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慕情 – Mù Qíng "To yearn for affection" 

Is desiring something — or  someone —what one can’t easily obtain or unsure if it will ever be obtained. "Yearning" can be associated with feelings of nostalgia, hope, or sadness, reflecting a deep-seated wish for connection, fulfillment, or change. This feeling can arise from loneliness, past experiences, or a desire for deeper connections with others.

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From an early age, Mu Qing was aware of many cruel and bitter truths.

From an early age, he had been subjected to sideways glances, punches from other children and harsh words from adults. Insults he didn't even know the meanings of, sins that weren't his doing, nouns that simply didn't fit an eight-year-old: everything came down on him like a frightening and merciless storm, driving that tiny, frail child, too skinny for normality, to crouch in on himself and quicken his pace to escape that wrath. Since childhood he had seen abominable things, heard abnormal stories.
The monstrosity of man, the inhumanity of a human being and the revolting actions of creatures calling themselves "people" reached his ears in one way or another. Children should not have to hear these stories. Children should not have to die of starvation, disease or the cruel fate that befell them when they had no parents to protect them. Children shouldn't have been there.
But this was the cruel truth of the slums of Xianle, a truth to which everyone had to bow their heads and submit with their hearts in their throats.

The slums: places where people and people crammed on top of each other to do that strange thing called living. They were dirty, filthy, those "houses" and, in the eyes of little Mu Qing, even frightening: but with his mother, everything was more bearable. During the day they were unsafe, but at night they were even less so: only the gods above their heads knew what happened to the people who mysteriously disappeared in the gloomy shadows after the sunset.
But, for that little Mu Qing, all shivering and weak, all he had to do was crouch down or cling to his mother's slightly soiled and discoloured flowered robes, and the terrors would disappear. 

At least, for a while it did.

Contracting diseases was not at all difficult: Mu Qing knew this well. Children who beat him, children he played with: some of them disappeared one day and never returned. After a certain age, he no longer even wondered why . Selfishness filled every street corner, yet many welcomed the opportunities to be and remain kind. If they stole, if they hurt, if they killed, they did it to survive and not for anything else. There was no greed for money or power, only pure survival instinct, dictated by the red madness of the mind and the blinding hunger of an empty stomach. In those places, they did not live: they survived.

Mu Qing knew this better than anyone.

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Mu Qing didn't remember his father. He didn't remember his features, his voice, his eyes or his smile. He didn't remember his height, his manners or his jokes.

He didn't know if he had ever been a father to him. If he couldn't remember anything about him, if he had no trace imprinted in his mind and heart of that man, then he hadn't been much of one.  

Mu Qing couldn't remember anything at all. So why had his absence hurt them so much? Why had his death brought them to disgrace? Why does he only remember that day, but of his father in his memories, he couldn't see anything?

He doesn't know. 

Mu Qing still doesn't know.  

He doesn't know if he had ever been fond of him.  

If he was really a good father and husband as Niang told him. 

But he did know one thing. 

Oh, of one thing he was certain: when that man was killed, in front of a crowd, in front of his wife, in front of his son, something snapped in Mu Qing. The blood. The screams, the gasps. The axe, its blade sharp and gleaming in the sunlight, that had made that revolting, raw noise as it struck the fatal blow against the flesh of his neck. A soft thud, something dark falling to the ground and then blood. Red, red, red. The trembling, the cries of his mother. The cries, the cries, the cries: everything had upset that childish, innocent soul of that child who was not understanding anything.

He wasn't understanding anything.

Why is Baba there?

Niang why are you crying?

why is everyone shouting those evil things at him?

Why, why, wh-

Oh.

But when he had felt the blow, all those mental questions had vanished. He had felt himself turn pale. Almost fainting. He stood still, silent as he was thrown into the arms of his mother's friend, as he watched her fall, kneel and cry. He stood with bated breath, eyes wide open and bile in his throat as he saw what he saw. It was a merciless event. Raw in every angle and second. Brutal, disgustingly inhuman. 

After centuries of living, for Mu Qing, that was the cruellest reminder he could ever get. After all, it was the first of many. 

