Archive of Our Own ^beta

If anyone asked Feng Xin, which nobody ever does, he’s a goddamned saint. With a bleeding heart at that.

The jury’s out on who exactly he is struggling to say no to because it could be any of the annoying people he calls his friends - despite Mu Qing’s insistence that they’re acquaintances instead (which, as if! Acquaintances don’t go on twelve-hour sleeper trains for a three-day tourist-trap-filled vacation courtesy of Xie Lian’s Xiaohongshu inspired itinerary which he carries out militarily).

Unfortunately for him, and no one else, his track record of denying Xie Lian and his whims is well, a world record one time, so he very generously allowed Hua Cheng to move into his and Xie Lian’s two-bedroom apartment whilst they look for more apartment options. If there’s one thing university has prepared him for, it’s roommates of all types and he is more than ready to accept whatever is thrown his way. And, you know, low costs.

Which leads him to this… predicament.

He arrives back from the gym, sweat dripping down his back and skin sticky, wanting nothing more than a refreshing shower that washes away the grime of the day. For once, it’s been a slow work day, the only issue being that he had to drag his e-bike from the very innards of the metro parking lot – a hell he wishes on no one.

Until he opens the door to–

“I’m sick. Will you make me some chicken soup?” croaks Hua Cheng, words coming out muffled from where he is sitting on the couch, swathed in blankets, and is that a Kuromi dressing gown?! (Which, okay he has absolutely no room to judge when his entire room is a shrine to Cinnamoroll that he used to swear up and down was the result of being Jian Lan’s boyfriend and fooling absolutely no one except Xie Lian). What’s more surprising though, is that he’s rarely ever seen Hua Cheng in such a state of dishevelment. Even during their twelve-hour sleeper train, he was in cahoots with Mu Qing as they pulled out their face masks and jade rollers because “no one wants to look like a ratty dog Feng Xin” to which Feng Xin says, Mu Qing is just jealous that he survives well enough without a skincare routine. (And maybe, just maybe, he orders those face masks at the same time as he orders takeout so that no one in his apartment knows that he does have some knowledge of facial cleansing lest he bursts Mu Qing’s bubble.)

But Hua Cheng. Asking for soup.

Feng Xin looks over at him again from the doorway he’s stumbled into, blurting out the first thing he can think of, “Xie Lian not here to play babysitter? I can call him–”

“No! No calling gege, do you want me to kill you?” spits out Hua Cheng with a degree of vehemence and threat that shouldn’t be possible from a man whose nose is clearly bright red, face paler than usual and is sporting a Kuromi headband on top of that. He mumbles a few words, with less vitriol and more uncertainty that Feng Xin almost misses what he says.

Almost . 

“Could you repeat that for me,” he croons, because if he says what Feng Xin thinks he says then it’s an incredibly dire situation.

“I don’t think I can appreciate gege’s cooking the way he deserves right now,” which for Hua Cheng, is basically admitting that he’s a. so unbelievably ill right now that his immune system can’t handle Xie Lian’s experiments and b. he values Feng Xin’s cooking a lot. A win is a win.

However, Feng Xin doesn’t have a death wish so he keeps his observations to himself because for all Mu Qing whines that nothing is going on up in his head, he places great emphasis on his survival skills.

“Any requests for your soup?”

“Chicken soup. I want chicken soup!” comes the grumbled reply.

Feng Xin sighs. No shower for him, not for a while. “I know that you idiot, but can you handle spices?”

“Chicken soup,” is all Hua Cheng says, and when he doesn’t offer up anything further, Feng Xin properly peers over to the couch. And fuck , he may find Xie Lian’s annoying boyfriend incredibly annoying, but it’s a situation that’s starting to spiral out of control because he’s managed to sink further into all those blankets, looking more flushed than post-workout Feng Xin. That’s when he knows he’s got his work cut out for him - Hua Cheng is slumped over, breathing out little snorts which usually would result in a surreptitious video that he sends over to Shi Qingxuan for their annual PowerPoint night. He also knows if it was anyone else, they probably would take that video but Feng Xin, bleeding heart, go figure.

Instead, he kicks off his shoes, and heads to their bathroom to grab some painkillers and water to place on their coffee table for when Hua Cheng wakes up.

Plan of action. Cook the damned chicken soup, call Xie Lian, shower. He pauses. And adds call Mu Qing to that list. 

