Chapter Text
Feng Xin has known Mu Qing long enough to be familiar with his habits.
For example — he blow dries his hair. Can’t fucking stand it wet. He eats and drinks way too much sugar. He hums, but only when he’s drunk enough to forget other people are around. He has good pitch but it’s breathy, like his voice ran a mile just to get out of his throat.
And when Mu Qing is dangerous, he’s dangerous. Sharp-toothed saber dangerous. Hua Cheng with a gun dangerous. Dangerous enough that when Feng Xin sees the tell-tale signs, the furtive sneaking, the coquettish glances, all the better to crush his windpipe and tear his stomach out — when Feng Xin notices, he knows it’s already over.
Mu Qing is going to kill him.
Or, Feng Xin laments as he watches a half-naked and wet-haired Mu Qing take his baking out of the oven, Mu Qing is going to run him out of his apartment. He’s not really sure. He’ll figure it out sooner or later. Maybe he’ll just die and Hua Cheng will laugh his ass off and Mu Qing will make some damning remark about how all his brains slipped out of his ears and that’s why he’s —
“It might be your apartment but you don’t have free real estate over the view,” Mu Qing says. “Put your eyes somewhere else or I’ll tear them out of your skull.”
Feng Xin places his gaze firmly on the TV. He maybe sneaks a glance. Or two. Or three, even, but he’s a simple man and Mu Qing hates having his hair wet so seeing it like that, dripping down his back and leaving droplets of water he wants to wipe off so they won’t be so goddamn distracting —
Fuck. Feng Xin grips the side of the couch. Mu Qing is fucking naked except for that towel around his waist. He’s naked, and in Feng Xin’s kitchen, and he probably smells like cherry blossoms.
When Feng Xin offered to let Mu Qing take his spare room for a few months, this wasn’t what he had in mind.
Not that he’d had anything in mind, really, save that Mu Qing is an asshole but he’s Feng Xin’s friend — frenemy — best friend — best friend? Really? Maybe? Probably — and something in his chest leapt at the chance to actually do something for him.
Feng Xin has known Mu Qing long enough to be familiar with his habits. He blow dries his hair. He hums. He likes to talk a lot of shit and then turn around and hide his struggles in a mess of sarcastic, bitter head biting. Feng Xin hates it. Feng Xin wants to rip his own head off and hand it to Mu Qing since he wants it so bad.
But — Jesus fucking Christ. Feng Xin offered his home with the expectation that Mu Qing would be his same, stick-up-the-ass self. It’s not that he wanted Mu Qing to be uncomfortable, but that Mu Qing — the Mu Qing that Feng Xin thought he knew — would rather die than be caught with his hair sopping wet, bending over to take a cookie tray out of the oven.
It’s undignified. And distracting. Because it’s bothersome.
Mu Qing really should dry himself off.
“Mu Qing,” Feng Xin says. “Use that fucking towel before it drops onto the goddamn floor.”
“I said put your eyes somewhere else.” Mu Qing closes the oven and sets the cookie sheet on the stovetop. The smell drifts to where Feng Xin sits, sweet and cloying. “I highly doubt you’d be happy if I let the cookies burn.”
And — well, no. Of course not.
“Your fault for not timing your shower better,” Feng Xin says. He wants to say, it’s my fucking apartment, not a goddamn five star resort that you can treat however you please. But it’s his fucking apartment. Mu Qing can treat it however he pleases. Except, he just — fuck. “Listen, Mu Qing, do you have like a — a fucking robe or something that you could wear instead?”
“Why?” Mu Qing turns towards him. He leans back against the counter, resting his elbows on the countertop. He raises an eyebrow. Feng Xin averts his eyes before he can do something he regrets. Like look at his chest. “Does my body bother you?”
“No,” Feng Xin says with no hesitation. “Asshole. Why would it? It’s a fucking body and I’m fucking —”
Straight.
Feng Xin is straight. Which is completely irrelevant to the situation. He shouldn’t even be thinking about it, so why the fuck is he thinking about it? Actively, pressed into his mind as Mu Qing rolls his goddamn eyes and tightens the towel around his waist and makes to leave the kitchen?
“Where are you going?” Feng Xin’s brain, the absolute mess it is, is suddenly convinced that the only thing worse than the sight of Mu Qing is for him to not be in sight at all. “Did you turn off the oven?”