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He had not even dropped four baby teeth when the real insults made their way into his life, like snakes chasing him under every circumstance possible. Frightening.

“Criminal!” a child his age threw a shard at him, a throw that didn't hit the target. 

"My Mama said you are a criminal! Criminal, criminal, criminal! Go away! I don't want to play with you! Go away, go away!" was he perhaps a friend of his? One he had before misfortune befell on his family? It didn't matter: the little childish voice screamed to get away. That child, that fellow who was as small and skinny as he was, that hungry and innocent soul who blindly followed only the words of adults, looked like an adult himself from the way he looked at him and the way he spoke. A small child who scolded and threatened almost, almost like an adult: what an ugly sight. Frightened, confused, and not wanting to give his Niang any trouble, Mu Qing stood up and did what he was shouted at in that little voice: he left.

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In the course of life, of that short but happy period with her, Mu Qing's mother taught him so many things. She talked to him about many things.

Sewing. Cooking. Taking care of some illnesses, treating a fever.
She taught him what she could, despite her ignorance and the early and very early symptoms of fragility and illness that made their way into her skinny, thin body.
For a time, Niang would invite some friends, poor and dressed in dirty rags too, and they would all sew together: Mu Qing would see, get advice as his inexperienced little hands pierced the fibers of the fabrics with the thin needle, and listen. Thinking about it, he actually liked it: with his onyx-black eyes, the tip of his tongue sticking out of his small, thin lips, he listened to those gossips as he heard with his small ears the eventual laugh of his Niang, or the sad sighs she emitted when the usual brutalities happening around were heard.
It happened when his father wasn't dead and when his mother wasn't sick.

After that, things were completely different.

Niang taught him to cook, a skill that he went on to improve more and more and became more and more vital. He was a very good cook.

Niang taught him how to take care of illnesses: hundreds of times he had found himself repeating those practices, again and again, as his mother became ill in the passage of time. He knew what to do with a fever and how to prevent a cold. He knew well what to make people eat and what not to eat; he knew how much food was essential in those times of illness.

Niang also taught him how to sing. He was good at singing: at night they would harmonise, by the faint light of a single candle, their sweet voices, with his small body pressed into his mother's warm arms. They sang a tune that his mother had told him was a family song, and every night, no matter how hungry, how cold or how dirty they felt, they sang. He was good at singing.

Over time, Niang could teach him less and less.
Over time, Niang could take care of him less and less.
Over time, Niang could talk and move less and less.

It was not long before mum fell into a bad depression.  

At first it had been a slow transition: he had only glimpsed the warmth, the light, the life leave her eyes and never returned, and the little Mu Qing simply could not understand. Perhaps he hadn't paid attention: after all, he was small. He was young. He was childish. He was innocent. 

She would stand still for hours, his Niang: she would either look out the poor little window, or stare at a crack in the dusty floor that was beside the bed. She couldn't slide out of that bed. She couldn't work. But Mu Qing simply couldn't understand. 

He didn't understand why initially those women with whom they had been sewing together until a few days before, perhaps joking, perhaps crying, were now trying to console her like that. They brought them something to eat each day, they remained in a long, mournful silence. That silence was awkward, disturbing, yet comfortable in its own way: it was a silence, a shared grief. No one spoke. No one laughed, no one cried. Only whispers behind his back that he did not understand, reassurances that his mother still had her son. They stayed like that for a few hours, taking turns until they left, only to be left again, he and his mother in an even more lonely and cold silence. He did not understand why they were so sweet until they were no more. He did not understand why their visits were so short and yet so frequent and sad until one by one they stopped visiting. 

He only understood later. 

"Qing-er" once a friend of his mother's, one of the last who had stayed till the end, put her hands on his thin shoulders. A sweet, tired smile curled up on her face. As she whispered in a voice that was trembling but as reassuring as possible. 

"Your Niang is sick, do you understand?"

Do you understand? 

"Qing-er, you must help her."

You must help her, Mu Qing.

You have to do the work now. Do you understand? Do you understand? 

"We taught you how to sew"

You must work. 

You must work. It's your turn. 

Do you understand? Do you understand? 