In fact, he stupidly decides on such a whim that Mu Qing is needed that the plan is thrown out of the window and he calls Mu Qing first. The phone rings once, twice–

“What do you want?” grouses Mu Qing. God, maybe Feng Xin is no better than Hua Cheng, because there is no reason listening to his cranky friend should have his stomach fluttering to the point of nausea for other reasons that he hasn’t decided to examine yet.

Feng Xin stumbles his way through a reply of “Hua Cheng, chicken soup, sick.”

“How is that my problem?”

Fuck. Mu Qing has a point. He quickly scrambles for an excuse. “I have no chicken.” All things considered, that’s actually a good excuse and he’s surprised at himself. “C’mon Mu Qing, we’re friends-”

“– In what world, you overgrown–

“–Please, Mu Qing, he’s passed out on the sofa and he needs chicken soup, he doesn’t even want to eat Xie Lian’s food, and that’s when you know he’s practically on his deathbed because that crimson brat would never admit that, ever! ”

To his relief, Mu Qing just lets out an aggrieved sigh from the other end. (Oh, he can see it right now, Mu Qing flipping his glossy hair over his shoulder, brow furrowed, fingers tapping as he comes to a decision, and oh god, Feng Xin is beyond fucked.)

“Do you need anything else, you incompetent–”

Feng Xin interrupts before Mu Qing can complete another one of his wonderfully colourful comments likening Feng Xin to a dog which might sting a little, not because of the insult itself, but because anyone with two working eyes (sorry Hua Cheng, anyone with an eye too for that matter, or just anyone with some semblance of understanding Mu Qing) knows that Mu Qing is a cat person. Once again, Feng Xin knows he’s just so ruined for anyone else.

Before Mu Qing can hang up on him, Feng Qing hastily replies, “No, just the chicken. See you soon.”

He hears Mu Qing huff a little and it’s kind of pathetic that this slight action brings a smile to his face. He hangs up before he can examine it further though, because Hua Cheng coughs, and right , Hua Cheng. He’s ill.

Shaking off his daze, he heads to the kitchen after depositing the painkillers, opening the fridge with a small prayer that there are no remnants left of Xie Lian’s attempts to make jianbing two days prior. There luckily aren’t any leftovers, but his luck ends there because amongst the vegetables, are three packets of chicken breast, and one box of raw chicken drumsticks because Feng Xin is a gym rat and on a chicken diet, and holy shit, maybe Mu Qing is correct there’s nothing in that brain of his; no self-respecting gym rat would have a fridge without protein. Maybe it’s a small mercy then, that Mu Qing accepted his fumbled excuse anyway, even if he shuts down the part of him, the delusional part, that thinks that Mu Qing’s presence in their diverse friendship group means that the older can direct emotions beyond frustration, exasperation and begrudging acceptance towards him. But, you know, delusions.

He hides the chicken breasts behind Xie Lian’s cartons of oat milk and Hua Cheng’s 12-pack egg box because one gym rat to another. Debating with himself, he pulls out scallions and bok choy that’s starting to wilt, to go ahead and prep whilst he maintains the ruse that he has never owned chicken ever.

Although Hua Cheng had loudly denied wanting Xie Lian’s presence, Feng Xin knows better - deep down all he probably wants is Xie Lian in the same room as him, doting him to sleep. So he peruses their shared kitchen fridge calendar to check on Xie Lian’s schedule, cursing softly when the reason behind Hua Cheng’s refusal comes to light. Xie Lian has a board meeting at six thirty in the evening and it’s only just hitting six. At least, the meeting hasn’t started yet so Feng Xin decides to call Xie Lian anyway. His plan of action is action-ing.

Someone in the clouds above is really looking out for Hua Cheng, because the phone call goes pretty smoothly all things considered. Xie Lian couldn’t avoid the meeting; Feng Xin had a bad feeling that would happen, but the meeting itself was scheduled for only forty-five minutes which means that a joint effort between Feng Xin and Mu Qing is required so that they could hold the line until Xie Lian’s eventual return.

By the time the doorbell rings, Feng Xin has long prepped the vegetables and has force-fed a now-awake but no less dazed Hua Cheng a painkiller, two dried crackers and a glass of honey water. It’s a testament to the crimson brat’s illness that he’s even letting Feng Xin do this, and barely protests when Feng Xin yanks the door open to reveal a Mu Qing who's got windswept hair and a bag of more than just chicken. 

