Chapter Text
Alright.
Mu Qing had had… enough.
He was going to go for a walk… later. Maybe send some greetings to other gods, but New Year's was always the day with the most prayers to answer.
Tonight, there was a mortal festival, because it was the night before New Year's, you see. There’d be bright red decorations, gold glittering, and the loud drumming that scared the shit out of the kids.
Soon.
It had been months, since the incident, and now Xie Lian had fully recovered.
He was happy, so happy…
Knock knock.
“Come in.” Mu Qing said, shutting his thoughts abruptly.
And so he lifted his head, and saw…
That bitchass Hua Cheng.
“Long time no see,” he said, the ghost of a smirk on his lips. He was in those infuriatingly vibrant robes of red, the silver vambraces and accessories jingling with every slight movement… “But I’d rather not see you. I see you’ve made no progress.”
What the hell was he saying?
Mu Qing stood from his low table, wincing as his back protested from the day of work, and pointed to the formidable pile of answered prayers.
“What the fuck do you mean, Crimson Rain?” he hissed, “Way to greet someone—I’ve been doing work for hours—are you just here to call me inefficient? Because—”
Hua Cheng held up a single hand. The gesture was infuriatingly casual, yet it somehow carved the air between them, stopping Mu Qing cold.
“Because,” Hua Cheng continued, his eye gleaming, “You are inefficient, aren’t you?”
Mu Qing rolled his eyes.
Hua Cheng’s smirk deepened.
“Have you not seen me… wander through the halls?” he said again, the pause deliberate, implying a stupidity so profound it was almost impressive. But Mu Qing hadn’t seen anyone roam the halls? Not one—
And Hua Cheng raised an eyebrow, “Aren’t you aware of my... abilities?” he prompted, “For example…”
He pointed to his chest, where a silver butterfly sat.
“Honestly, your… condition on that day was pretty depressing, bleeding all over the place, staining gege’s walls…”
Shit.
Shit, shit, shit.
“I wasn’t—”
“You so were.”
This kid.
Was seriously pissing him off.
“You know, the progress I was talking about was also not only about…. your work, or your futile mission to find me.”
Mu Qing looked up again, rubbing his temples where a headache was firmly taking root.
“Then what.”
And Hua Cheng just laughed—a low, knowing sound.
“I have to go see gege. And apologise first. And only then will you stop being as dumb as a rock… just like your other amazing ‘friend’. I honestly think gege is just there to save your asses."
Fuck Hua Cheng and his games.
What was he talking about?
It seemed like he was talking about everything and nothing all at once, speaking in riddles, being utterly useless and yet—and yet Mu Qing was shackled to listen to all this stalling and bullshit.
With a final, searing glare, Mu Qing had no choice but to step out, letting this… kid tag along, knowing damn well that he was Xie Lian’s lover and basically jingling like a fucking alarm that screamed, ‘look at me!’.
The crisp cold did not help either.
Ugh.
Feng Xin would have punched him by now.
…
Why…
(Xie Lian’s private room, with Feng Xin at the low table.)
“Feng Xin?”
“Yeah?”
“Have you seen Mu Qing today?”
…
“No, I haven’t… why?”
Xie Lian smiled, with the quiet, knowing glint in his eye, again.
“Oh, I know… it just seemed as though Mu Qing looked quite… flushed, after leaving your supervision. I’m just a bit worried he’d be sick or something.” he said, “And you know how he gets. Especially in this weather.”
Outside, sparse snowflakes drifted past the window. A nice day, if not for the faint chill. Mu Qing getting sick in this weather? Highly unlikely.
“I don’t think—” he began, then paused.
‘Flushed.’
So that was what this was about.
And Mu Qing trudged through the snow, stopping before a familiar door, the wood grain worn smooth. He didn’t look at the ghost beside him.
“He’s in there. Do… whatever you have to.”
He made to leave, but a single, amused syllable stopped him.
“Oh?”
Mu Qing turned, patience frayed to its last thread.
Hua Cheng’s expression had softened, the mockery replaced by something unnervingly direct.
“You know, I didn’t choose to visit you first for no reason.”
“Then what, am I supposed to ask you why?”
That goddamned smirk returned, but it was different. Smaller. Almost… sincere. More smile than smirk, maybe.
“I actually wanted to… thank you. For taking care of gege while I was gone. And I want to know what exactly you took care of so that I can repay you equally.”
