and tired.
Mu Qing wondered if he’d fall asleep attached to his legs like this. It would be annoying, but annoying was better than being confused for his ghost king lover. He’d take it.
Xie Lian snuggled up closer, using his calves as a pillow. It took him all of ten seconds to fall back asleep.
It was—weird. Constraining. Mu Qing did not want to be grabbed by Xie Lian, didn’t want to be unable to leave. ...Not that Xie Lian holding him here was really what was keeping him. His feeling of obligation to the pitiful wreck of snot and disease Xie Lian was right now was what was keeping him.
He didn’t want to be used either, even for something as prosaic and non-effortful as a pillow. Didn’t want to be furniture.
But if one ignored all the context and emotions involved in this situation, and looked at it on a purely physical level, it was kind of—warm. Could be worse.
He stayed there for a bit, idly stirring the soup because it wasn’t like he could move away to do something else. More sleep would probably do Xie Lian good. No need to do that unless he had to. He could maybe work out how to step out without waking him, but Xie Lian was always a light sleeper, and there was nothing incredibly pressing right now.
Well, this was only delaying pressing things. When he got back to the Heavens, there would be an absurd number of prayers and petitions he’d need to deal with, and depending on how long this took it would stop him from attending his standing appointment to spar with Pei Ming, and then and then and then—but for now, there was nothing pressing . Nothing that needed his attention right this second.
It was different from when he used to look after Xie Lian when they were both young and mortal. The frantic pace of going between washing and sparring and sweeping and meditation and cleaning and sweeping again. The organisational effort of working out how to do all that most efficiently, so he actually had time to sleep. He might be up in the middle of the night, but this time he could be up in the middle of the night staring at soup.
Xie Lian coughed, and Mu Qing felt the spittle landing on his pant legs. Xie Lian stirred—and went tense and tight, holding onto his legs so hard that Mu Qing nearly pitched forward.
He turned to ask Xie Lian what happened.
He didn’t get a chance to say anything.
Xie Lian flung himself away from Mu Qing. He scuttled away. It was like watching a very large, very drunk spider run with half its legs.
He was surprisingly fast.
And that was partially why Mu Qing stayed overnight, to make sure His Highness didn’t get confused and flee into the woods and get hypothermia as well as whatever this was. This was vindication. But it also made his blood go chilly.
“Get away get away get away—” Xie Lian wasn’t shouting. He did not have the voice to shout. But Mu Qing could hear the force and desperation behind his voice, damaging his throat even more, even if he wasn’t actually loud .
He kept coughing and pitching forward with the force of the air being thrown out of his lungs. Nearly threw up from the force of his coughing. But he didn’t stop fleeing, even while retching and unable to get a breath of air.
Mu Qing didn’t chase after Xie Lian—except for the fact he kind of did. He tried to project the image of not chasing him, of not herding him, while trying to get closer and steer him away from any doors. Tried to look non-threatening, which wasn’t something he’d had much reason to try for many years. The General of the Southwest rarely needed to chase delirious and confused people.
Watching Xie Lian be like this—Mu Qing wouldn’t describe it as scary. It wasn’t like he felt personally threatened. But watching Xie Lian be sourcelessly afraid felt like the whole world suddenly shifted several inches to the left. Xie Lian was a powerful martial god. Xie Lian was calm and smiling in situations where he shouldn’t be. Xie Lian was the Crown Prince, the Heir of Xianle, The God Pleasing Warrior... He shouldn’t be fleeing and retching, trying to get away from an imagined terror.
Xie Lian collided with a corner, and folded himself into it. He wedged himself both into the fetal position and into the wall.
Mu Qing squatted down a couple of metres away from him. He did his best to look friendly and safe and to be ready to lunge if he tried anything. “Is there something I can help with—”
“FUCK YOU,” Xie Lian spat. “I won’t.” He curled tighter, repeating it like a mantra. “I won’t I won’t I won’t—”
It was the second time he had ever heard His Highness swear. While the first time was in mere annoyance, this was—enraged fear? Anger and terror coiling and binding him until he was trapped. “I’m not going to make you do anything,” Mu Qing lied.
“I won’t do what you want. I won’t, I won’t—”
If he wouldn’t say anything, there wasn’t much he could do but watch. Watch and wait for this to pass, and hope His Highness didn’t try to hurt himself. He did his best to stay still, stay unobtrusive, blend into the background like he was just some random servant no one needed to pay attention to.
“It hurts—” Xie Lian whispered.
...Even if he was just waiting this out, he couldn’t just say nothing to that. Couldn’t stay quiet, even if his voice might just scare him more. “Can I help?”