The two of them make quick work of the soup, acknowledging that now is perhaps not the time for barbed insults back and forth; Hua Cheng looks so pitiful that all Mu Qing did upon entry is hand him a warm compress which in Mu Qing language is full-blown doting. (It is a bit woeful that Feng Qin himself isn’t the damsel in distress, but that’s off the record.) Their work may be efficient but it’s not quiet per se, Mu Qing still bumps past Feng Xin with more force than necessary, maybe Feng Xin stomps his foot a little — when he’s not holding anything because even in this, Feng Xin remains a gentleman! 

As the chicken and broth are left to simmer, Feng Xin runs to his long-awaited shower with the promise that Mu Qing will continue to babysit. Despite this, he still decides against taking his time, washing himself in perfunctory motions, and electing, against his better judgment, to pull out a few face masks. He won’t ever admit it but he leaves two on the bathroom counter for Hua Cheng and Xie Lian to stumble across in their own time and takes the remaining two to his room where he pulls on his comfiest sweatpants, and an equally comfy dark grey hoodie from his university days.

Trudging over to the living room, he pauses with a barely stifled gasp. For better or for worse, Mu Qing is leaning onto the pile of blankets that has become Hua Cheng, wiping his forehead with a damp cloth and combing through Hua Cheng’s tangled hair and it’s crazy that Hua Cheng is letting this happen at all.

Feng Xin turns and steps away, checking on the soup, and boiling the kettle to make a concoction of honey and ginger green tea. He checks his phone to see whereabouts Xie Lian is but it has only just hit quarter to eight. Still a short while before he arrives home. Feng Xin can only hope that Mu Qing is able to keep Hua Cheng occupied that long; if it was Feng Xin’s hair Mu Qing was carding through, he’d sit and act no better than the puppy he’s accused of being, metaphorical tail wagging and all. But it’s Hua Cheng so who knows what a sick Hua Cheng is capable of, even one who is apparently going along with the directions of his boyfriend’s irritating bodyguards (Hua Cheng’s words, obviously).

He’s broken out of his musing with the distinct sound of the door unlocking, and Hua Cheng’s rasp of “ Gege” , followed by the soft response of “San Lang”. Xie Lian is undoubtedly back. He must’ve rushed. It prompts Feng Xin to start ladling soup into bowls and turning off the stove. 

“You need help?”

Feng Xin whips his head around, catching Mu Qing’s gaze. Remembering the moment that passed between his two friends earlier, he feels a blush rising, his ears burning warmly under messy hair. He had attempted a ponytail, and although it has since loosened, he’s grateful when it hides the evidence of his embarrassment.

“Could you set the coffee table?” he settles on, responding gruffly. Mu Qing shrugs and traipses off, as Feng Xin finishes pouring out the tea.

It is not long before he returns to the living room, two bowls of soup in his hands and the other two in Mu Qing’s, whose setting the table consists of dumping a bunch of napkins and four sets of chopsticks in the middle. Feng Xin glances up to find Xie Lian looking at him with an arched brow. Upon making eye contact, his face morphs into something lighter, mirth glittering in his eyes, and Feng Xin finds himself flashing a small smile back.

Dinner is a quiet affair, the air around the four of them wrapped in contentment, the kind you only find on a Sunday off where movements are unhurried, the peace untouched. If you asked Feng Xin (and his foolish sentimental heart), it’s been a while since they’ve had a luxury like this. Sure, Hua Cheng is embodying the moniker Crimson Rain incredibly well right now, and Feng Xin had the misfortune of seeing Mu Qing cuddle someone who isn’t him and maybe, the way Xie Lian is wrapped around his boyfriend means that he’s definitely, without a doubt going to play nurse again probably for the rest of the week, yet he can’t find it in himself to be too upset.

It’s a sense of community and he finds himself leaning against the sofa to slurp his broth, succumbing to the urge to poke Mu Qing with his socked toe, just to see him peer up through his lashes with a scowl. And he thinks, no matter who asks, they ought to know, that this right here is his family, saints be damned.

·𖥸·

(If Mu Qing accepts his face mask offering, and they accidentally fall asleep wearing them… well it’s nobody’s business. If Xie Lian falls ill the very next day, Feng Xin pointedly ignores the reason and makes a week’s worth of soup. And if Feng Xin ultimately ends up sick, he does not, under any circumstances, in his fevered stupor, hang off Mu Qing like a mosquito and definitely does not get so flustered at holding Mu Qing’s soft hand that he faints because if that happened, he would resort to dehydration excuses. If certain parties claimed there were cheek kisses borne from fondness…well, Feng Xin isn’t one to deny what he can’t remember. If he asks for a recreation, you can guess how that pans out.)