Chapter Text
“Pei Ming!” Feng Xin called from the kitchen, voice echoing through their apartment. He sounded frantic. Scared. Pei Ming raced from his study, skidding on the hard wood floors to stop in front of his soul mate. Feng Xin was doubled over, staring at the dark mark standing proud on his skin.
Pei Ming stared down at the mark on his wrist. Feng Xin had long since taken to covering his soul marks with bracers, though he’d shifted to cuffs now that armor had fallen out of style. The one on his left was familiar. A shattered sword drawn in smooth, simple lines. The mark that had followed Pei Ming from Xuli all the way to the Heavens, and now down into the modern day. Though, only Feng Xin had had his mark in the last millennium.
The one on his right wrist, though, was new. Well, not new, exactly. The clean lines of the blooming cherry blossoms drifting from the branch were well known to Pei Ming. He’d traced them every night before going to sleep, following the scarred mark to Feng Xin’s pulse that had beat unerringly for thousands of years.
Now, though, the lines were dark and thick. Blooming under the fluorescent light of the kitchen overhead. Alive.
“Holy shit,” he breathed, pulling Feng Xin’s wrist closer to him. The lines twisted with the skin as he rotated Feng Xin’s arm this way and that. But no. The tattoo was there. The tattoo was real. The mark of a living, breathing soul mate.
“I don’t—” Feng Xin stuttered. He’d gone pale, the deep tan of his skin washed grey and wan. Pei Ming jolted into action as his knees buckled, sending him careening into Pei Ming’s arms. “How?”
“Let’s call Xie Lian,” he said, herding Feng Xin over to their breakfast table. He sat down gratefully, still thumbing over the mark on his wrist. Pei Ming brushed a hand over his hair, closing his eyes at the realization that somewhere, somehow, Mu Qing was alive.
‘Xie Lian?’ he asked, pressing his fingers to his temple. Feng Xin mostly focused on breathing, but he was listening. The silenced echoed out between them, made louder by the impatience squeezing Pei Ming’s chest.
‘Ah, yes, Pei Ming?’ came Xie Lian’s reply, distracted and quiet. Crimson Rain was no doubt nearby, and it was early enough on a Saturday that they had probably been enjoying themselves. ‘How can I help you?’
‘Mu Qing is alive.’
Xie Lian was at their door in less than an instant, Hua Cheng close behind him. They hadn’t changed much in the millennia since Jun Wu had been defeated and Mu Qing had been swallowed by the mountain. Hua Cheng stood tall, no longer hiding behind the skin of a rich young master when venturing out with Xie Lian. Xie Lian still wore white, and tended towards robes more often that not, but even he adapted to the times when needed.
“Feng Xin!” Xie Lian called, dropping to his knees before him. The clean lines of his slacks would be creased by kneeling, but he’d never cared for things like that. Pei Ming stayed back, meandering to the kitchen to pour them glasses of water while Feng Xin’s choked response filtered through the air.
“Mu Qing,” he said. His voice cracked through the middle. It sounded like he’d been screaming. He sounded exactly as he had when he and Xie Lian had returned to Mount Tacaing, Mu Qing gone, and Jun Wu buried under a mountain. “… he’s alive.”
“How do you know?” Xie Lian asked, voice low and gentle. His gasp when Feng Xin showed him the soul mark was anything but. After a long moment, Crimson Rain joined him in the kitchen, leaning against the far counter and fiddling with the string tied to his finger.
Hua Cheng and Xie Lian weren’t soul mates. Ghosts weren’t able to form soul bonds. Their soul in its entirety was taken up by their reason for living. Even Ghost Kings couldn’t escape the bounds of their existence.
They made it work, though.
Two rings and a tattoo were enough for them. If Hua Cheng had been alive, there was no doubt who his soul mate would have been. Pei Ming sometimes wished he understood that type of devotion, but he doubted Feng Xin would appreciate the fanatical worship Hua Cheng gave to his God.
His hands shook while he poured them water. Unsteady, he set the pitcher down too hard. The plastic cracked against the counter, not made to withstand the strength of a Martial God, and water splashed across the granite and down to the linoleum floor.