“Check it yourself if you’re so worried,” Mu Qing calls over his shoulder.
Fucking bastard.
Feng Xin turns back to the TV. Characters fly past the screen, the camera shifting as they talk about something Feng Xin no longer has context for. His hand clenches on his thigh next to his dick which is entirely disinterested in anything going on at the moment. Completely. Nothing to see.
Except Feng Xin needs to get laid, probably, but Mu Qing will make fun of him for his straightness if he goes out to a bar and goes home with a girl. Mu Qing will complain if he goes out to a bar and comes home with a girl.
Feng Xin needs to get laid, and he needs to check the oven. Because Mu Qing is right. He’s worried.
When Mu Qing comes back, hair blow dried and fully dressed, Feng Xin has double checked that the oven is really, truly off. He leans against the counter with his mouth full. That’s quite literally the only reason he doesn’t say anything at the nasty look that Mu Qing sends him.
“Kind of you to ask.” Mu Qing shoulders Feng Xin out of the way and takes a plate from the cabinet above where he stood.
Feng Xin swallows. “You,” he says, pointing at Mu Qing with the cookie in his hand, “are an asshole with a shitty attitude. It’s one goddamn cookie. It’s not the end of the world.”
Mu Qing gives him that nasty look again. Feng Xin takes another bite of the cookie. As he chews, Mu Qing gingerly moves the cookies from the sheet to the plate. He then proceeds to take the sheet to the sink and washes it immediately.
It’s completely ridiculous. He already washed the dishes he used for baking, so now he’s just doing the dishes twice.
Feng Xin tells him so. Mu Qing’s nasty look is so permanently etched into his face that Feng Xin expects to find it on his gravestone.
“Bitch,” Feng Xin says.
Mu Qing rolls his eyes.
—
Mu Qing is a creature of habit.
On first glance, it’s hard to tell. On second glance, too, but only because the second time he and Feng Xin spoke, they traded fists instead of words.
The point being, Mu Qing has been this way since he was a child. Probably since the moment he was born. Feng Xin didn’t notice the first time they met, bumping into each other in the middle school hallway, or the second time they met, when Feng Xin’s basketball got out of hand and hit Mu Qing in the ribcage and the two of them shouted themselves hoarse until the punches came out —
Feng Xin noticed the third time they met. Detention. Mu Qing had been quiet, and Feng Xin had been eager to draw him out and knock him senseless. Who he was back then — slight, skinny, fierce in the eyes and unassuming in posture — drove Feng Xin crazy.
In the middle of that whirlwind of thoughts, Feng Xin looked at where Mu Qing sat across the room.
Three pens lay on his desk. Mu Qing’s cheek rested in his hand, the other fiddling with the order of colors. Red, blue, purple. Red in front, then blue in front, then purple in front, then red in front — the kind of mindless movement that meant nothing except for how clearly intentional it was.
Mu Qing is a creature of habit. His pens are ordered. His notes are color-coded. His plans are set in stone. Any deviation is apt to result in a full-blown crisis shielded behind stony eyes and a sharp tongue.
So when Mu Qing lost his job, Feng Xin prepared.
Nothing showed outwardly. Mu Qing spoke of his potential eviction with the calmness of reciting the weather. Today it’s partly cloudy with a chance of rain, and tomorrow Mu Qing might move halfway across the country to stay with his aunt while he gets his shit together.
Fuck that. Feng Xin told Mu Qing in no uncertain terms that if he didn’t move into his spare room, Feng Xin would stop talking to him.
“Is this talking?” Mu Qing had said, raising his eyebrows in a feigned innocence. “I thought you were shouting.”
Maybe Feng Xin had raised his voice. A lot. But Mu Qing is an ass and very little gets through to him. What does get through is usually some medium between yelling and screaming, maybe with a firm slap on the shoulder thrown in.
“Fuck you,” Feng Xin said. “I’m offering you a goddamn place to stay.”
“Mm.” Mu Qing leaned his head against the back of the couch, eyes on the ceiling. “No. I’ll take my chances with my aunt, thanks.”
Mu Qing is an ass. Case in point. “Oh, come on. Like you don’t already treat my place like it’s your own.”
“Excuse me?” Mu Qing raised his head from where he sat on Feng Xin’s couch, with Feng Xin’s blanket draped over him, with his feet tucked underneath him wearing Feng Xin’s borrowed socks and watching their mutual I don’t hate this, I guess show on Feng Xin’s TV. “I don’t fucking live here, Feng Xin.”