Xie Lian flinched at that, curled further into a slater of misery.
So, maybe that was too abstract of a question for him to handle. Or maybe he was too scared of him (...of Hua Cheng?) to answer. The best way to check was with a more concrete question. “What hurts?” The answer was probably ‘everything’. His throat was wrecked, and Mu Qing would be surprised if he didn’t have body aches and a splitting dehydration headache by now.
“You know what hurts.” It sounded like he was on the knife edge between anger and fear and fearful rage and just bursting into tears.
Mu Qing stood up. Walked away, slowly and carefully so as not to scare him further, to give him space if that was what he needed. He was pretty wedged in that corner, and was likely exhausted and confused enough that he wouldn’t think to bolt for the door. It was a risk but—there were worse risks to take.
He came back with a blanket and a bowl of soup. “Here is a blanket if you are cold.” He put it down deliberately, halfway between him and Xie Lian. Close enough to Xie Lian that he could grab it easily, far enough away that Mu Qing didn’t have to get into his personal space. “And soup if your throat hurts.”
Xie Lian didn’t move. Maybe he didn’t dare move while Mu Qing was so close, or while being observed.
Mu Qing stepped away again. Turned around dramatically, such that Xie Lian had to notice it if he was in a state to notice at all.
The harsh breathing and shaking slowly quieted, and Xie Lian relaxed muscle by muscle, out of the way he was curled up.
Mu Qing watched him from his peripheral vision, silently wishing that what just happened would be the worst of it. It wouldn’t be. Not with their luck.
Xie Lian turned to face him, looking exhausted and wrung out and lonely. He had a surprisingly expressive face, when he wasn’t covering it with a smile. “San Lang?”
Mu Qing didn’t respond. Nothing good could come of it. (And some small part of him feared that humouring him would turn him back into that fearful, aggressive thing. It was an irrational fear. Maybe. Probably. Irrational pending further investigation of the pattern.)
Xie Lian stood up, and nearly fell flat on his face.
Mu Qing dived over to catch him, and gently lowered him to the floor.
He looked up at him, eyes wet, gaze darting around his face in confusion. “San Lang?” He held on to Mu Qing’s lapels, like he was trying to pull him closer, trying to get in as much contact with him as he could.
He wasn’t going to lie. Lying might have been easier—but it would have been wrong. He couldn’t articulate it, but felt it bone deep. And he wasn’t going to make promises he couldn’t keep. Any answer but the truth would be some form of that. “He’s not here right now.”
Xie Lian looked confused, like he was trying to piece together something that refused to make sense and slipped out of his mind every time he tried. “...Okay.”
“Just go to sleep, Your Highness.”
Xie Lian was heavy and half sprawled over his lap where he had fallen. It was not comfortable. Mu Qing knew it was not comfortable for himself, and could intuit that it would not be comfortable for Xie Lian either. There were too many bones and knees involved, especially when compared to an actual bed.
But Xie Lian was too exhausted to be in a position to care. He could probably fall asleep standing up right now, if only he could stand up. He wedged his head over Mu Qing’s shoulder and almost immediately passed out.
Mu Qing stayed very, very still. Every minute of sleep was precious. Both for healing and recovery, and for maybe preventing another outburst like that one.
Over the course of minutes, Xie Lian’s head slowly slipped downwards under the force of gravity, until he was sprawled over Mu Qing’s lap. He coughed, harsh and loud, before settling down to sleep again.
Or at least that’s what seemed to happen, at first glance.
Xie Lian was still if you didn’t look hard. The only movement from him being rhythmic, loud breathing and shaking all over his body. It could have been shivering from his fever. That’s what Mu Qing thought it was, at first.
But there was a different quality to the shaking.
It wasn’t shivering. It was shaking due to all-over muscle tension. It was the shaking of being forced into stillness by fear.
Mu Qing looked down, and saw Xie Lian’s eyes were wide open and terrified. Even his gaze was shaking, quick saccades that didn’t quite land on anything, searching for an unfindable threat.
That... was not ideal.
He put a hand on top of Xie Lian’s head. He wasn’t entirely sure why, even as he did it. ...Probably as a comforting gesture? That seemed to fit the pattern. Something simple and obvious that even someone as out of it as Xie Lian could understand it.
Xie Lian flinched, tensed in anticipation of—something. Of a blow, of Mu Qing turning that gentle pressure into something that could crush his skull, of him trying to rip his head off.