"If you want you can come to us - you're good for your age, I bet if you do a few jobs you could get something."

Do it or die of hunger. Of thirst. Of disease. Do you understand? Do you understand? 

From that day on, none of them came to visit them again.

Mu Qing was ten years old. 
Mu Qing started to sew people's robes around. 
Until even that wasn't enough.

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Then, Mu Qing was 12 years old.

The streets where he walks are dirty, full of misery, hatred and rubbish. Beggars sitting by walls, men and women begging, children with diseases or injuries running either for play or for life. Dirty bandages, blood, disease, dead people on the sides of the streets, putrid flesh assailed by flies - Mu Qing could have said he was used to it. The truth was that he would never get used to things like that.

But Mu Qing was 12 years old when he falled into his first real fights, when he came home with bruises on his face and blood dripping from his quivering lip.
Mu Qing was 12 years old when he threw himself into his mother's arms at night, crying for that sweet comfort, letting out loud sobs.
Mu Qing was 12 years old when his mother started to show symptoms other than depression over the death of his father. 
Mu Qing was 12 years old when her mother showed signs of an illness. 
Mu Qing was 12 years old when the money he collected in exchange for mending two rags was no longer enough.

Life was indeed an ugly beast.

His mother's condition got worse: her body was now deprived of its maternal softness, her cheekbones were clearly visible. She was gaunt, her body was constantly shaken by a hoarse, dry cough, plagued by convulsions, fragile and completely at the mercy of fate. She could walk, perhaps not as well, but at least now she could walk. She could move, and she could speak softly and in a faint voice. She no longer sang: she hadn't done so for a long time and the delicate voice was now hoarse and not as pleasant as before.  Still, her weak and so missed smiles were enough to light up Mu Qing with an inebriating warmth that embraced every part of his body, warmed every vein and artery, melted every nerve. His mother's smile was like a field of flowers in the late afternoon: beautiful, delicate and brief. Like a summer breeze, like a caress to his eyes, that smile rewarded him for every tiny finger that had been pricked by the needle, compensated for every drop of blood that had soiled the filthy floor creaking under their corroded soles. 

That weak smile, more a grimace of sad love than happiness, was better for him than the money they used to buy food.

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"Friend"

A chosen family member, a person with whom a bond of affection and trust is established, characterised by mutual support, understanding and shared experiences

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Mu Qing was 15 years old when he started working at the Palace of Xianle as a servant. 
Mu Qing was 15 years old when he met Xie Lian. The Crown Prince of Xianle. His Highness. Taizi Dianxia. 
Everyone knew him, everyone respected him, everyone loved him. And Mu Qing, of course, was no exception. After all, who didn't love the Crown Prince of Xianle? 

Everyone admired him, everyone praised his beauty, good heart and charm. Even before his first ascension, that prince was already a legend. A myth. A miracle. Poems, paintings, sculptures, musics: that young prince had uncontaminated every art form with his presence, inspired everyone, from street singers to court artists. Esteemed by the poor and the rich, by men and women, by old people and children, Xie Lian could truly call himself a prince sincerely loved by his people 

After all, if beauty, kindness and everything beautiful could have a personification, it would be Xie Lian.  

Dark, straight hair that reflected a beautiful coppery colour in the sunlight. Rose-coloured cheeks, with a slightly tanned but equally beautiful pearly skin, thin lips and brown eyes that reflected small green tones, visible only with a closer inspection. His clothes were various, they were colourful, there was not a single hole in those fabrics that surely would have been more expensive than Mu Qing himself. He wore beautiful jewellery, making his every light and elegant step a warning that bow down, Taizi Dianxia is here. His hands were smooth and delicate, his smiles bewitching. His gaze instilled calm, confidence and a deafening warmth in anyone who received it. His demeanour was friendly to whoever he was talking to, quite the opposite of the nobles Mu Qing had known or heard of. It was so beautiful. He was so beautiful. 

Mu Qing admired him, oh, he admired him: that boy about his age was a prodigy even in cultivation.  