Now that… was anything but what Mu Qing had expected. The acknowledgement, however grudging, landed like a physical blow. He defaulted to defense.
“I’m not poor—”
“I know.”
He gritted his teeth, the words forced out.
“He was mainly unstable in his mental state and refused to heal himself and such and such, and guess who caused it? You.”
“I am well aware of—”
“So go inside and do whatever. If I need to know anything, I’ll get to it eventually.”
And he trudged back down the hall, the snow crunching under his boots.
Asshole.
Inside the room, Xie Lian heard it. Faint at first, then unmistakable. The soft, rhythmic jingle of silver.
His heart, a traitorous, hopeful thing, leapt into his throat.
Please be him.
Please come back.
He knew better than to hold such hopes. Hope was a dangerous, splintered thing.
But this sound—
“San Lang?”
…
The door slid open.
And there he was. Not a phantom or a whisper, but in solid, glorious truth. His real form, in glamorous robes of red adorned with silver, a splash of life against the muted room, his eye wide and fixed only on Xie Lian.
“San Lang!”
The call was a sob, a prayer, a release. Xie Lian was across the room in an instant, not as a god, but as a man falling into the only harbour that mattered. Then he collided with him, arms wrapping around his neck, face burying itself in the familiar scent of frost and ghost-fire.
He’d missed him so much—so much…
He was shaking.
“You’re… back, you really—you really came back…”
Tears, hot and unstoppable, soaked into crimson silk. Hua Cheng’s arms came around him, one hand gently cradling the back of Xie Lian’s head.
“Yes, gege,” he murmured, voice roughened, his own composure cracking, “I came back. I will always come back.”
His other hand traced slow, soothing circles on Xie Lian’s back, a silent promise etched into the fabric.
The crying gradually subsided into hiccupping breaths.
“You.”
The single word was a thunderclap. Feng Xin, forgotten in the corner, stood with his fist clenched, eyebrow twitching.
His Highness was happy.
But the memory of Xie Lian’s silent agony in those months of fragile, forced smiles…
...
He was still glad for Hua Cheng’s return. Of course he was.
“Me.”
Oh, and he still had the audacity to fucking answer.
“Do you know how much you’ve done?” Feng Xin hissed, “How can you just swoop in and—”
“Feng Xin…” Xie Lian interrupted, smiling, dabbing away the tears, “It’s New Year's Eve. Be nice.”
And like an idiot, Feng Xin backed off.
Whatever.
He wouldn’t—couldn’t—do anything with His Highness as defence.
“Yeah. Be nice.” Hua Cheng said, “Even your rival was being tolerant this morning.”
…
How did Mu Qing see Hua Cheng before Xie Lian did?
How did Hua Cheng see Mu Qing before he did?
What was going on with the world today?
Everything should be fine.
It was quiet, boring, and Mu Qing did crave for a little bit of a commotion.
And then came Feng Xin, bursting through the door.
…?
“What do you want?” he said.
Feng Xin walked in, and sat on a chair in the room.
“Crimson Rain’s back.”
“I know.”
“I know that you know, goddamn it—”
…???
“So in what way does that justify you barging into my private room? I could get someone to drag you out, you know—”
“Oh shut up, this isn’t your fucking palace,” Feng Xin said, searching the room for… a drink, probably.
So, even they were too sappy for him, huh.
“Wine’s not here, by the way.”
Feng Xin blinked in confusion.
“Yeah, I’m aware…? Just… searching for the ghost’s butterflies. Always watching, really creepy, actually.”
Oh.
Oh.
No wonder Hua Cheng had seen him like that.
“So you’re here with no reason but to seek refuge from…”
“Shut up.”
“Fuck no, you’re in my room.”
“Your point being? I’ve seen you undressed, crying, happy—why does that matter?”
…
Mu Qing stared at him. The words, so casually brutal in their honesty, hung in the air. Feng Xin wasn’t here to fight or to spy.
He was just… here.
“Whatever.” Mu Qing grumbled, “The good wine’s in the cabinet.”
“So you do have—”
“Shut up.”
After a while, Feng Xin managed to pour himself a glass.
It tasted familiar.
“Did Xie Lian keep this?” he said, “I thought…”
“Hm?” Mu Qing turned, and looked over at the cup. It was filled with a blood-like liquid, with a gold shimmer clinging to the surface.
…
Oh, shit…
It was that cherry wine.
“Is that…”
“Tastes like it, at least.” Feng Xin laughed, “Still remember making it.”
