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It wasn’t in Feng Xin’s plans to get into a fight with Mu Qing right before the Mid-Autumn Festival Banquet, but he should know by now that nothing is certain when Mu Qing is close.
He is currently fisting the front of Mu Qing’s robes, and Mu Qing is digging his nails into his jaw, both panting and lying in the middle of a well-kept garden in the Heavenly Capital.
They are alone. The rest of the Upper Court is certainly already seated at the feast, eager to see what mortals are up to before the big event of the night starts: The Battle of the Lanterns.
“Get off me,” Mu Qing mutters, pushing Feng Xin away.
Feng Xin rolls away from him with furrowed eyebrows. Mu Qing stands up, a blush adorning his pale face, dusting off his robes and brushing away the blades of grass that cling to his long, dark hair.
Feng Xin jumps to his feet. He is fixing his belt and pushing his bangs away from his eyes when he notices it: a tear of considerable size in the outermost layer of his robe—actually, it’s impossible not to see it. It’s big enough for him to pass his hand through it.
“Hey! Look what you did!” Outraged, Feng Xin holds his arm in front of his face to show the tear on his sleeve to Mu Qing.
Feng Xin’s robes are often practical, suited for archery training and his constant visits to the Mortal Realm. Still on special occasions, he exchanges those for a nice set of silk robes, beautifully embroidered with golden thread.
It’s a shame those fine garments are ruined now.
Mu Qing takes a quick look at him. “It was you who started the fight.”
Did he? He was arguing with Mu Qing over the number of Blessing Lanterns they both receive year after year and is quite sure that at one point, both had their fists raised, ready to bring blows into their verbal discussion. Who delivered the first punch? Feng Xin is unsure.
“Even if I did, I didn’t tear my own clothes for sure!”
It’s far from being the first time their robes have gotten damaged during their quarrels. Mud and grass stains are common; burst seams are a bit less so, but the torn fabric is mostly avoidable unless there are weapons and unreleased frustration involved.
Still, in all the centuries they have been coexisting and fighting, Feng Xin has never had to deal with ruined robes just before such an important event in the Heavenly Realm.
“Well, what do you want me to do about that?”Mu Qing asks, standing in front of Feng Xin, looking perfect like all his statues in the Mortal Realm, wearing fine black and dark blue robes with intricate crane embroidery on the sleeves and back.
“You ruined them, you fix them,” Feng Xin demands.
Mu Qing hums, pursing his lips.
“So, is this how you plan to humiliate me tonight?” Mu Qing crosses his arms and lifts his chin. “By pushing to make me do the tasks I once did as a servant?”
“It’s not what I meant,” Feng Xin says through gritted teeth, feeling something akin to regret deep within himself.
In fact, Feng Xin didn’t even think about Mu Qing’s past before opening his mouth, but he knows it’s a sore topic for him.
“Of course, you didn’t.” Mu Qing rolls his eyes.
“Whatever! Forget about this!” He turns around, intending to rush to the banquet and sit as far away from Mu Qing as possible. “Forget we fought!”
“Are you really going to show up at the banquet with a thorn sleeve?” Mu Qing asks, making him halt.
“It’s not like I can gracefully decline my invitation right now, but does it matter?”
Mu Qing sighs and approaches Feng Xin. He is not gentle but neither rough when he takes Feng Xin’s arm to inspect the damage with sharp eyes.
“Everyone wears their best clothes to look as good as their finest statues,” Mu Qing mentions, rubbing the fabric between his fingers. “I know you have no taste, but this is unsightly. At least change into something else.”
“But I like these robes!”
Feng Xin snatches his arm away from him, once again intending to march out and ignore Mu Qing for the rest of the night. Maybe for longer.
“I’ll fix it!”Mu Qing calls when there are a few steps of distance between them.
Feng Xin pauses and blinks once, twice, turning around to see Mu Qing standing right where he left him, frowning with his arms still crossed.
“What? You will?” Feng Xin asks, not masking his incredulity.
Mu Qing looks exasperated when he nods. “Yeah, sure, but only if you come here before I change my mind.”
Feng Xin walks up to Mu Qing and lets him guide him into the Palace of Xuan Zhen. The corridors are dark and empty, but Feng Xin knows them almost as well as his own after countless years of chasing Mu Qing around.
Mu Qing saunters into his private chambers, and Feng Xin follows, groaning when Mu Qing pushes him against the wall before he can slide the door shut.
“If you ever talk about tonight to anyone, I’ll end you,” Mu Qing threatens, pressing his forearm against Feng Xin’s sternum.
His face is close to Feng Xin’s, and despite the darkness, Feng Xin can notice a subtle blush tinting Mu Qing’s cheeks.
“I won’t say a word.” Feng Xin grasps Mu Qing’s wrist.
“You better hold onto that.”
Mu Qing jerks his wrist from Feng Xin’s grip and takes a step back, moving into the room, and Feng Xin closes the door.
As usual, Mu Qing chambers are clean and tidy, unlike Feng Xin’s, which are always overflowing with scrolls to read, weapons to polish, and discarded pieces of armor.
Mu Qing kneels by the bed and retrieves a small, lacquered chest from under it.
He carries it to the table, and Feng Xin notices it is lavishly decorated with plum blossoms and golden paint. Mu Qing takes out a needle, a small knife, and thread so thin that Feng Xin can barely see it and closes the chest before Feng Xin can take a peek inside.