But no matter how much Mu Qing admired Xie Lian, a part of him -the part that felt a deep-rooted resentment in the depths of his heart, the cold and sour part that he hid with a calm façade, the part that did nothing but hate and hate and hate- hissed whenever he saw him. The pageantry that surrounded Xie Lian, the pageantry that dressed him, had made Mu Qing secretly turn up his nose. 

Ever since he was a child and listened to the gossip of his Niang's friends, he had felt a particular feeling that had become more and more persistent over time and which he had gradually learned to live with:  
Envy. 

A beast with claws dripping with venom, sharp teeth tearing at flesh and guts, omnipresent and impossible to eradicate. It mauled every innocent thought, laughed grimly and sadistically when something bad happened, worse than a disease or madness itself. That's how Mu Qing saw it, the envy. That's what Mu Qing called it. 
The beast. 

He thought, especially when he had just started working for Dianxia, that nothing was fair: it wasn't fair that Xie Lian had to dress in all those eccentric clothes, with layers upon layers so thick he almost felt warm, while there were children out there freezing to death. It wasn't fair that he could sleep in a bed twice as big, if not three times as big as him, while his Niang's bed could hardly be considered one. 

It wasn't fair that he, like all the royals and those dirty nobles, could eat all of that food while Mu Qing himself was starving. While his mother was starving. While the children were starving.  

To Mu Qing, this was unacceptable. Revolting. Disgusting.  

All those excesses, all those unnecessary pomp that the royals, the riches, actually did nothing with except to show off, could have fed an entire slum. 

Mu Qing, in his heart, hated it and didn't quite know where harmless admiration merged and mingled with the brutal envy. 

Mu Qing hated him them it.

The beast sank its teeth into his heart almost to the point of blinding him, clenched it with its canines and violently tore off a bleeding piece of it. 

But what- who did he hate? 

The king? The queen? Xie Lian? The society? What he had gone through and the others didn't? The fact that while he was splitting his arms, nobles were most likely feasting on food twice their number?  

What, what did he hate? 

The injustice in the social classes? Seeing children cry from hunger? Seeing his mother suffer? 

Why, why did he hate?  

Because others were happy and he wasn't? Because he was unhappy and others weren't? Because he was alone? Because he was just a servant? Because he had no one but himself? Why, why, why? 

Why them and not him? 

But hating Xie Lian was difficult: the way he really wanted to help everyone , the way he really wanted to be kind, the way he really wanted to be human was so oh.

And Mu Qing, Mu Qing adored him for that.

And Mu Qing, Mu Qing still remembers their meeting well.

And, oh, at that moment, regretful, grieving, disgusted with himself and so, so scared, Mu Qing would have expected anything: a cutted of hand, a beating that would leave him dead, an instant killing or beheading, ending up like his vile father.

Mu Qing would have expected anything.

But, oh, the way that instead of punishing him for stealing one of his family's goods, Xie Lian had smiled and welcomed him. The way he reassured him, placing a gentle, light hand on his trembling shoulder. The way he was so terribly sincere he was almost frightening. The way he had given him a second chance. It was almost frightening for Mu Qing: he wasn't used to that kindness. He didn't know where it came from, what reason it came from, but instead of having to bury the beast, he found himself being drowned by that warm feeling with pleasure.

Who could have imagined that a person like him could become so attached to His Highness under such circumstances? Certainly not Mu Qing. 

(Xie Lian had proven to be the defender and ally of the people, Mu Qing had proven to be a "criminal" who took advantage of his compassion. 
How shameful.) 

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Mu Qing took care of his clothes, his hair, his appearance, the cleaning of his rooms and much more.

Sweeping the floor, cleaning the rooms, taking care of Taizi-Dianxia's appearance: all tasks he would have to do from morning till night. Poking his fingers and panicking to try not to soil the royal robes; mopping the floors until his back ached; cleaning until the muscles in his arms burned: all to earn that money. All to help Niang. He had been assigned a dilapidated, small room in the servants' quarters of the palace, and could visit his mother a few times a week instead of living with her. He didn't like the idea, but he knew it was the best option.

Working at the castle was tiring and exhausting, but for Mu Qing, it was worth it. At least he had a steady job, a secure job and guaranteed pay

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If on the one hand there was His Highness with his gentle, princely smile and manners, on the other was his personal guard and trusted dog: Feng Xin. 