“Tell that to the three fucking sweaters hung up in the guest bedroom,” Feng Xin said. “Which will be your fucking bedroom if you get your head out of your ass and realize that your best friend is trying to make sure you don’t have to move to who the fuck knows where with your bullshit aunt.”
Mu Qing stared at him. Red crept into his cheeks. Even with no outward signifying, Feng Xin knew his mind was gradually caving into itself at something Feng Xin had said. Goddamn frustrating fucker.
“I’m not your best friend,” Mu Qing said finally.
Goddamn bastard.
“Goddamn bastard,” Feng Xin said. “Fine. You’re the best at getting on my fucking nerves and for some reason, I don’t hate having you around.”
Mu Qing looked at the TV. The redness of his face turned a frankly alarming shade of tomato, complete with a splotchy tone that had Feng Xin debate whether this was an allergic reaction to something. Like kindness. Or genuine human respect.
The thing about Mu Qing is that truly, he is Feng Xin’s best friend.
Half the time they fight, and the other half of the time they don’t talk. Half the time Feng Xin wants to throttle him, and the other half he’s consumed with the feeling that if Mu Qing isn’t around, his own life is lacking. Half their friendship was spent being friends out of sheer proximity to Xie Lian, and this second half is offset by the fact that Feng Xin likes spending time with him.
Even when he’s an absolute bitch, as always.
“You have low standards,” Mu Qing said. “If you consider me your best friend, then everyone must be.”
“Not everyone is as much of a prissy asshole,” Feng Xin retorted. “Look, it’s temporary, okay? Just so you don’t have to put your whole fucking life on hold. One month, maybe two, until you find another job and can afford your own place again.”
Mu Qing’s jaw clenched visibly. His hands were fists in the blanket, so tight his knuckles were white.
“Hell, fucking pay me rent.” Anything for Mu Qing to stay here. “Give me half your severance pay, or whatever amount makes you suffer enough to be comfortable not taking the worst option available.”
“Fuck you,” Mu Qing said, and then fell quiet.
The silence stretched. Mu Qing is a creature of habit. When he’s thinking, it comes out as anger. When he’s trying to adjust his worldview, trying to make room for a new adjustment to a situation he thought he understood, it’s best not to interrupt him.
Feng Xin learned that the hard way.
Even now, he’s still bad at leaving Mu Qing alone. But in that moment, Feng Xin would have done anything just to keep Mu Qing where he belonged — sitting on Feng Xin’s couch, stealing his space, driving him crazy. If that meant shutting his mouth, better to swallow his own tongue than ruin his own plans.
Finally, Mu Qing sighed. “Fine.”
“Fine?”
“Just shut up,” Mu Qing said. “I said yes. Don’t make me regret it.”
Feng Xin couldn’t help but grin. Mu Qing glanced at him, turned even redder, and shifted his gaze back to the TV. This was clearly the regretting that Mu Qing threatened, and still he didn’t change his mind.
Mu Qing moved in. All his pens are on the desk in the spare bedroom. All his clothes are in the closet, hung in color coordinated bundles depending on what he’s most likely to pair together. All his defenses are the same, even as he takes up more space than ever before.
It’s fine. Feng Xin likes it. Mu Qing is a creature of habit, and Feng Xin is glad to be considered one.
—
Since moving in, Feng Xin has a lack of alone time.
Feng Xin has lived by himself ever since Jian Lan broke up with him. He doesn’t keep track of the days anymore — staying friends helped with that, even if it was excruciating those first few months — but he knows it’s been a couple years. Long enough to grow used to doing what he wants, when he wants.
Hungry at midnight after a particularly tough workout that morning? Midnight snack complete with cracking eggs into a pan for a burst of protein. Bad day? Collapsed onto the couch watching sitcoms until his brain stops beating out a recap of every way he’s fucked up these last one, two, five, ten years.
Horny? Well.
Feng Xin has tried, he really has, but it’s weird to get off knowing Mu Qing is cooking in the other room. Or showering — naked, again — or in his room on his computer or just generally existing in the same area.
More than once Feng Xin has found himself up later than he should be, one hand bent underneath his neck while the other palms himself through his shorts. It’s the feeling that drives him crazy; half pleasure from the pressure, half frustration from the resisted urge to just take himself in hand and come.