…
Mu Qing felt the ghost of a smile twitch at his lips.
“Are you drunk?”
Feng Xin paused, then blinked at him again, “Fuck no, I’m not a lightweight like you…”
Mu Qing rolled his eyes. “Then stop talking nonsense about hundred-year-old cherry wine.”
Feng Xin stared into his cup, the gold shimmer catching the dim light. The silence stretched, but it was the comfortable kind, filled with the memory of a simpler time—moonlight streaming through leaves, the scent of crushed fruit, a fallen prince’s laughter.
Then Feng Xin scowled, as if the memory physically pained him. “It’s too quiet in here.”
“It was perfectly quiet until you barged in.”
“No, I mean—” Feng Xin gestured violently with his cup, sloshing the wine. “Out there. In the heavens. Everyone’s celebrating or working or… coupling. It’s fucking New Year’s Eve. Don’t you have anything better to do than sit here and watch me drink?”
Mu Qing raised an eyebrow. “You’re the one in my room, drinking my wine.”
“Exactly!” Feng Xin set the cup down with a definitive thud. “So let’s go. To the mortal festival. The drums are loud enough to drown out any… thoughts.” He didn’t specify whose thoughts, or about whom. He didn’t need to.
…
Mu Qing just… stared at him.
“Are you inviting me?”
“I’m telling you,” Feng Xin corrected, already standing up. “You’re clearly not doing anything useful. And I’m not sitting through another minute of… whatever that is.” He jerked his index finger in the general direction of Xie Lian’s palace.
“So are you coming or not?”
…
“Now? Or…”
“No? I’m still tipsy, and shit happens when I’m tipsy.” he muttered. Then came a crash from the kitchen, sounding suspiciously like Xie Lian’s attempt at cooking.
“I’ll check on that first. You…” he glanced back at Mu Qing, “You do whatever. I’ll see you later.”
…
Oh.
The door slid shut behind him, leaving Mu Qing alone in the sudden, echoing silence. Again.
...
Later.
Feng Xin had said later. As if it were a given. As if Mu Qing would just… be waiting.
“Who does he think he is?” Mu Qing muttered to the empty room, his voice lacking its usual bite. He stared at the spot where Feng Xin had been sitting, at the half-empty cup of cherry wine.
The ghost of their shared past seemed to linger in the air, sweet and cloying.
He should stay. He had prayers to answer. He had dignity and a reputation to uphold.
He was Xuan Zhen Zhen Jun, not some… festival-goer to be summoned at another god’s whims.
He stood up abruptly, the movement too sharp. His heart was doing a strange, traitorous thing against his ribs—a frantic, fluttery rhythm that felt nothing like the steady, icy composure he prided himself on.
It’s just to get out of this place, he told himself firmly, beginning to pace. To escape the… the atmosphere. It had nothing to do with him.
It was to avoid the stupid Ghost King.
But then a treacherous, vivid image flashed in his mind: Feng Xin under the festival lanterns, the warm glow painting his stupid, earnest face in gold and red. Laughing, maybe. Looking at—
No.
Mu Qing stopped pacing, pressing the heels of his hands into his closed eyes, feeling the… the heat from his burning cheeks…
This was ridiculous.
He was being absolutely ridiculous.
He walked to his wardrobe—or the temporary one that had been made purely for his short stay in the mortal realm—his steps slightly too quick.
He flung it open, and a cascade of black, blue, and pristine white robes met his gaze—his usual palette.
Too formal. You’ll look like you’re on duty.
Wasn’t he… sort of ‘on duty’, anyway?
Whatever, this was a…
…
Too plain. You’ll look like you didn’t try.
But he wasn’t meant to try anyway.
…
Since when do you care how you look for Feng Xin, of all people, you absolute—
He cursed under his breath, fingers skimming over the fabrics. Finally he snatched a set of robes he rarely wore. The inner layers were white, and it was primarily this smoky grey on the outside, with silver embroidery that was more subtle, tracing the hems like… frost on stone.
It was understated.
It was fine.
It wasn’t like he was choosing it for any particular reason.
He changed swiftly, the cool silky fabric settling against his skin. Then he stood before his bronze mirror.
His reflection stared back, hair slightly mussed from the day, a faint, uncharacteristically uncertain look in his eyes. He scowled at it.
Pathetic.
With sharp, efficient motions, he re-tied his high ponytail, ensuring every hair was ruthlessly in place. He straightened the collar of his robes, brushed an invisible speck of dust from his sleeve.
