mu qing? my qing.

     Along with that memory comes the vision of Ian on the lap of a gaffer, rolling his hips and tilting his head back and swallowing a pill from a fucking stranger and–

     And Mickey wants to bury that night deep within him, lock it away with all the other incidents he can't bring himself to think about. (Like the day on that couch, with Svetlana riding his cock and Ian looking at him with glassy eyes for mere fucking seconds before looking away and not meeting his gaze, no matter how hard Mickey had tried to grasp his attention.) 

     But that would mean Mickey would forget the weight of Ian’s body on his own, grinding against Mickey and whispering into his ear, “So, how’s your day going so far?”

     And it was torment, to have Ian so close to him after so long, and not being able to pull him even closer, so their breaths would mingle and their hearts would beat as one.

     Mickey wants this day to go well. He’s ecstatic, because he gets to visit Ian. He hopes and prays and crosses his fingers that Ian will be himself today, because it feels like it's been an eternity since he’s had his Ian back. 

     He tells himself, those fucking doctors better have done something, better have helped him and cured him. (He’s read countless articles on bipolar disorder and knows now that there is no cure. That Ian can do nothing but take his meds and monitor himself and fucking cooperate, that stubborn fuck.) 

     Scooping up the can of gel, he sprays it on his hair before gently pushing it back so it can stick out in all the right places.

     Another glance at the mirror tells him that, yes, your hair looks fucking fine, Mickey. Tucking his gray shirt inside his pants, he walks into the kitchen to see Svetlana shoving clothes into a trash bag.

     “What the hell are you doing?” Mickey asks.

     “Packing up I love Lucy’s things.”

     He takes in the large pile of clothes on the dining table, yet to be packed in with the rest. Surely, that's too much. “What for? He doesn't need that shit at the hospital,” Mickey says, glancing at all the stuff before getting himself a mug for coffee.

    “Not for hospital. For moving out.” 

     Mickey stills. “He’s not moving out,” he marches towards his wife, “he's gone for, like, three days.”

     “He can't stay here.” Svetlana's voice is firm, absolute, and Mickey’s irritation spikes.

     “The fuck he can't. Says who?”

     “He stole baby.” She stomps towards him, and fuck, Mickey gets it–he really does. That's her fucking child, but Ian–

      Ian would kill for that kid. He loves Yevgeny, for whatever fucked up reason, and Mickey sees it every time Ian takes him in his arms, and Mickey adores the sight of his boyfriend and his son.

     “Relax,” he tries to placate her, “everything is fine.” And it’s not. Because what Ian did was fucked up but he had no fucking control, and Mickey would rather die than blame him for it. “The baby's back, safe and sound.”

     “Could happen again,” she sneers. 

     “It’s not gonna happen again.” Mickey is suddenly reminded of Lip’s words in the car: “Could've been worse.” 

     Ian could have crashed into a fucking tree, or rode off a cliff. He could’ve left little Yevgeny in the middle of the road and gone off without him, or sold him off for some goddamn cash.

     But he hadn't. He’d kept Yev close, even bought him fucking diapers and food, so–

     So Ian cares, and his Ian is still in there, somewhere, even though it's really fucking hard to find him. 

     “Because he doesn't live here anymore.” Svetlana’s tone is conclusive and final, leaving no room for argument.

      Mickey’s made enough bad decisions, he realizes, before kicking his wife out.

Mickey shows up earlier than the others.

     He wishes he hadn't. The walls are too fucking white, and the floors are so clean he can see his own reflection. Even the workers are wearing fucking white. 

     It reminds him too much of a hospital–because goddamn it, Mickey, of course it's a fucking hospital–and hospitals are where the hurt are, and Ian is in here. (Because Ian is hurt.)

     When Fiona arrives and asks him why he hasn't gone in yet, he tells her the place wigs him the fuck out. In response, she tells him about being eight and seeing her mom here.

     Fucking Gallaghers. (He wishes it was easier for them. Easier for Ian.)