“Fuck,” he muttered, stepping back to keep his socks dry. He tore the towel from its ring, dropping it to the counter to sop up the water. It was fine. It was fine! It was just a pitcher. He could buy a new one anytime he wanted.
“What’s your problem?” Hua Cheng asked, acerbic as ever. For as smooth as he was with Xie Lian, he’d never quite warmed up to the other Gods. Quan Yizhen was the only one he tolerated, and that was only because he never left Yin Yu’s side. “This is good news, isn’t it?”
Pei Ming paused. After a moment, he sighed, hanging his head low. The words clawed at his throat. All the little things he’d never said, and all the goodness he took for granted that shouldn’t have been his in the first place. “I’m not his soul mate.”
“No, you’re not, and he is,” Hua Cheng said easily, sounding bored. Pei Ming knew him, though, far better than he cared to admit. A thousand years of close contact would do that to someone. “You want to be, though.”
Pei Ming nodded, mouth dry. He’d loved many people throughout his long life. Both up close and from afar. Mu Qing and Feng Xin had been a packaged deal, and he hadn’t been afraid of that. In eight hundred years, he hadn’t worked up the courage to confront them, and for the past millennia he’d thought his chances of loving both of them burnt to ash.
He was happy with Feng Xin. He couldn’t imagine a life without him. It had taken them centuries to figure it out, Feng Xin too lost in his grief and his guilt to care about anything else, but… they’d built a life for themselves.
Heaven was long gone. The gods didn’t have much more power than a mortal, with their believers few and far between. They were still here, though, still living despite it all. They didn’t need Heaven if they had each other.
Still. Pei Ming couldn’t help the knowledge that if Mu Qing hadn’t died, none of this would have been his.
“Gods are exempt from the reincarnation cycle,” Hua Cheng said, low enough that Xie Lian and Feng Xin wouldn’t be able to hear him. Pei Ming glanced at them anyways. They sat close together, foreheads pressed together with Xie Lian still on his knees. They were murmuring… something. Pei Ming refused to wonder what. “Given that the mark isn’t scarred, we know it’s him, but… how?”
Pei Ming sighed, dropping his face into his hands. “I don’t know. It’s… It’s a miracle, isn’t it? Why should be question it?”
“In my experience,” Hua Cheng said slowly, like he was talking to a moron. Or imparting some great wisdom. “Miracles are few and far between. It’s not likely that this will come without a cost.”
“Yeah,” Pei Ming said, letting his gaze wander to the small shrine they’d set up in the alcove next to their balcony. Rice and incense, oranges, faded portraits of a familiar face. Pei Ming couldn’t remember the exact cadence of his voice. The color of his eyes. How his smile looked when he’d gotten one over on another God. When he’d first realized that his memories of Mu Qing were fading, centuries and decades ago, he’d lost himself to his grief. Now, the ache was worn. Familiar. “I know.”
Pei Ming left Feng Xin and Xie Lian alone. They, alone, knew the shape of each other’s grief. While they wouldn’t say it, Pei Ming could tell when they didn’t appreciate an audience. He found his way to his study, collapsing in the creaky desk chair he’d been meaning to replace. A few taps of the keyboard, and he’d found what he was looking for.
“Social media?” Hua Cheng asked, following him quietly. He tilted his head to see both screens, scanning through the list of names that had popped up. “How many Mu Qing’s are there?”
“A lot, apparently,” he grumbled, rubbing his hand over his forehead. He liked social media, for all he was a private person. It was mostly used to show Feng Xin off to the world. And to snoop into the lives of people he found interesting. He wasn’t… unaware of how it could be used against someone. “That might not even be his name.”
“He might not even have social media,” Hua Cheng said, leaning a hip onto the desk. He still jingled when he moved, though he’d left the boots at the entryway. “The mark just darkened, right? We might be looking for a newborn.”
“Fuck,” Pei Ming swore, glaring at the Ghost King. “Don’t say that. I don’t think Feng Xin or Xie Lian could last another decade or two before finding him.”
Hua Cheng hummed, which was as close to agreement as he was probably going to get. He scrolled through the pages until his eyes blurred, switching between every social media site he could think of. Too many people, none of them the right one.