A more-than-talented archer, with thick eyebrows often frowning in a funny frown of confusion -which if it hadn't been for the angry look that would have followed that frown, Mu Qing would have also found it cute- with tanned skin and cheeks riddled with freckles from training under the sun. His hair was always tied diligently in that high hairstyle that looked so good on him. His features were well defined, more masculine and sharp than Xie Lian's, his gaze was intense with those amber irises. His body, despite the fact that his robes were not loose but not tight either, must have been quite muscular: he was a guard, after all, and came from a family associated with the military.  

Feng Xin, to Mu Qing, had been direct from the start, his glances sharp. His amber eyes flashed with distrust and a subtle but discernible menace. He had not hesitated to try and express his mistrust of a poor guy like Mu Qing, and perhaps- Mu Qing thought some nights- Feng Xin might not have been like that if they hadn't met in a circumstance where Mu Qing was in the rotten wrong. But if the circumstances had been different - if he had never taken that jewel that could have fed him and his mother for months by not even lifting a finger, or if he had never returned it, would Mu Qing have gotten a job at the palace? Would he have gotten a steady salary? He doubted it. He decided it was better the way he was now. It didn't matter.

But Mu Qing cared. 

Mu Qing cared about those diffident glances, those tense body movements ready to snap at any moment from Feng Xin. Mu Qing cared about those whispers that Feng Xin gave to His Highness about him 

"But he's a criminal" he heard as an almost shy and confused hiss from those thin and usually silent lips speakig to Dianxia.
But Mu Qing cared about everything Feng Xin thought of him. 

Mu Qing actually did care. Even if he didn't show it. 

(But Mu Qing had hope buried in his heart underneath. Maybe things would change again. 
Maybe - just maybe - he would be able to have people to call “friends”).

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Together, the three of them formed a bizarre, almost ironically insane trio. 

Yet they seemed to work. 

Xie Lian was a ray of sunshine that sprayed light-heartedness and sweetness from every pore, but he was also able to settle matters head-on, with a solemn tone and with professionalism thanks to his authority and character. He was kind to Mu Qing and treated him well, calling him “friend”. Xie Lian trusted Feng Xin blindly. Xie Lian also trusted Mu Qing blindly. 

Xie Lian trusted Mu Qing. 

Feng Xin was a loyal companion, ready to protect in every moment and circumstance, obedient and indulging Dianxia's almost any desire. There was something incredibly warm about that amber gaze, something that made Mu Qing feel safe. There was something mysteriously reassuring in that steady gaze, in those precise and simple movements, in that broad and well-sculpted body, yet still young and ready to grow even more. It made Mu Qing feel even protected, comforted by that presence of few words but at the same time talkative. Like a mountain that endured winds, blizzards, explosions, like a rock that suffered water erosion, like a tree with a tough and resistant bark: that's how Feng Xin was. Intent on tolerating and enduring with vigour for the sake of loyalty. Of friendship.  

He was a dog, Mu Qing had always thought about him in that way. But a good one, a puppy too big to still be considered a puppy, who basked in Dianxia's affection and followed him around wagging his tail, but would immediately growl his head high as soon as someone dared to offend his master in the slightest. 

On every occasion, the guard showed that he was always by the Crown Prince's side, on every occasion he showed that he was ready to take.

"I'm here" said that determined look, "I'm right here, I've got you. I'm not leaving." 

This was what Mu Qing felt, what he felt from him in his presence, though it was perhaps hardly directed at him. 

Safety. 
Protection. 
Warmth. 
A protective, almost familiar aura. 

And Mu Qing.... 
And what good did Mu Qing bring to that trio? In which way did he benefit that duo? What benefits could he, a poor servant, have given to a prince who lacked nothing? 
What benefits could he, a son of a criminal, have given to a guard from a good family who was perfectly capable of defending himself and living comfortably? 
What was the use of his transparent and silent company? What was the use of his calm demeanour, his neutral facade? What was the use of that empty mask? What was the use of that thin, weak, gaunt body? What was the use of having the son of a thief in the palace, if not to arouse suspicion and create trouble? 