     “Relationship to the patient?* The lady at the front asks him.

     “Uh, boyfriend.” He feels warmth spilling across his chest. Fuck, feels good to call himself Ian’s boyfriend, even as reluctant he was at first. The warmth quickly turns into embarrassed heat in his ears when Fiona smiles at him.

     But the shame melts away just as fast, because Mickey’s so goddam excited. He feels giddy as he clips on his visitation card and follows the guard, and is nervous all the same.

     Will Ian be just as impassive as he was last time?

     He hopes not.

     God, he hopes not.

Ian looks fucking terrible, skin pale and the bags under his eyes almost green. Did he even sleep? Mickey thought he’d be okay, why the fuck else did he let him come in to this shithole–

     “Are we going home?” is the first thing Ian says as his big sister envelopes him into her embrace, and Mickey wants to cry.

     Does he hate it here? What the fuck. Of course he hates it here.

     Ian didn’t want to come here.

     When Ian’s eyes find Mickey, it widens by just a fraction. Mickey can't help the way his own face lights up in a grin.

     “And look who’s here! Mickey’s here,” Fiona says.

     Still grinning, Mickey takes a few steps forward, whispering softly, “What’s up?” before pulling Ian into a hug. 

     He doesn't expect Ian to hug him back. Hell, he didn't even return Fiona’s hug–but it stings nonetheless. 

      Mickey really, really wants Ian to be the clingy motherfucker he used to be.

     He pulls back first, because it doesn't seem Ian wants a hug. But his boyfriend’s eyes linger on him, following his movements for just a few seconds before looking over at Fiona. (And it would have been so fucking adorable, except Ian’s eyes are still empty and dull and lost.)

     “Shall we sit?” The eldest Gallagher asks.

     “Yeah, let's fuckin’ sit, yeah,” Mickey replies instantly, needing this atmosphere to change.

     Ian sits at the edge of a table, answering Fiona’s questions and nodding absentmindedly. The more Mickey studies him, the faster his heart sinks. 

     Ian’s eyes drift from side to side, seemingly distracted from every little noise. He won’t let his eyes fix on Mickey, not anymore.

      Look at me, Mickey begs in his heart, Fucking look at me, dammit. 

     “Where's Yevgeny?” Ian abruptly asks.

     Mickey feels his insides twist. “He's at home. He's totally fine.” (Can I bring you back home?)

     “You're gonna see him real soon,” Fiona says. (That's right. Ian will come back. He will, he will, he will–)

      Ian stands up. 

      Ian is leaving.

     “Where you goin’?” Fiona turns around to ask, but Mickey keeps still as Ian brushes past.

      Ian won't stay for him. 

      Ian doesn't want to.

      “I’m tired.” 

      But Mickey was so excited. 

“Yevgeny?” Mickey yells, but he can't really control his tongue, so the name that rolls off doesn't sound quite right. Slurred.

     He might be drunk, he thinks, clutching onto the bottle of whiskey.

     “Where you at, numbnuts?” He checks the room, head drumming and vision spinning. “Where the fuck is everybody?”

     Mickey would really like some fucking company, for some stupid reason. He feels like something is missing. Someone. “Svet?” He calls out.

     No, not her. Someone else. He misses someone.

     He doesn't get to ponder on it, because the next thing he knows he's tripping on something and falling to the floor with a grunt. 

     He feels something wet on his cheek. He feels his sides ache from the fall. He feels a migraine and a pending hangover, but most of all, he feels his heart crack open at the sight of Ian’s jacket. 

     Gallagher, the name tag reads. Gallagher. His fucking Gallagher. 

     Right. That's who he misses.

     He pulls the jacket closer, tugging it closer until–

     Ian’s scent still lingers on it. 

     Mickey holds it to his chest, feeling the tear ducts in his eyes weaken.