He looked… the same as always. Just… different.
It’s fine. It’s nothing.
He turned away from the mirror, then turned back. His gaze fell on a simple silver hairpin, one of… many.
He picked it up, weighed it in his palm.
It was plain. Functional.
With a huff of self-disgust, he stabbed it through his guan anyway, replacing the… usual one. Then he immediately considered pulling it out.
It’s too much.
He’ll notice.
He’ll… say something stupid.
A part of him wanted him to notice.
To say that… ‘something’.
Pulling it out would mean admitting he’d put it in for a reason. So it stayed.
He was meant to look presentable for… the mortals, anyway. But he knew damn well he wouldn’t be seeing any tonight—or at least, they couldn’t see him. A god. But he still had to. Just in case.
And then for the sheer mask that covered half his face. So the mortals don’t recognise him. It’d work. Surely.
He was ready.
He looked perfectly normal. Composed. Aloof.
So why…
Why did his stomach feel like a knot of agitated butterflies?
Why was he mentally rehearsing casual, scathing replies to comments Feng Xin hadn’t even made yet?
“Get a grip,” he hissed at his reflection. The man in the mirror looked just as flustered as he… absolutely wasn’t.
He took a deep, steading breath, forcing his expression into one of cool indifference. Xuan Zhen did not get flustered.
He did not preen.
And he certainly did not have a minor internal crisis over a simple, annoyance-driven outing with an eight-century-long… rival.
Satisfies, he gave a final, curt nod to his reflection.
Then he immediately smoothed down the front of his robes one more time.
Just in case.
He stepped out into the corridor, the cold air a slap of clarity. The distant, thunderous pulse of mortal drums had begun, maybe a few streets away from their own little home.
Boom.
Boom.
Boom.
A relentless heartbeat for the dying year, soon to end.
He left, realising Hua Cheng and Xie Lian had left already, then walked… slowly.
Still room to turn back.
To refuse the offer.
It wasn’t even a—
…
But he crossed a few more lantern-lit streets, a tapestry of firelight and movement, a swirling, noisy antithesis to the sterile quiet of his room…
And there, already waiting, silhouetted against the glow, was Feng Xin.
He hated how this view was almost exactly as he had imagined…
Feng Xin had changed too, out of his formal robes and armour. He was wearing simpler, darker robes, edged with… gold.
He looked less like a monument and more like a man, and he held a cup, already half-filled. Probably from some random bar around the corner.
“Took you long enough,” Feng Xin said, pouring a clear liquid that smelled of plum and winter—so… potent… “Thought you’d chickened out.”
“I don’t ‘chicken out’,” Mu Qing sniffed, coming to stand beside him, careful to leave a precise… respectful foot of space between them. “I was finishing my work. Unlike some people, wandering around in the mortal realm like they’re one of them—”
“Um, you good?” Feng Xin said, “You’re… talking a lot more than you… used to.” Then he turned to watch for his reaction, then waved his hand apologetically, “Not that it’s a bad thing—just… ugh.”
…
“You can’t drink, can you?” Feng Xin said, after a while.
“I—”
“Waiter!” he called, “Is there something non alcoholic?”
…
“Feng. Xin—” Mu Qing hissed—
The waiter, a very strange man with a butterfly hair accessory on this occasion, smiling, gave him a cup of… cherry juice.
Wait a minute—
…
Feng Xin handed him the cup.
Their fingers brushed.
A spark, static or spiritual, leapt between them.
Mu Qing ignored it, focused on the drink. It was cherry juice, made with normal cherries unlike those bitter ones Feng Xin had picked… that day…
It was sweet.
It was New Year’s.
It was a drink for luck.
Then Feng Xin lifted his cup to the light.
“To new beginnings,” Feng Xin said, his voice oddly formal, “And a clean slate.” He didn’t look at Mu Qing as he said it. He looked at the festival in front of them, on the streets.
Mu Qing’s throat tightened. A clean slate.
Was such a thing even possible with eight hundred years of graffiti etched upon it? He tipped the cup back.
The juice was cool on his tongue. It would stain his lips.
It tasted like possibility. It tasted terrifying.
“Come on,” Feng Xin said, draining his own cup. “The bell’s about to toll.”
And maybe he was finally a bit tipsy, because Mu Qing felt a warm, calloused hand wrap around his wrist, and drag him to the main festival road, where they stood like normal mortals, in awe of the lights despite seeing many more impressive.