Which also made sense. Do not underestimate a delirious god’s ability to turn anything into a threat. “Sorry,” he said. He lifted his hand—
And Xie Lian’s head followed, like a cat headbutting the hand petting it. ...If the cat was equally terrified of both contact and its removal, of course.
Xie Lian buried his head into Mu Qing’s stomach, halfway between hiding and animal need to maintain contact as he panicked. He whimpered, too.
It was a very disturbing noise to hear from Xie Lian. Too small and high pitched to hear from a crown prince, a general, a god, even if he had long lost his illusions about what noises those people made. But it did not fit the Xie Lian he knew, who would fight any foe and smile at anyone else with a breezy confidence and equanimity. He sounded much, much younger and weaker than he was. Like a child, not an eight hundred year-old god.
“Go to sleep, Your Highness. You’re safe.” Mu Qing tried to avoid making promises he couldn’t keep, for his own convenience. But this one he could probably keep, or close enough. It would hopefully end this terror sooner if Xie Lian at least attempted to sleep. That was worth a lot. Worth a stretched promise.
The list of physical threats he could not deal with was low. He was not the most powerful martial god—the most powerful martial god was currently shaking in his lap—but he felt confident in getting a stalemate with most others. His ability to take Qi Rong was not in question, and unless Xie Lian suddenly decided to find an ocean to dive into, He Xuan would also be manageable. The only threat that he probably did not have a chance against was Hua Cheng.
Which... he’d like to say he’d been eliminated as a threat, due to both being in love with Xie Lian and more dead than usual, but—there had been... evidence. Signs. That had made themselves known tonight. He was not going to analyse them right here and now, not until Xie Lian was out of his care and Mu Qing had a good night of sleep and time to think on it. But it did not take any great analytical feat to look at what happened tonight, look at Xie Lian’s alternating clinging and terror, and have concerns about Hua Cheng.
Maybe Xie Lian’s brain was just generating the most emotionally strong and frightening. possibilities, with no accounting for plausibility. That would be comforting.
But comfort was false more often than not. It appeared this year was a year for finding that people were not what they seemed. That even the most trustworthy people he knew could be not trustworthy.
It would be unfortunate if Hua Cheng matched his first impression of him. If his sacrifice had been—maybe not false, but not a complete picture of his character.
It would be unfortunate, but he could not bring himself to be surprised.
There were few advantages to this illness. But one of them was that, even shaking and terrified, Xie Lian fell asleep quickly.
The rest of the night followed that same awful pattern. Rapid alternation between sleep, desperate desire for contact and joy at ‘San Lang’ having returned, clawing desperate attempts to flee, and those impossible to manage mixed states where he craved and feared contact in equal measure.
Mu Qing handled it as best as he could. Treat him as well as he can. Stop him from putting himself in danger. Long for the morning to come when it would be Feng Xin’s problem. Put all thought of time and emotion in a box, and become an unstoppable automaton.
Perfection was for people doing easy things with resources and time. This was none of those things.
At one point, he even came up with a strategy to deal with Xie Lian’s desire for touch and comfort, and the way he could turn into a feral, terrified creature in an instant.
It came to him as he watched Xie Lian sleep. His hair was a complete mess. It wasn’t the sort of hair that became matted the instant you stopped brushing it, but it was—close. While ascension solved many mortal foibles, difficult and persnickety hair was not one of them. Even the one or so days of not brushing it produced some impressive and visible tangles. Tangles needed to be dealt with sooner rather than later, so that a convalescing Xie Lian did not need to cut through any mats.
And the thing about having one’s hair brushed, was that the person brushing your hair was behind you. You could escape easily. Especially if you did not mind leaving some hair behind. You could also escape without attacking the person brushing your hair.
If Xie Lian wanted contact, this seemed a safer option than most. And it would achieve something concrete. Win-win, Mu Qing thought, somewhat frustrated that he’d reached the point where this was considered a win.
He had spent centuries being a martial god, and a short span of years as a servant, and it kept coming back to haunt him.
Xie Lian stirred, and slowly levered himself into a sitting position. “San Lang?”
Mu Qing was still not entirely comfortable nor confident with his plan of not correcting him, but—he wasn’t going to lie. He wasn’t going to humour him. But he wasn’t going to fight with his false perceptions. “Your hair needs brushing.”
“Okay,” he replied, a little blankly.
At least this cottage had a hair brush, which Mu Qing had already located. Better than trying to use his fingers. It would be quicker. Less intimate. Less greasy.
He sat behind Xie Lian, careful to be close enough to easily brush his hair, not so close as to trap him. He laughed internally. Here he was, treating a martial god, his... friend, like he was a half-broke horse.