“No, you don't. You think it’s pretty,” Xie Lian says brightly, a small smile flickering across his face. In lieu of his predictable white robes, he’s wearing a navy blue hanfu that fades to white. The sleeves, as well as the bottom part of the skirt, are patterned lightly with tintless pictures of pistache trees.

It’s ravishing. It’s so beautiful that Mu Qing wants to ask who tailored it, but he wards off the thought just as quickly as it comes.

Hua Cheng and Feng Xin are just around the corner, purchasing tanghulu and rice wine and who-knows-what. They’re wearing blue hanfus as well. The same as Xie Lian’s–yes, they're matching. Ridiculous. When Mu Qing first laid eyes on the three of them, he snorted out a laugh, perhaps only to subdue the fervid jealousy swelling inside of him.

The three of them were… courting. Xie Lian had announced it to him just days prior. He had said it with a grin and two men in his arms.

Mu Qing only stared blankly. “Congratulations?’ he said finally, when it was undeniable that Xie Lian was waiting for a response. He didn't mean to sound apathetic to the reveal, but how was he ought to acknowledge the news, anyway? All he felt was a twinge of sadness, knowing that he’d be solitary more often than not now.

He felt forsaken.

“I do not think it’s pretty,” Mu Qing lies through his teeth. How did Xie Lian savvy that? He had made sure to denigrate Ghost City every time he dropped by Paradise Manor, as fictitious as the remarks were.

“What’s not pretty?” Hua Cheng appears from behind Xie Lian, three sticks of candied cherries in his hand. He hands one to Xie Lian and Feng Xin–who stands next to Mu Qing now, clutching on to far too many paper bags–then to Mu Qing. He doesn't take one for himself.

“Nothing,” Mu Qing quickly says, accepting the tanghulu gingerly. He loves cherries, but maybe not from Hua Cheng’s hands. The ghost king is grudging enough to dip the cherries into horse piss.

“Mu Qing thinks Ghost City is pretty,” Xie Lian says just as quickly, concurrently.

Hua Cheng blinks at him before sweeping his eyes around the astir city. “Do you?”

“No!” Mu Qing’s voice is a pitch higher than it should be.

“What’s the point in denying it? Look, your face is all red.” Feng Xin laughs.

“Shut up, you baboon. You have sugar all over your lips.”

“Huh? Really?”

Xie Lian chuckles. “Come here so I can take it off, A’Xin.”

Mu Qing thinks Xie Lian is going to graciously take a paper towel to wipe it off, but no, of course not. He makes Mu Qing witness his tongue on Feng Xin’s lips. Mu Qing wants to kill himself.

“Oh, heavens…” Mu Qing mutters, horrified.

“And yet you don't look away.” He can hear the smirk in Hua Cheng’s voice.

“I’m looking away now. Watch.” Mu Qing turns on his heels and walks away from all three of them. He’d rather traverse Ghost City himself than watch three men get cozy together.

“You like pretty things?”

“Why on earth did you follow me?” Mu Qing yells over the bustling crowds.

Hua Cheng shrugs. “This is my territory. I’d rather keep my eyes on the heavenly official walking freely through the streets of it.”

“As if your butterflies haven't been.” It would be cretinous if Mu Qing hadn't taken notice of the silver butterflies that seemed to take a special predilection for parroting a tail.

“Just so you know,” Hua Cheng drawls, hands on his hips as a crimson eye lazily skims over his perimeters. “My butterflies much prefer gege’s company.”

Mu Qing rolls his eyes, resisting the overwhelming urge to pound Hua Cheng’s head with a barrel. “Then why the hell are they shadowing me?!”

“Because I told them to, you halfwit. Because gege asked me to.”

“Xie Lian—what?” Mu Qing halts his strides, and Hua Cheng stops with him, throwing an irritated glare over his shoulder. “That makes no sense. Stop watching me like a hawk. Don't you guys have better things to do?”

“Not really. Come along, now. Gege will be displeased if I lose you.”

Mu Qing splutters, dumbfounded. “What the fuck? What am I, a kid?”