Eventually, Feng Xin’s hand drifts underneath his waistband. Through the fabric, brushes the skin of his cock, draws a swallow, and then he thinks —
Mu Qing.
He’s asleep in the next room. Probably bundled underneath a pile of blankets with the window wide open, his hair a mess around him and the lines of his face evened out to a peacefulness only extended by the slight gap between his lips. Not snoring, but a gentle in and out, in and out, in and out —
Feng Xin pulls his hand from his cock. The sudden absence burns. He stares at the ceiling, breathes out through his nose, and clenches his teeth.
Mu Qing.
So much a presence it’s like he’s in the room. And if he were, Feng Xin would never touch himself. And if he were on Feng Xin’s mind, he would never come at the thought of him.
Feng Xin can’t touch himself at night. Feng Xin can’t touch himself during the day, while Mu Qing is here. Feng Xin shouldn’t touch himself during the day while Mu Qing is gone, even though he could, because the whole time he’s thinking Mu Qing Mu Qing Mu Qing —
Because Mu Qing is going to be back. Feng Xin is going to feel like he’s breached some boundary that wasn’t set in the first place. He’s failed in some odd, important way he can’t quite place.
Mu Qing is gone. Feng Xin is horny. Instead of touching himself, he does the least-arousing thing he can think of — he calls Xie Lian.
“Feng Xin,” Xie Lian says, as pleased as ever.
“Is he there?” Always the first question out of Feng Xin’s mouth. He taps the fingers of his free hand along the arm of the couch.
Xie Lian pauses. “Ah, no. San Lang is at the store.”
So is Mu Qing. For a brief moment, Feng Xin has the wonderful mental image of the two running into each other. Like cats baring their teeth and bristling their fur. Like dogs with growls hovering at the back of their throat. Like Mu Qing when he’s angry, eyes narrowed to slits.
Stop it, Feng Xin berates himself. His dick doesn’t listen.
“Good,” Feng Xin says.
A sigh. “Feng Xin.”
“It’s healthy to have breaks from each other.” The closest Feng Xin will get to an apology. He’s not sorry at all. “With the way he’s attached to you like a brain-eating amoeba even him going to the store is —”
“Let’s not talk about my relationship!” Xie Lian’s voice is chipper. Feng Xin smiles; they’ve been friends for as long as he can remember. Kindergarten, preschool, before — long enough that he doesn’t even have to imagine the smiling, stretched grimace on his face; he just knows. “It’s all old news. How are you and Mu Qing?”
The question gives Feng Xin pause.
On the surface, they’re doing fine. Better than Feng Xin expected. Long gone are the days where they threw fists, but the fighting has never stopped. Something about Feng Xin’s temper, something about Mu Qing’s inability to take a joke. Fire and fire; when the two meet, the flames only grow.
So yes, they argue. They fight. Not about being roommates, though. Feng Xin never has to bother Mu Qing about the dishes. They do laundry separately, do chores as they see them needing to be done, and all and all are compatible in a way that confuses Feng Xin.
Yes, they argue. Yes, they fight. Yes, “We’re fine.”
“I’m happy to hear it,” Xie Lian says. “I was a little worried when you told me the plan. And shocked as well — I knew you two had the potential to be close. I’m glad you’re putting aside your differences.”
We’re not, Feng Xin wants to say. The differences are all there. He’s a goddamn bastard and I can’t masturbate in my own home.
“He’s still a goddamn bastard,” Feng Xin says. “He uses up all the hot water.”
Xie Lian makes a sound halfway between laughing and choking. God. Feng Xin wants him here.
Ages ago, the two of them lived together. College roommates all four years; there was a period of time where the two of them planned on living together afterwards too, but then Xie Lian moved in with Hua Cheng and Feng Xin did what was right with Jian Lan. If you’re graduated, if you’re in love, if you’ve been together for years, you get an apartment.
Marriage. Rings. Feng Xin thought about buying one but never got around to it. Jian Lan was far too down to earth, never caught up in anything close to romantic fantasies.
The point being, Feng Xin misses Xie Lian. He misses the them they were before Hua Cheng and Mu Qing’s space in Feng Xin’s life and Jian Lan’s presence preceding her acute absence. He misses being a kid with his best friend.