Even after eight hundred years, he still remembered what brushing His Highness’s hair was like. It was more tangled than it had ever been allowed to get in those days, and Xie Lian was actually capable of sitting still now. So, some improvements, some backslides. Mu Qing was more careful and gentle to make up for the rust that had grown on his skills. He treated Xie Lian like he was much more delicate and breakable than he actually was.
Xie Lian sat so still Mu Qing wondered if he had fallen asleep. It didn’t matter if he did—sleep was important, and he didn’t need to be conscious to have his hair brushed.
But then his shoulders started shaking. His breath hitched, and that set off another coughing fit that trailed out into shaky breaths.
Was he—crying? “Your Highness?”
“I’m—” Mu Qing expected the next word to be ‘fine’, but Xie Lian trailed off, losing the thread of that very simple sentence—and definitely crying, his hands coming up to cover his eyes like he could hide it.
He stayed like that, for an agonisingly long moment.
Mu Qing pulled the brush out, let go of the lock of hair. He didn’t move back—he couldn’t be sure that Xie Lian didn’t want contact—but he got ready to make some distance between them if he had to.
The tears trailed off. “Why am I crying?” His voice still sounded wrecked, and he still sounded confused, but it was a more—lucid sort of confused. Like you were in your right state of mind and blinked and found yourself in a different place than you last remembered.
“I wouldn’t know.” He sounded sharper than he intended.
Xie Lian huffed out a laugh. “I guess not.” A pause, as he realised what Mu Qing had been doing. “Thank you.”
Mu Qing was not someone who got flustered at being thanked , or at least he liked to think of himself that way. But he still didn’t quite know how to respond to that. Back in Xianle, he would have known—but they weren’t a prince and his servant any more. They didn’t have those old roles to fall back on. “I have standards,” was what came out of his mouth.
“Still, thank you.” Xie Lian looked around the room—Mu Qing couldn’t see his eyes moving, but he could feel the frantic darting in the way his head moved, unsteady and unfocused. “Do you know where Hua Cheng is?”
Mu Qing started brushing again. May as well do it if he was getting thanked for it. He felt his way along the dull knife edge between not lying and not giving too much truth to someone dazed and confused and not completely lucid. “He’s not around at the moment.”
“Oh. Alright.” Xie Lian stopped moving his head so much, which was good. Made getting the tangles nearer to his scalp out easier. That stillness quickly turned into something tense. “Are my parents alright? Do you know?”
This was... harder to answer truthfully without hurting him. And he was so fragile right now, and the fact he was asking meant he wasn’t with it enough to guess the truth.
And he didn’t know how Xie Lian’s parents died. Presumably, they did . They were mortal. But how the last King and Queen of Xianle ceased living was never something he found out. He hadn’t felt the need. He had his own mother to look after, his own position in the Middle Court to maintain. It happened, he didn’t know the details.
And even if he did know, Xie Lian didn’t need them. Not right now.
(He knew how his mother died. Consumption. Old age. Consumption at an old age, both threading around each other in a tangled web of mortality. He had supported her through it, sneaking in time and resources around his Middle Court duties, like back before when he was at Mount Taicang. He was proud of how long a life he had given her, the knowledge that she would have died much earlier without his support from the Heavens. She’d reached a respectable age for a mortal.)
(Had Xie Lian’s parents reached that age? If Xianle hadn’t fallen, they almost certainly would have. They’d had the best medical care available. But on the run, sapped of resources, looked after by people with more pride than sense? ...He could make guesses, but he didn’t know.)
“I’m not sure,” was not the best answer, but it was the best one he could give.
“Ah. I see.” There was that slipperiness of conversation of earlier in the evening, of Xie Lian dropping the thread of the conversation before it hit his ears. Of filling in blanks with meaningless scripted phrases.
He hoped it meant Xie Lian hadn’t noticed the strangeness of his answer. ...He hoped it meant he forgot about his parents’ presumed state of existence, and any distress that went with that.
Eventually dawn came, and with it, Feng Xin.
He maybe should have debriefed Feng Xin. However, at this point he was so exhausted, he just stumbled out the door, said “He’s all yours,” and immediately ascended back to the Heavens.
He had some very optimistic plans about catching up on the work that had certainly piled up over the past day and night.
Instead, Mu Qing passed out, stinking and fully clothed, on top of his bed covers.
Sometime later, he woke up, groggy and annoyed at the amount of laundry he was going to have to deal with, before coming to two realisations.
One: he didn’t do his own laundry. His dirty clothes and bedding were someone else’s problem now.
Two: the thing that had woken him up was an array message.