The truth was that Mu Qing had nothing to offer.  
And they had given him so much.  
Xie Lian had given him so much. 
Feng Xin also did, in his own way. 

How could he ever see himself at their level? 
How could he ever feel like their equal? 
How could he ever see himself as their friend?  
How could they ever be friends? 

He felt indebted, too worthless.  

He knew how to sew. How to cook. Maybe he could even sing a little. He knew how to heal and bind wounds. 

But how could he be a good friend when inferiority weighed down his heart like iron chains? 
How to be a good friend in the first place? 

How could he, a boy who all his life had been laughed at, hunted down, disowned, ever know how to be a good friend if he had never had any friends? 
How, how? 

Could he help Xie Lian as Xie Lian had helped him? (no, never) 
Could he save Xie Lian from bullies like Xie Lian did to him? (no, never) 
Could he be the light, the hope for Xie Lian as Xie lian was for him. (no, never) 
Could he bring Feng Xin confidence with just one look like Feng Xin did with him? (no, never) 
Could he erect a protective aura for them as Feng Xin and Xie Lian did with him? (no, never) 

He had nothing, he could do nothing, he was nothing. 

He was not likeable, he had no humour to make people laugh. He was neutral, not a single emotion shone from his face except impassivity. He feared exposing himself: what if someone had punished him? What if Xie Lian and Feng Xin thought he was getting too familiar? 
He was not talkative, he had nothing to talk about, he was boring. 
He was difficult, enigmatic and Mu Qing himself knew it.

Behind him was the ghostly sin of his father; on his hands there was a crime that he had never done, but that people, servants, even Feng Xin, unjustly attributed to him, without any real criterion. Without knowing the truth. 
On his face there was an impassive expression, impossible to read, which made him even more suspicious. 

How could a prince, a royal, a person of the highest rank and so perfect, talented, handsome, kind as Xie Lian be his friend? 
 How could a young man, a royal guard, as strong, reassuring and handsome as Feng Xin be his friend? 

("Can we be friends? Can we, can we?" was what his silent heart cried out, what his heartbeats expressed in his chest tight with pain) 

But Mu Qing did not want to be alone. He didn't want to be alone.  
He was afraid: did he really have to continue being alone? Couldn't he for once, just this once, get what he wanted and feel happy? 

(No, he couldn't. His destiny was quite different from happiness)

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Once, His Highness had asked to go to one of his favourite spots near a forest, in a flowery field not too far from Mount Taicang. Xie Lian had been shyly bold, his cheeks had taken on an imperceptible rosy hue, delicate and delicious as he informed Feng Xin and the escort that Mu Qing would be coming with them.

''My servant will accompany me to the area near Mount Taicang. And there is no need to accompany me, my guard will absolutely suffice to protect me in the worst case scenario, we will not stray too far from the Royal Holy Pavilion."

That day, the guards were ready to object awkwardly and amazed at that sudden, new, strange announcement, but Xie Lian had granted them one and only one smile. One that didn't want to hear any objections, but still cordial and peaceful. That day Mu Qing had avoided the wary glances, ignored the tense movements of the guards and the glances between them as one after the other they left. He had also ignored Feng Xin's scowling look at his prince, but he had said nothing either, only a cold silence.

The afternoon had been warm that late spring day, the orange glow of the sunset had drawn warm, cozy shadows on the meadow that fluttered in the wind like the horsehair of a horse galloping to freedom. The ears of corn, tall and smooth, shone almost like the crests of a sea in peaceful stillness.

"Mu Qing, why don't you join us? Aren't you hungry?" Xie Lian's sincerely gentle and concerned voice sounded like a melody in that dreamy scenery. The sunset light caressed his delicate features as gently as his voice, illuminating his irises to the colour of the most delicate honey. His hair was moved by a soft wind, just enough to make a prince literally a god. Mu Qing felt as if in a fever that he could do nothing but conceal with effort and shame. However, that thoughtful concern had left him surprised, had dragged him to the ground just when his mind was trying to ignore the constant pangs of hunger. He had cooked those delicious treats with his bony fingers, his skin sickly and delicate. He had placed those delicacies in a basket with cheekbones that were sharpened, with collarbones under his robes that were protruding. He had laid those sweets on the blanket on the grass with the bad and blind intention to grab and run, trying to take as much as possible of those things he had cooked for someone else while he himself was starving.