“Pei Ming?” Feng Xin called out, after… some amount of time. Pei Ming glanced at the clock. Shit. Hours. He shoved away from the computer, following Hua Cheng out of the room and back into their kitchen.
Feng Xin looked… bad. Terrible. Pei Ming hadn’t seen him look that bad in decades. He was worn and stretched thin, like he was too big for his body. Pei Ming pulled him into a hug before he could think it through. Something tight and aching loosened in his chest when Feng Xin melted into it, pulling him in further to bury his face in Pei Ming’s stomach.
“We’re going to head out,” Xie Lian said, smiling wearily up at Hua Cheng. The Ghost King tucked himself behind Xie Lian, pressing a gentle kiss to his temple. “We can start looking for him. The butterflies will be a good place to start, right?”
“They’re all yours, gege,” Hua Cheng said, nodding decisively. “Yin Yu will be back in the country in a few days, he can start doing more investigations then.”
“Ah, San Lang, don’t cut Yin Yu’s vacation short,” Xie Lian said, patting his husband’s hands patiently. “He hasn’t gotten a break in so long. We can manage until he gets back. Mu Qing isn’t going anywhere.”
“Yin Yu’s already had a week,” Hua Cheng said, smiling down at Xie Lian. He shook his head, saying his goodbyes kindly before pulling Hua Cheng towards the door. Crimson Rain, as usual, didn’t bother with such pleasantries.
“I don’t know if I can do this,” Feng Xin said as soon as the door closed behind them. He was still tucked into Pei Ming’s stomach, hands fisted in the back of his shirt. “I don’t— how can I face him again?”
He sighed. “Come on. Let’s lay down. There’s no use doing this in the kitchen, huh?”
Feng Xin nodded, following along quietly. He didn’t even kick off his pants before collapsing into bed. Instead, he sprawled on top of the covers, tilting enough for Pei Ming to slide in beside him. Feng Xin always fit nicely into Pei Ming’s side. He liked to rest his head on Pei Ming’s chest, where he could listen to his heartbeat for hours uninterrupted.
“What is it?” Pei Ming asked, tilting Feng Xin’s head to look at him. His eyes were red and blotchy, tears swimming around his waterline. Feng Xin never cried. Not before they lost Mu Qing, anyways. The past millennium had been hit or miss on whether he’d lash out whenever feeling emotions too big for his body or turn inwards. Like he was doing now.
Feng Xin didn’t respond. He couldn’t, sometimes, when words became too much. Now, though, he just shook in Pei Ming’s arms, his tears dripping hot onto the skin of Pei Ming’s throat. “… I lost him.”
“You tried,” Pei Ming said. That, in itself, was damning though. Pei Ming knew what it was like to lose soldiers, friends, family. Companions of several centuries. When Shi Wudu had died… he didn’t like to think about it. Too much had happened in the fallout for Pei Ming to wallow, but he’d wanted to. Unlike Feng Xin, he had the excuse of absence.
“But I failed,” he said, voice so heartbreakingly small. He folded in on himself, burrowing into the heavy knit sweater Pei Ming had made him nearly twenty years ago. The thing was a disaster — fraying and worn where the knitting was solid and falling apart at the seams where his inexperience shown through. “I was there. I was right there.”
Pei Ming shifted, laying down flat on his back and dragging Feng Xin bodily over him. It was usually the other way around, with Feng Xin serving as the comfortable mattress. When he was worked up, though, Feng Xin didn’t deal well with confinement. In his darker moments — an anniversary, a birthday, a festival — he didn’t even like to be touched. Pei Ming couldn’t say that he didn’t understand.
“Mu Qing sacrificed himself to save Xie Lian’s life. To give the rest of you enough time to stop Jun Wu. He knows you would do anything to save him.” Pei Ming paused, running a gentle hand down Feng Xin’s spine. He was good with words. Had been called charming all his life. But for real things? The things that mattered? He never seemed to find the right things to say.
Feng Xin snorted. It wasn’t a kind sound. “Does he? Mu Qing spent the last minutes of his life trying everything in his power to get away from me, because he thought I was going to attack him.”