Feng Xin was loud even over arrays. “ You didn’t say he would be this bad!”
Mu Qing rolled his eyes. The effect was pointless, Feng Xin couldn’t see him, but it was still satisfying nonetheless. “ Did you expect a walk in the park?”
“I didn’t expect to get FUCKING ATTACKED.”
“Language,” Mu Qing sent flatly.
“ THE POINT FUCKING STANDS... I didn’t expect to get hugged either.”
“Yes, that sounds like a delirious Xie Lian.”
“...Was he like this back before?” Feng Xin asked.
No. “ Maybe.”
“What should I do?”
“I don’t know.”
“Mu Qing, I am asking a favour of a friend who knows more than me—”
“And if you want to do me a favour, you will let me go back to sleep.” He cut off his connection. Briefly considered having a bath before going to sleep.
His body decided that was too much effort, and he fell asleep again without having a chance to stand up.
Feng Xin looked exhausted and relieved when Mu Qing took the next night shift, wrung out and a little bit... stunned. Traumatised, if you wanted to go that far.
The advantage of this night was that Xie Lian was actually asleep for most of it. Even when he stirred awake, he usually took a sip of water and then passed out again.
He was so much easier to deal with when he was unconscious.
On the rare occasions he said something, Mu Qing could not be sure he was lucid. They could have been the statements of someone flying off out of reality. But mostly they were variations of ‘Thank you for handing me that water,’ or ‘thank you for sticking around’, or ‘ow’, or ‘ugh.’
Even if it was easier, it didn’t make that night restful. Mu Qing still had to look after Xie Lian. That wasn’t effortless. Plus, he spent the whole night waiting on a knife edge, ready for Xie Lian to lose the plot and attack him or flee from him or hug him. Even if none of those things happened, the watchful waiting took its toll.
At midnight, Mu Qing took the opportunity to collapse onto a chair. He’d only sit for a minute, then he’d get up and do things again. It was half promise and half warning to himself. It was a promise to the part of him that feared that if he didn’t stop himself, he’d turn into a lazy layabout, or a sack of exhausted bones that could never get up again. He’d stand up and do things in one minute, he promised. It was a warning to the part of him that longed for a rest. This couldn’t last, wouldn’t last. In one short minute, he’d be up again.
He watched His Highness sleep, making sure he was still breathing, even while he was resting.
A thought crossed his brain. He was morally allowed to bother Feng Xin right now. General Nan Yang woke him up while he was sleeping. Turnabout was fair play. And there was something he needed to ask.
He knew that he was a paranoid soul. He would say that he had an accurate assessment of potential threats. Other people said that he was a suspicious bastard. As much as he would rather not ask—a second opinion about whether this was accurate assessment or rampant paranoia was worth it.
Should he be worried about what His Highness was hallucinating about? Being convinced he was Hua Cheng and wanting a hug was—not concerning. It was weird to see His Highness like that , and uncomfortable to be on the receiving end, but not worrying . So Xie Lian missed Hua Cheng. Big deal. Tell him something he didn’t already know.
But if His Highness was scared of Hua Cheng, if Hua Cheng had hurt him and they had never noticed—Mu Qing took a breath. He was not going to wargame that possibility until he had checked what Feng Xin thought. He would take it one step at a time.
He opened a private array with Feng Xin. He expected him to complain, send some variant ‘it is the middle of the night, bother me when I have gotten some sleep’.
Feng Xin didn’t. He seemed to spring to alertness immediately. “Has something happened?!”
“No. His Highness is asleep. Has been all night, more or less.”
“ Oh. ...So why are you talking to me at fucking midnight, then?”
Mu Qing paused, trying to think of the best way to broach the subject. He had planned for a more aggressive response from Feng Xin, one where he could shout back and say he needed to ask so he could help Xie Lian. He had never planned for any other response. Or planned any further, really. In his defense, he had been caring for an ill god, and he was exhausted. “When he attacked you—who did he think he was attacking?”
There was a pause, long enough that he wondered if Feng Xin was going to shut off the array. “ I... I don’t know.”
Mu Qing did not want to bias his answers. That’s why he was asking someone else . Imposing his own understanding would defeat the purpose. But he had to ask. He had to kno w. “ Who did he think he was hugging?”
“Who do you think? I got to play the role of one Ghost King, Hua Chengzu.”
“I’m sure you had a lot of fun doing that,” he said, because that’s what friends did, right? They made jokes about the terrible situations they were in. And Feng Xin could take a little sarcasm, even now.