“If you don't hurry up, I’ll make you wish you were, general. At least then my strikes wouldn't be as hard. Don't make gege wait.”

“...Then go? What the hell? Need I always be under your relentless supervision?” Mu Qing retorts, reveling in the way Hua Cheng’s glare sharpens by a hair.

“Gege wanted to spend time with you, and you just plan to leave him alone? Don't be selfish.”

“Selfish–?” Mu Qing cuts himself off. He can feel his face burn like a furnace with the heat of pure fury and sanguine wrath.

Selfish was a sickening taunt thrown at Mu Qing for centuries now, and in the cold clarity of truth, it should be as meaningless as a bag of spilled rice.

But Mu Qing never got accustomed to anything; not the sudden shift from being cast aside like a forgotten stain–because what else do they serve on a copper platter to those born to poverty and servitude?–to the glorious decadence and golden indulgence of godhood, or how the thick silence that echoed the Xuan Zhen Palace transitioned into shared laughter and warmth and everything Mu Qing’s ever wanted–

“Xuan Zhen.” The sudden snap of Hua Cheng’s fingers, just inches away from his face, jerked him to the present. “Your eyes dulled.”

“Oh. No, they didn’t." He redefines his guise, correcting the tiniest misaligned muscles. "Now go back to your lovers, they need you. I’m going back.” He turns his back to Hua Cheng, his hands preparing to draw a teleportation array. Mu Qing doesn't know why, but he feels as if he's been enveloped in a sorrow so great it numbs him. He thinks it might be because he has too much of a workload sitting on his desk, waiting for his return. It's not because he's upset about Hua Cheng seeing him as inconsiderate.

That's preposterous.

“Alright, hold on now. Where are you going?”

“To my palace.”

“Leaving already, General?” He can hear the smugness that colours every syllable in Hua Cheng’s words, and the irritation grows twofold.

“Yes, this place is a pit of discarded garbage. And you piss me off.” His fingers start to outline the intricate details of the array, making sure each stroke is as perfect as the last, when fingers curl around his wrist in an iron hold.

“Did I offend you somehow?” Hua Cheng’s voice is devoid of his usual cockiness, now replaced by a lilted whisper and tender guilt.

Mu Qing can only think of the scrawny boy Hua Cheng once was, with tattered rags and eyes that have glimpsed too much into brutal reality. He recalls the way Hua Cheng clung onto Xie Lian's robes like the stars hug the sky, and how the beads in his eyes gazed up at his prince with utter devotion and admiration.

Hua Cheng was a quivering child back then, and now...

Despite himself, Mu Qing feels a smile blossom, though it’s soft and curved only slightly at the edges.

Hua Cheng takes a step forward so he can get a look at Mu Qing’s face. His eyes widen by a fraction when he sees it. “...You’re smiling.”

“If I say you did offend me, would you fall to your knees in remorse and plead for my mercy?”

“Absolutely not." Hua Cheng's face contorts in aversion before a sly smirk takes its place. "But I might make amends in… other ways.”

“Other ways?” Mu Qing wrinkles his brow, scouring Hua Cheng’s dark eyes for answers to questions he doesn’t know of.

Hua Cheng doesn’t reply immediately. His gaze stays fixed on Mu Qing as he glides his fingers up from where they're wrapped around the god's wrist to his lips–sensually, with far too much passion–and caresses the soft flesh he finds there with his thumb. “Name your price.”

Mu Qing’s breath trembles in his throat, and his lungs constrict. “W-what are you doing?” His voice is raw and brittle and it cracks–it’s abhorrent, really, how easy it is for Mu Qing to unfold his vulnerability at the slightest hint of fluster.

When he remains silent, Hua Cheng leans down until his lips graze the shell of Mu Qing’s ear. “You're prettier than all of Ghost City. Take your sweet time, Xuan Zhen.” And then he wanes into the night, leaving behind nothing but a hundred silver butterflies and the wind’s melodious whistles.