“Mu Qing was scared and confused,” he said, going over what Xie Lian had told him over and over again. It had taken a long time to get the story from anyone. Even longer for Feng Xin to open up to him about it. “He wouldn’t have run away if he’d known you were trying to help him.”
“No,” Feng Xin said. “He was so sure that we were going to leave him to die that he just bashed his own head in so he wouldn’t burn alive in the lava.”
There… wasn’t much Pei Ming could say to that. He didn’t try. Tentatively, he wrapped his arms around Feng Xin’s waist, not relaxing until Feng Xin nodded his assent into his collarbone. It was easier to hold him than to try and relieve Feng Xin of his guilt. He looked forward to the day when Feng Xin let him carry that weight with him, instead of shouldering it all on his own.
“I love you,” he said, resting his cheek on the top of Feng Xin’s head. His hair was greasy. Stiff with fear sweat and oils from a long day. Add a little blood and ash, and they might as well have been on a battlefield. “We’ll find him. I promise you.”
Morning came slow. Pei Ming didn’t sleep, too busy staring at the tear-stained flush of Feng Xin’s cheeks. He was unfortunately pretty when he cried, and his gut soured at the thought. Pei Ming swallowed down bile, turning his eyes away to face the ceiling.
It wasn’t anything like his palace back in Heaven. Smooth and unadorned, their apartment was relatively plain. Comfortable furniture, comfortable clothes, enough space for them to practice archery and sword work whenever they pleased. Pei Ming didn’t want anything more.
Feng Xin did, though. He would never admit it, but Pei Ming knew just how much he would give to have Mu Qing back. That wound had never quite healed. Pei Ming wished there was someone he could talk to that wasn’t a God. That hadn’t been there. That wasn’t so invested. Maybe then Feng Xin could say all the things he bottled up before he exploded.
Something ugly and scarred crawled its way up his throat. Feng Xin didn’t like talking to him about it. Maybe he knew that Pei Ming was a fraud, crawling into the bed and the heart a dead man had left behind. Maybe he resented him for it. Heaven knows Pei Ming resented himself, when the contentment settled. When the happiness lasted too long.
He wasn’t strong enough to step in the way of his own happiness, though. A small part of him, so small he didn’t want to admit it existed, hoped that Mu Qing wouldn’t remember them. That they could build their relationship together from the ground up, without history and lost centuries dragging them down.
If Mu Qing didn’t remember what he and Feng Xin already had, then Pei Ming wouldn’t be left behind. Alone. Always, always alone.
But that wasn’t fair. To Mu Qing. To Feng Xin. To Xie Lian, who had grieved their loss the most. Doubled, in fact, by the loss of Hua Cheng just minutes later. If Mu Qing was back, Pei Ming wouldn’t rest until he remembered Feng Xin. Until they got their second chance, like Feng Xin had been praying for the last thousand years.
He shook his head, shoving the thoughts back into the deep, dark well they’d come from. He would deal with them later. Hopefully never, but he knew his own propensity to say the worst things at the worst time.
“You awake?” he asked, curving a hand around Feng Xin’s waist. It was a perfect fit. Pei Ming always marveled at all the ways they fit together. The breadth of Feng Xin’s shoulders and their equal height, how the callouses on their hands lined up to press against the soft skin of each other.
“Yeah,” Feng Xin said, throat wrecked. Of course, Feng Xin hadn’t slept either, but they were both very good at pretending. As Gods, they didn’t need much sleep, but unconsciousness was a nice buffer against the mind.
“Come on,” he said, pressing a kiss to Feng Xin’s forehead. He was warm. Close enough to a fever that Pei Ming frowned. Gently, he nudged Feng Xin’s face up to look into his eyes. They were clear. Still filled with guilt, but the tears were gone. “… Let’s get up. We can start looking for him after a shower, okay?”
Feng Xin nodded dully, though he didn’t make any effort to move. Pei Ming huffed out a laugh, but let it lie. If he wanted to stay in bed a little longer, that was fine. Losing an hour wouldn’t hurt. Not after a thousand years.
‘Wake up,’ Crimson Rain’s voice rang clear through the communication array. It was gentler than usual, though Pei Ming didn’t read anything into that. ‘We found him.’