“ He was quite convinced! And incredibly fucking upset when I told him otherwise.” He switched to a worryingly good impression of a crying Xie Lian. “‘Why are you lying, where is he, why are you pretending not to know me—’ Maybe I should have kept trying to explain to him...”
“You did better than me. I didn’t even bother.”
There was a brief pause as he considered. “It’d be simpler.”
“It was.” Mu Qing steeled himself. There was no way to avoid asking it straight up. “ When he attacked you—is there any chance he might have thought you were Hua Cheng, as well?”
“I fucking hope not!” He shouted in alarm. “ ... ‘hope’ being the important part of that sentence.”
“You don’t know? ”
“How would I fucking know ?! Every time I asked who I was when he was like that, he’d laugh, or cry, or both!”
“But you could have been Hua Cheng?”
“—I could have been. Yes, I could have been.” There was a pause, that was all the more weighty for the gurgling sound of Xie Lian’s breathing in the background. “ If I was, I should have — fuck—we should have done something . Should have known.”
Mu Qing felt vaguely obligated to play Ghost King’s Advocate. —And his own advocate, argue that maybe they hadn’t missed something and it was all sunshine and roses and sickening romance. “ Just because he was scared of Hua Cheng then doesn’t mean Hua Cheng is a threat to him. He is delirious, after all.”
“I know, but—we’re going to have to ask, when he’s lucid, aren’t we. Fuck. ”
“Maybe.” Yes, definitely. Even if Feng Xin decided against it, he was going to have to. If Xie Lian was in danger from Hua Cheng, and neither of them had noticed... he had to do something now. Rectify it. Make up for lost time.
“Shitting hell goddamnit ...”
“Go back to sleep. You’ll need the rest.”
“LIKE HELL AM I GOING BACK TO SLEEP AFTER THAT REVELATION—”
“It’s not a revelation yet—”
Feng Xin ranted on, undeterred. “I am going to punch a training dummy. Or a wall. Or a training dummy who is a wall. And then, maybe—just fucking maybe—I will go to sleep.”
“You go do that. I’ll make sure His Highness doesn’t choke on his spit and nearly die,” he sent, cutting the array off before Feng Xin could argue about the possibility of a god choking and dying.
The next morning, Xie Lian woke up, and then stood up without immediately crashing to the ground.
After that, while he was still shaky and weak, he also was also upright and shuffling around. Not completely recovered yet, but more or less human, now. Give him another day or two, and he’d be more or less godly again.
Mu Qing and Feng Xin could almost pretend this was a social call.
Almost.
Social calls were rarely this weighty, and rarely made Mu Qing feel like his bones were turning into ice, due to the anticipation and dread.
Xie Lian was distracted by boiling water, because he was insistent that after all their help over the past few days, he should be a good host. If they wouldn’t take food from him, the least he could do was make some tea.
This was their best shot, while he was turned away and couldn’t question what they were talking about without him. Mu Qing sent a quick array message to Feng Xin. “ Are you ready?”
“Are you sure?”
Mu Qing nodded.
Xie Lian wobbled a bit while he walked, but not in a way that made Mu Qing want to stand up to try and catch him, or insist that he immediately sit down. He set the teapot down on the table with a bit more force than necessary and sat down too hard, like all his muscles went limp at once. But he wasn’t having to crawl around. Mu Qing would take that.
“I need to ask you something,” Mu Qing said, serious.
Feng Xin looked vaguely relieved that Mu Qing was taking the lead.
Xie Lian poured the tea. His hands did not shake, but Mu Qing could tell that was because he was concentrating on keeping them steady. “Yes?”
He had spent last night, whenever he had a spare moment to actually think, how to phrase this. It always circled back to being direct. It showed he was serious. It avoided communication. It made it harder for Xie Lian to brush it off with a breezy smile. “Are you afraid of Hua Cheng?”
Xie Lian did not react immediately. He kept pouring the tea, and carefully set the pot down, obviously trying to buy himself time before he had to answer. “Why would I be?” He schooled a smile onto his face, something breezy and carefree that made Mu Qing want to punch him, a little, so he’d show his true feelings. “Really, he’s a big softie deep down.”
Mu Qing wanted points for not rolling his eyes at the idea that Hua Cheng, ruler of the Ghost City, one of the four calamities, Crimson Rain Sought Flower himself, was a ‘a big softie’. Because this was a serious conversation, and he was not going to be distracted by Xie Lian’s attempts to avoid it.
“You said... some things. Did some things, too. While you were out of it,” Feng Xin said. His arms were crossed. He’d subtly moved his seat, so that he could see the door. In case fate played a joke on them, and Hua Cheng was about to walk through the door right now.