“Well, take it off,” Mu Qing says, clearing up his throat afterward.
“What?” Feng Xin asks, flabbergasted.
“Your robe, take it off, idiot!”
There is nothing special about the way he speaks. It’s awkward, but Feng Xing can’t blame him. His fingers fumbled with the ties that keep all the layers of his attire neatly in place when he moves to undo them.
Mu Qing pretends to be interested in the ceiling as Feng Xin disrobes. After a moment that feels longer than it is, his belt finally comes undone, and the silk layers slide easily off his body.
“Here.” Feng Xin offers his outermost layer to Mu Qing.
Mu Qing nods and accepts it, lowering it onto the table. He slides his fingers along the tear, scrutinizing it. A part of the embroidery has been ruined along with the fabric. It’s an irregular cut, frayed on the edges, as it was clearly not done with a blade, but not as bad as some other robes have had it in the past.
Mu Qing sets to work.
It’s embarrassing to stand in the middle of the room half-dressed for no reason, so fastening his belt, Feng Xin sits across Mu Qing.
“Thanks,” Feng Xin adds after a beat, feeling like he should say it sooner or later.
“You can thank me by forgetting this ever happened,” Mu Qing mutters, his brows furrowed as he focuses on threading the needle.
Mu Qing holds the robe in his hands and pushes the needle against the fabric, pulling the thread slowly through it.
As the son of a seamstress, Mu Qing has always been skilled at mending robes. His fingers are as nimble with a needle as they are with a blade, and it shows in his perfect stitches.
For a while, Feng Xin can almost pretend they are still in Xianle.
If he closes his eyes, he can imagine that His Highness is sleeping in the next room, and Mu Qing is sitting close to him in a strange moment of peace, fixing the robes damaged during a rowdy sword practice earlier.
Feng Xin used to stay awake for most of the night in case his prince needed him, and Mu Qing often accompanied him, working diligently in the candlelight.
“Tonight almost feels like the old times, huh?” Feng Xin comments.
It seems like Mu Qing reckons about the past along with Feng Xin.
“I suppose it does.” Mu Qing replies nodding with a sigh, not missing a single stitch. “But it’s better for the past to stay in the past.”
They don’t speak for a while, only their breathing could be heard in the room. Mu Qing has always preferred to work in silence. As he creates more and more stitches, Feng Xin can notice how the tear closes up, leaving no trace behind of the damage.
“You’re good at this,” Feng Xin comments, breaking the silence.
“I had a lot of years to practice, more than any mortal,” Mu Qing replies. “In a way, the habit of mending my robes never really went away, not even when I could afford the most exquisite silk in the world.”
When the tear is closed up Mu Qing takes fine golden thread from the chest and starts fixing the embroidery too. He makes the broken strands disappear into the fabric and replaces them with new ones, restoring the design of a dragon that curls around the forearm.
Mu Qing holds the fabric in front of his face to inspect his work up close. He adds a few more chain stitches until he is satisfied and finishes mending with a small knot.
“It’s done,” Mu Qing declares, lowering the needle, and cutting the thread.
He slides the robe across the table towards Feng Xin and Feng Xin takes it to examine it. The seam is barely noticeable, and he is sure that no one would imagine that the embroidery was also damaged, not when it looks flawless. He is pleased with the result.
“It’s perfect.”
“I know,” Mu Qing replies, storing his tools back into the chest. “It wasn’t hard to fix.”
Standing up, Feng Xin puts on the robe, tying it firmly and fixing his belt.
“Your collar is askew,” Mu Qing points out.
Feng Xin pauses with his hands at his waist and looks up at him.
“Here, let me,” Mu Qing surprises Feng Xin when his hands move to smooth down Feng Xin’s collar. “Sometimes, I still wonder why I had to be stuck with you out of everyone.”
“You’re not the only one.” Feng Xin doesn’t tell him that there are worse people to spend a millennium with. He is sure Mu Qing already knows that.
“And yet, it’s been eight hundred years and we still share territory,” Mu Qing’s hands linger on Feng Xin’s shoulders, “I think this is enough proof that we’re meant to stay together through thick and thin.”
“Sounds good to me,” Feng Xin replies, feeling a smile tugging at his lips.
Mu Qing barely has enough time to roll his eyes before Feng Xin kisses him.
It’s an impulse, just a soft brush of lips that leaves both of them breathless, but it’s more than Feng Xin ever expected to accomplish.
Mu Qing is the first one who takes a step back, sliding his fingertips one last time over Feng Xin's collar. He licks his lips, but doesn’t look displeased about the kiss.
“So, how do I look?” Feng Xin asks.
“Not as bad as before.”
Mu Qing finally lowers his arms and goes to retrieve the chest to place it back where it belongs, hidden from everyone who doesn’t know where to find it.
In the meantime, Feng Xin walks to the window and notices a lonely Blessing Lantern lighting up the dark heavenly sky, most likely the first one of the night for the Rain Master.
“It seems The Battle of the Lanterns has just started.” Mu Qing mentions, joining him.
“Do you think it’s too evident we’re not there yet?”
Mu Qing shrugs at the question.
“They are probably thinking we are still too busy killing each other to attend.”
Feng Xin chuckles because they were rolling on the grass and exchanging blows not long ago.
“This is nicer than fighting,” Feng Xin’s fingers reach for Mu Qing’s hand.
“For once, you’re not wrong.” Mu Qing accepts his touch as more lanterns illuminate the sky.