The noise immediately swallowed them—a cacophony of laughter, shrieking children, vendors hawking sweets, and the ever-present boom of the great drum. The air was thick with the smell of sizzling food, gunpowder, and the faint floral scent from the perfume around them.
It was chaos. It was alive.
For a while, they just stood there.
Then they began to walk after it got a bit too loud.
They didn’t speak.
The crowd jostled them, sometimes forcing Feng Xin’s shoulder against Mu Qing’s, sometimes pulling them apart. They bought nothing, played no games, and just simply… existed in the whirlpool of mortal joy, two immutable stones creating a pocket of tense, shared silence.
Even though they were… constantly moving, Mu Qing saw the coupling as previously mentioned by Feng Xin, everywhere.
Hands linked, sharing skewers of tanghulu, leaning close to speak over the din.
He saw an old man gently tuck a stray hair behind his wife’s ear.
He saw a young pair, drunk on rice wine and each other, steal a kiss behind a stall.
His own lips felt strangely cold.
From the juice, of course.
Feng Xin seemed to be following the same invisible trail of couples. His jaw was set, his brows drawn. He wasn’t scowling at the happiness around them, he was… studying it, as if it were a complex battle formation he couldn’t quite breach.
They found themselves strolling towards the top of a small hill, away from the densest crowds, where the lanterns lit up the sky, accompanying the cool light of the moon and the stars.
It was quieter here, more shaded, and it was private.
They saw a great bell tower in the middle of little town. There was a bell hung above in its pavilion, waiting for midnight.
“Still afraid of bell towers?” Feng Xin teased. He was referencing His Highness’s last ascension.
“Shush—the bell’s about to go…” Mu Qing replied, thankful for the mask that covered his cheeks.
The view of the festival was perfect here—a sea of light and noise held at a manageable distance.
The drumming reached a fever pitch, though it wasn’t as loud here. Then the chanting began, a thousand voices rising as one.
“Ten! Nine! Eight!”
…
Feng Xin turned to him. The coloured lantern light painted his face in shifting hues—red, then gold.
Just like his imagination.
Feng Xin, right now, was quite literally the ‘man of his dreams’.
His expression was unreadable, but his eyes were fixed on Mu Qing with an intensity that stole the air from Mu Qing’s lungs.
Suddenly the sheer mask felt heavy and stifling.
Mu Qing took it off.
“Seven! Six! Five!”
“Mu Qing,” Feng Xin said. His voice didn’t try to compete with the distant roar. It cut underneath it, quiet and devastatingly clear.
It was quiet here, you know?
Though now, Mu Qing heard his heartbeat.
“Four!”
Mu Qing turned. “What?”
“Three!”
Feng Xin didn’t answer with words. He lifted his hand.
It was steady.
It was sure.
He cupped Mu Qing’s jaw, his touch not hesitant but deliberate, his thumb coming to rest with infinite, agonising care against the centre of Mu Qing’s lower lip.
The touch was a brand. A barrier. A question written in fire against his skin:
May I?
…
“Two!”
Mu Qing’s world shrank to that single point of contact—the rough pad of Feng Xin’s thumb, the warmth, the pressure that was both restraint and promise.
He saw the reverence in Feng Xin’s eyes, the stupid, painful respect.
He saw the ghost of the boy who had offered him a sobering draught and had his heart broken by a note.
“One!”
…
Mu Qing made his choice.
His own hand came up, covering Feng Xin’s where it held his face. Not to pull it away.
But to slide it slightly off centre.
Then, without breaking that searing eye contact, he tilted his head—and pressed a soft, deliberate kiss directly against Feng Xin’s lips.
BOOM!
The great bell tolled, shaking the earth.
It was Mu Qing’s first kiss, so he really didn’t know anything after that—
Luckily…
Feng Xin kissed back, and Mu Qing could feel the smile curling on his lips, as he began to… guide him.
Fireworks burst into the sky, sprinkling more colours amongst the stars, as if the heavens had blessed the lanterns below, blessed the land, blessed the people for their own new beginnings.
The crowd’s cheer was a physical wave of sound.
But in their pocket of space, there was only the shock of contact, the soft gasp shared between their mouths.
Another hand came to rest on the back of his head.
They broke apart, inches between them.
Feng Xin was frozen, his eyes wide with pure, world-altering shock. The fireworks reflected in those amber eyes…
Beautiful.