That would fit Xie Lian’s general tendencies with luck.
“And why are you paying attention to that? I was delirious. Why would what I said or did then mean anything?” Xie Lian’s smile was brittler, more tense, as he took a sip of tea.
“You were terrified of me. And you thought I was Hua Cheng,” Mu Qing said.
That got a reaction. A real one. Xie Lian set his cup down. Firm. Calm. Controlled. “I did not.”
“You weren’t terrified?” he said, doubtful.
“I was terrified, yes. I did confuse you with Hua Cheng—and I would apologise for that except for the fact I was delirious at the time—but I was not afraid of Hua Cheng. I never was.” Xie Lian spoke evenly, calm and collected and very precise.
And Mu Qing knew that expression, that tone. That was Xie Lian being careful, so he didn’t rip someone apart. And he could see him holding back. Whether it was emotion, or the truth, or some combination of the two, he couldn’t be sure. But he was holding something back.
“What were you afraid of, then?” Feng Xin said, sounding disbelieving. —And also sounding like he wished Xie Lian would admit he was scared of Hua Cheng, so Feng Xin could get down to the business of protecting him. Even if it was too late now.
“Take a guess.” Xie was shaking now—not with illness or exhaustion, or even terror, but with tightly leashed anger. Shaking with how he was carefully holding himself in check, so he didn’t yell or throw anything. (He’s learned how to, finally, Mu Qing thought bitterly.) “I wasn’t afraid of Hua Cheng. He didn’t cause it. He protected me.” His voice was biting and bitter, the ‘unlike some people I could mention’ hanging heavy in the air.
But Mu Qing was aware he was more... sensitive to such implications than maybe should be. Paranoid and touchy and guilty and with unreasonable abandonment issues—he would admit his flaws. If he got points for being restrained about ghost kings being described as softies, then Xie Lian could at least get points for keeping his thoughts unvoiced. Because he hadn’t protected Xie Lian from—whatever had happened, back then. He’d failed so badly at protecting him from it he didn’t even know, even if now he could take a very educated guess.
He would do it all again. His decision to cut himself loose was the best one he could make. But that didn’t mean he didn’t regret it.
It certainly didn’t mean he expected Xie Lian to feel the same way.
“Protected you from what?” It was strange to hear Feng Xin so quiet—if he was in the mood for joking, Mu Qing would say something about not realising that Feng Xin was capable of it. It was a serious quietness. He may have known intellectually that there were a lot of things he hadn’t protected His Highness from, but the idea that Hua Cheng might have done better than him must have hit him in the soft underbelly.
“From Jun Wu—or White No-Face, as I thought at the time, but that doesn’t matter —” Xie Lian cut himself off. “I can tell you, if you think it will help. But I wouldn’t want to make it your burden without asking you.” There was still bitterness there. ‘ Because I don’t want to hurt you even if it is very tempting right now, because I can handle this myself if I must, I’ve been handling it for so long, I can keep going even if it isn’t fair ...’
“I would—very much like to know what hurt you.” Feng Xin said. So I can make sure it doesn’t happen again. Points to Feng Xin for not swearing or shouting. It wouldn’t have helped, would have made Xie Lian brush them off, pull back his pull back his offering. But he could see how hard Feng Xin was working to restrain himself.
Mu Qing shrugged, pretending at a casualness he did not feel. “If you think it would help.”
“There’s not much to say,” Xie said, as if there was an ocean of things to say, and he didn’t know how to fit and funnel that ocean through his mouth. Like he was very much not looking forward to funnelling all that out, and was looking to give the bare minimum. Which was—fair. Mu Qing wasn’t going to be greedy about this. “Jun Wu targeted me, isolated me—or made some assumptions about the fact I would isolate myself. Either way, it was the same.” He shrugged, and took a long drink of tea. Trying to martial his thoughts, most likely. “And he got very creative in hurting me—and those I loved and valued.” He looked very deliberately at Mu Qing and Feng Xin. Eye contact shouldn’t have felt like that much of a gift. It shouldn’t have felt that much like being stabbed. “San Lang did his best—but he was not always a Ghost King, you understand.”
Mu Qing did his best to keep his face stony, to show no outward reaction to the idea of isolation. Of Xie Lian being hurt. Of—the people around him being hurt. Jun Wu hadn’t done anything to him, not back then. If Xie Lian counted him as someone Jun Wu had hurt, that was an... honour he could not accept. He had left of his own accord. Jun Wu had nothing to do with it.