And to try not eat them, he had tried not to look, sitting on his heels under the tree that shaded over them and watching nothing but the slender fingers sinking into the worn fabric on his thighs.

But the voice had shaken him, the gentleness had made him flinch, and he looked up quickly, like an order.

He found himself between Xie Lian's gentle, worried expression and Feng Xin's hard but curious one. He immediately made himself small, clutching his shoulders as he blushed shyly, because he was only a servant. Just a servant.

"No, thank you, Your highness."

The voice was a feeble whisper but almost hoarse and pained to lie to save a steady job, hesitant as his eyes wallowed from Xie Lian to his gaunt, bony fingers nervously clutching the robes of his thighs in a small fist.

"I've already eaten, I don't need-"

But before he could finish his excuse, a grumble had risen and he had fallen silent, trying to realise what a fool he had just made.

They had been silent for quite a while, not a hair had moved, not an eyelash had blinked.

It was almost hilarious except that Mu Qing had just humiliated and ridiculed himself in front of people living in honour forged in gold and bronze.

He blushed, and his mind raced from running away to digging a hole under that tree.

No sooner had he stood up than Xie Lian's warm, smooth hand had snapped towards his abnormally thin wrist, had pulled him with a strength that though gentle was still strength.

"No, don't go" The prince almost begged. A prince begging a servant.

"I sent everyone away so the three of us could have a good time. Your stomach absolutely didn't ruinnthis, Mu Qing."

His words were gentle, light, but it was his tone and expression that really spoke. Her expression was sorry but determined not to give up, asking for something.

"Stay" the hand slid from her wrist, to her palm, in an intimate and secret caress.

Mu Qing felt enchanted, that gaze as warm as the sweet earth and as bright as honeyed stars had terrified him, had taken his breath away and had frozen every limb.

"Don't go" Xie Lian's voice boomed in his mind as he was pulled down to sit again, now beside Xie Lian.

"Stay" the voice echoed as Xie Lian took a treat and gently asked him to open his mouth.

But as soon as that thoughtful request had touched Mu Qing's logical side, which who knows how it had remained untouched by that disarming beauty and kindness, he realised that this must be wrong. He realised that he should not behave like this, that he should not be pampered by a prince and eat the things on his table.

He realised that he was in a puddle. That he was in error.

"But His Highness-"

He had tried to protest still beguiled and confused, his mouth barely trying to harmonise the sounds in that sentence interrupted by Feng Xin's harsh voice.

"If Taizi Dianxia tells you to open your mouth, you open it."

His tone was blaming, and Mu Qing gasped, turning his head sideways towards the archer.

Feng Xin was in his usual adorable frown. He had crumbs on the side of his mouth. The phrase on his lips was a truth: if Xie Lian told him to sing, he would sing, if Xie Lian said to kneel, he would kneel. If Xie Lian had said to cut his throat, he would have cut his throat. However, a hidden thoughtfulness still managed to seep out of that harsh tone and bloody truth. Even in his eyes, still, fixed as amber, there was determination. Feng Xin's thick eyebrows frowned even more as he thought that his words had not had their effect.

"Open your mouth" he said almost offended, as if he had received a thrashing on the hand, and Mu Qing accepted, shyly opening his mouth slightly, the treat that Xie Lian's delicate fingers held out to him with intimate gentleness. The fingers had grazed his rosy, thin lips.

When the sweet melted in his mouth, he emitted a satisfied and pleasantly surprised murmur, his back straightening as if invigorated.

"Good?" Xie Lian asked as if he himself had cooked them and not Mu Qing, tilting his head as he approached him.

"Mhm" Mu Qing had murmured in a childish tone, his usually fearful eyes now fixed on Xie Lian's face with sparks in those obsidian eyes. He seemed to have become a child again, cared for and warmed up.

He had liked it. Oh if he had liked it.