Xie Lian shifts the conversation to Feng Xin’s work. He asks the same question in return, an easy forward and backward banter that’s familiar enough to be comfortable. Slowly, the heat under his skin settles. He stops thinking of Mu Qing, of his problems, and focuses only on the sound of Xie Lian’s laugh.
The thing about him, though, is that he’s smart. He picks up on things without Feng Xin even realizing. So, when Xie Lian says, “I’m sure things with Mu Qing will get easier,” the momentary shock quickly settles into relief.
For all he complains, Feng Xin hopes. He’d never have invited Mu Qing to move in if he truly detested him. Or even if he thought Mu Qing hated him — it’s complicated, and nothing more than that.
“I know,” Feng Xin says. “It’s just…”
“Mmhm.” Xie Lian’s comforting tone isn’t lost on Feng Xin. “If all else, you can destress at Pei Ming’s party.” There’s the sound of a door opening on Xie Lian’s end.
“What party?” Feng Xin waits for an answer. All he gets is Xie Lian’s muffled voice, mixed with the staticky sound of Hua Cheng. He says again, “What fucking party?” And is met with a dropped call.
Figures.
Feng Xin slips his phone back into his pocket. He stares at the TV. The dark screen stares back. Mu Qing will probably be home soon with groceries only for himself and not for Feng Xin — that’s what he’ll say, at least, but he’s a goddamn hypocrite and buys eggs even though Feng Xin is the only one who eats them frequently enough to warrant an entire dozen each week.
That heat under his skin is back. Not like he wants to touch himself, but like he wants to tear off his skin and look at the person underneath.
The thing is, Feng Xin knows he isn't gay. Or bi. Or anything that isn't 100% straight, because contrary to popular opinion he has thought about it, he has considered the fact that heterosexuality can be compulsive and there might be something he's missing.
But he's not gay. He's sure of it. Because Xie Lian is his best friend and he's never wanted to fuck him.
Like, sure, he’s thought about it — anybody would be lucky to be the one Xie Lian trusts to peel back his layers and look into his eyes and see nothing but pure, overwhelming intimacy — but he’s never wanted to. Thinking is fine. Thinking isn’t gay. Thinking is a thought exercise.
The point is, if someone doesn’t want Xie Lian, they’re obviously not attracted to men as a whole. That’s just logic. Feng Xin is sure Mu Qing would agree. By the laws of logic he also wants to fuck Xie Lian, even if he wouldn’t, because if he did Feng Xin would never be able to look either of them in the eye ever again, too busy thinking about that sour feeling in his gut from Mu Qing —
But not because he’s homophobic. He isn’t. Just — he’s not gay.
So if he’s uncomfortable with Mu Qing swanning half-naked around his apartment, there’s nothing homosexual about it. In fact, there’s something very heterosexual about it. Feng Xin doesn’t want Mu Qing to be uncomfortable. With the fact that he’s straight.
And thinking of him. And half-hard.
Feng Xin has everything under control.
—
Feng Xin has everything under control.
Feng Xin has a career. He’s a nutritionist, and a damn good one, too. He went to college and graduated with a good GPA and went to grad school. He studied when he needed to and carved out time to socialize and nurture his relationship with Jian Lan. He graduated, moved in with his girlfriend, built the life his parents always wanted for him —
Feng Xin has a career. He doesn’t have the house, or the wife, or the acclaim, but he has clients he adores and a robust social life with the friends who stuck around after college. Fuck his parents.
Fuck his parents, until it’s seven in the morning and he’s still got a mug in his room from the day before. If this were the house he’d grown up in, Feng Xin’s mother would be giving him the side eye for not taking it to the kitchen immediately. If these were the dreams Feng Xin fostered himself, he might think twice about his own opinions on dirty dishes in his room.
The mug is clear. It had water in it. Feng Xin’s mother will be dead within twenty years.
Feng Xin has everything under control.
With the mug in hand, Feng Xin opens his bedroom door. When he woke an hour ago to shower and eat breakfast, Mu Qing was solidly in his room. Given that he’s currently unemployed, Feng Xin fully expects him to be asleep long after he leaves for work.
Which is why the sight of Mu Qing in the living room stops him in his tracks.
The only reason. The sudden tenseness in his muscles has everything to do with the surprise and nothing to do with Mu Qing’s ass-up, head-down position on a yoga mat in the middle of the rug between the couch and the TV.