A sick pit of dread in his stomach, at the idea that his leaving had helped White No-Face. That wasn’t why he had done it, but motive did not count for everything. And if someone told his past self that if he left His Highness, he would be helping White No-Face, he would have likely made the same decision. He needed to help his mother. He couldn’t pour everything into helping Xie Lian’s parents. There was no shame in getting off a sinking ship, no matter what would happen to the captain in the end. But—he had helped hurt Xie Lian. Hurt his... friend. Even if he had done nothing wrong.
The other thought was a prickling curiosity about the circumstances Feng Xin left in. He’d never asked. Why would he? Before now, he would have said that self-evidently it was for a bad and selfish reason, and why would he be talking to Nan Yang about anything—and after they had reconciled, there had been no reason to poke at old wounds.
Feng Xin was also trying to keep his face steady. He just wasn’t succeeding. He looked like he’d been stabbed in the gut, his hands shaking and his face sweating, and pretending he was uninjured. “I’m sorry.” He aimed for being sympathetic, and landed on an actual request for forgiveness.
Xie Lian spoke again, like nothing had been said at all. Like he hadn’t said anything, and no one else had, like he was restarting the conversation. He stared into his tea, because its amber depths were easier to look at than his friends’ faces “Have you ever thought about how you would make someone the worst version of themself? If you were willing to do anything, how you would go about doing that?”
Mu Qing hadn’t... but it sounded like Xie Lian might have. And like Jun Wu definitely had.
Xie Lian looked up at them. His smile might have been described as shy and self-effacing and apologetic if it came up in any other conversation. “That’s what White No-Face did.” There was a lacuna, a pause for the unstated if you are desperate to know the details, you can ask, but you have to ask . “It may have left some marks. That may have slipped out. A little. When I was delirious.”
“And here I thought Your Highness was impervious to fallibilities like being able to be emotionally hurt.” Mu Qing rolled his eyes dramatically. It was a jab, a deliberate one, but a friendly one. A jab of I don’t think you are so weak you couldn’t take it. What you said hasn’t made me treat you with kitten gloves.
“I certainly did, back then. But—” He looked at his cup again, his smile going from friendly fondness to something bittersweet. “I’ve learned now.” Grateful for the learning, even if he shouldn’t be, even if he would have preferred to have learned any other way.
Feng Xin redirected the conversation back to where he wanted it. “And Hua Cheng protected you? Even—before?” He sounded torn between the fact that this meant he was replaceable, and the fact that at the very least, back then, someone was trying to protect His Highness.
“San Lang tried. I couldn’t ask for more.”
Data clicked in Mu Qing’s brain. “He was that soldier from Xianle, wasn’t he? The one who kept trying to throw himself in front of you.” That was not a fair description, but it was accurate enough, and better than, ‘You know, the one with the bandages and the Land of the Tender situation. The one I hated.’
“Mhhm.”
“Wait, he’s from Xianle ?” Feng Xin’s shock had at least morphed from dawning horror to confused outrage. It was a much better look on him.
Mu Qing raised an eyebrow. “Where did you think he got his accent from?”
“I thought—look, if anyone was going to fake a Xianle accent for—for reasons , it would be him! ...or He Xuan, maybe. But probably him!”
Xie Lian hid a smile behind his sleeve, the corners of his eyes all crinkled. “I won’t tell him you said that.”
Mu Qing leaned back in his chair and took a sip of his neglected tea.
“Mu Qing?” Xie Lian looked concerned.
...He’d hoped it hadn’t shown on his face. He wasn’t going to push for details, but he could make extrapolations based on the sort of person Jun Wu—White No-Face—whoever—had turned out to be. And he could have regrets. He wouldn’t have changed his decision, but ‘he isolated me—or made some assumptions about the fact I would isolate myself’ played in a loop around his head. “I am—very tempted by the idea of beating Jun Wu into a finer paste, and annoyed that that is not possible.”
Xie Lian huffed a laugh. “That makes two of us.”
“Three.”
Xie Lian looked down at his tea cup. He was genuinely smiling, not just falling into a tense and false habitual expression. It was actually happy. Not even nostalgic.
Just happiness, with no bitter or sad notes.
It was good to see, even if it was... saccharine. And Mu Qing could see what he was thinking. “If you are about to say something about it being ‘nice we are getting along now,’ I am going to have to prove you wrong.” Mu Qing turned to Feng Xin. “Your worshippers are terrible fighters, and I don’t know why you call yourself a martial god.”
“HEY, don’t drag me into this to make a point, you little shit—”
(In the background, Xie Lian tried to pretend he wasn’t laughing.)