“You…” he breathed, the word raw, “Your… your cultivation…”
Mu Qing looked at him—flushed, lips tingling, his own carefully reconstructed spiritual foundations feeling suddenly, wonderfully fragile. He hadn’t felt the snap of his energy breaking like with wine, or that his soul was being ripped out of his body.
He felt… dizzy. Light.
So Feng Xin’s hand from his face moved to his waist to steady him.
His cultivation was just… fragile.
But then again, kissing a god would be different to earthly desires, maybe.
Or he was just finding reasons to justify his… actions.
A slow, familiar smirk touched his mouth, but it was new.
Softer.
Triumphant.
“Mn,” he said, as if acknowledging a minor spill. “So you’ll have to fix it for me, then.”
Silence.
The words hung between them, not as a loss, but as a transaction.
The shock in Feng Xin’s eyes melted, replaced by a dawning understanding.
Protectiveness.
He let out a shaky breath that was half a laugh, half a sob.
“Yeah,” he said, his voice thick. “Okay.”
His hands came up again, this time not with a question, but with an answer. He framed Mu Qing’s face with a certainty that felt like destiny. “Hold still.”
This kiss was nothing like the first.
Feng Xin’s mouth sealed over his own with a focus that was almost reverent. And then it came.
He had channelled energy from his core into his lips.
It was… a current, of relief.
A flood of pure, golden spiritual energy—warm as the firelight, steady as a heartbeat—poured from Feng Xin’s lips to Mu Qing’s.
And Mu Qing couldn’t help but gasp, his eyes flying wide. He’d experienced energy transfers before—when Feng Xin had given him some when he had treated his injuries and monitored his recovery.
This was different.
This was invasive.
This was intimate.
It was Feng Xin pouring the very core of his martial godhood into the deliberate hollow Mu Qing had just carved open. The energy didn’t just fill him, it braced him, coiling around his own spiritual core like reforged armour, strong and stubborn and… infuriatingly loyal.
Feng Xin held the kiss, sustaining the flow, his hands firm anchors. It was an act of profound possession and even more profound giving.
When he finally broke away—slowly, leaving a final trace of warmth on Mu Qing’s lip—they were both breathing heavily.
Mu Qing swayed, not from weakness, but from the weight of it. The energy. The new energy thrummed under his skin, a lie wire harmonising with his own. He looked at Feng Xin, his usual composure shattered into awe
Feng Xin was watching him, his own energy slightly diminished, but his eyes were blazing.
“There,” he said, voice rough, “First repair. Consider it a down payment.”
Mu Qing touched his own lips. A real, unguarded smile broke across his face.
“Your technique,” he murmured, voice husky with transferred power, “is still inefficient. You wasted at least thirty percent in the transfer.”
Feng Xin laughed, the sound matching with the joy of the festival. He leaned his forehead against Mu Qing’s.
“Then you’d better stick around,” he whispered, “and show me how to do it properly. It’s going to take a lot of sessions to fix this mess.”
…
“Annoying,” Mu Qing whispered back, but he was always tilting his chin up, his eyes drifting shut.
Feng Xin didn’t kiss him again.
Not yet.
Instead, he brought that same thumb up and, with a tenderness that felt world-breaking, shooed away a little glittering butterfly from Mu Qing’s hair.
Below them, mortals cheered, embracing their new beginning.
Feng Xin simply slid his hand down and laced his fingers with Mu Qing’s. Their palms pressed together, warm and solid.
A new circuit.
A new foundation.
And they sat there, watching as the mortals began to leave, and watched the few people stay, watched some clean up the confetti, clean up all the messes…
The first dawn of the new year began to bleed light into the sky.
Mu Qing looked at their joined hands, then up at Feng Xin.
He didn’t pull away.
Finally, he was staying.
…
Back in the small room of their mortal residence, Xie Lian changed out of that altered form.
The waiter’s uniform wasn’t very comfortable. It was scratchy, stifling, and somehow more bare than his white cultivator robes. But it was worth it.
Hua Cheng replayed the moment again, from the butterfly’s recording, and smirked at his gege.
“Took them long enough,” he said.
Xie Lian smiled, leaning into his husband, and thought of cherry wine and crossed-out lines, of a single word:
Decent.
Well?
“They weren’t late, San Lang,” he said softly. “They were right on time.”
This festival, the mark of a new year…
Was much more than just ‘decent’.