Feng Xin stands, rooted in place, and runs through a series of questions. The first of which is, what the fuck? The second, why the fuck? The third, do I fucking interrupt this shit? The fourth, asshole, asshole, asshole, asshole, asshole —
Conveniently right there in Feng Xin’s face. Mu Qing wears leggings that cling to his skin. The logical side of Feng Xin’s mind can appreciate that they’re probably great for mobility, the same way he has athletic shorts for his own workouts. The shocked, confused, upset side of his mind argues that this is hardly better than Mu Qing’s ass being completely bare.
Carefully, Mu Qing lifts one leg straight into the air. Feng Xin averts his eyes. He resists the urge to clear his throat. He’s sure it’s rude to interrupt a yoga routine, even if it’s in the middle of his own goddamn living room.
Positive, actually, the longer he stands here. Jian Lan went through phases with her athletics. For a while it was yoga, then Tai Chi, then trail running, and a brief period where she followed Feng Xin to his own gym and copied his own workouts. He’d been supportive, sure, he loved her to pieces and made sure it echoed through everything he did, but —
Feng Xin couldn’t understand Jian Lan, even as he adored her.
Mu Qing swings the leg in the air in front of his body, twisting his torso. Within moments, he’s looking towards the kitchen, his ass mercifully no longer right in front of Feng Xin’s face. His arms are straight forward and straight backward, some pose Feng Xin recognizes even as he doesn’t know the name.
Tension releases from Feng Xin’s shoulders. This position is better. Less awkward to intervene on. He opens his mouth to speak at the exact moment that Mu Qing inhales and twists his arm over his head. He rests his torso along his leg, hands flat on either side of his foot, and lifts his other leg straight into the air.
Mu Qing’s hands wrap around his ankle. Feng Xin swallows.
Fuck decorum. Feng Xin should have interrupted Mu Qing the moment he saw him, because now, when he’s been standing here for at least five fucking minutes, he looks like a goddamn creep.
Friends don’t stare at friends while they do obscene yoga poses. Friends don’t look at their friend’s bulge in their too-tight leggings, even when said bulge is right in front of their eyes at seven in the morning and they haven’t gotten off in who knows how long.
Straight friends don’t make gay friends uncomfortable.
Mu Qing repeats the pose with his other leg. Completely unrelated to anything going on, Feng Xin wonders if one of his balls is bigger than the other. It would be completely normal if so, and something that Feng Xin would never want to see outside of a purely scientific standpoint.
Gradually, Mu Qing shifts again. He places his hands on the mat, bends his knee, and kicks up the leg still on the floor.
Mu Qing meets Feng Xin’s gaze. His bare feet touch in midair, calves together. His loose T-shirt falls down, a victim of gravity, revealing abs that suddenly make sense within the context of Mu Qing’s apparent yoga habit.
“What are you doing?” Mu Qing asks.
“Um.” Feng Xin falters. He raises his mug as an answer. “What the fuck are you doing?”
“Downward dog,” Mu Qing says. “Warrior two pose. Standing split. Handstand pose.” He raises an eyebrow. Impressive, considering he’s actively upside down. “Haven’t you heard of yoga, Feng Xin?”
“Of course I fucking —” Feng Xin breaks off. God. God. Fucking bastard. “Doesn’t mean you have to do it in the middle of the goddamn living room.”
Here is where Mu Qing fights him back. Feng Xin feels it in the anger blazing through him, as sudden and familiar as the heat turned on a stovetop. Here is where Mu Qing fights him back, and yet he’s still in his handstand and studying Feng Xin with an unfamiliar glint in his eye.
Inexplicably, Mu Qing smiles. “Hm.” It’s a small thing, an upturn at the corner of his mouth, but it’s there.
Feng Xin’s grip on the mug tightens. He feels as though he’s walked into a trap set by someone who anticipates his moves before he makes them. Of course Mu Qing does yoga in the living room. Of course Feng Xin is going to stop, and stare at him, and get caught with that fucking smile like he just doesn’t see the sum total of his actions and —
Mu Qing yawns. He covers his mouth. Meaning he’s doing a one-handed handstand, with his entire body horizontal in midair, with his abs in full view and his leggings so tight Feng Xin can see fucking everything.
Feng Xin’s composure breaks. He turns around and goes back to his room.