Work Text:
Mu Qing’s head is killing him.
It feels like it’s splitting in half. His neck is also cramped and weird, but he can’t move his head quite well. He wants to move around; maybe hug his pillow, but his arms don’t- move?
Reality comes to him in waves. Did he oversleep? His boss is going to yell at him. He really can’t be slacking this quarter. They’re always watching; he had to take a sick day already and-
His eyelids feel heavy as he opens them, hating the taste of bile and grime on his teeth. He’ll never go to bed without brushing his teeth ag-
White cabinets and light blue walls and stupid white curtains that have nothing to do with his home.
A hospital room? Why is he in a hospital room?
What in the world happened?
“Mu Qing? Are you awake?"
Even exhausted, the voice is unmistakable.
Feng Xin’s broad shoulders are crammed into a plastic chair. He looks terrible: gaunt circles under red-rimmed eyes; that stubble that scratches his neck red when he whispers sweet nothings as he fucks him on their bed. He’s wearing a dark blue suit with a yellow tie — the same one that had triggered the fight that ruined their joke of an anniversary.
“Of course I’m awake,” he says; his voice raspy and disgusting; but his. “What time is it? Who let you in here?”
Feng Xin’s eyebrows furrow, but he doesn’t rise to the bait. Somehow, Mu Qing gathers that he’s too exhausted to fight. He presses the button by the side of the bed and sits there, in silence, as they wait.
It feels deafening.
A young woman comes in then, and goes over what Mu Qing assumes is the usual for someone that woke up from long unconsciousness. She asks him his name, and how old he is and what year they are in. She nods to all of his answers and smiles as she writes his answers down.
He gazes at Feng Xin, expecting to see him standing on the other side of the room; weird about women as always. But he’s remained close, listening to the interaction and looking at the nurse with an odd intense look on his face.
He doesn’t like it.
Mu Qing looks at the woman again. Is she Feng Xin’s type? What does he know about Feng Xin’s usual type? She is kind of pretty; a little older than them, with dark hair tied neatly with braids. Maybe he likes short bubbly nurses that ask way too many questions.
He only half listens as the nurse speaks, only making vague agreement noises at the right times. Finally, the examination is over. She smiles, and Mu Qing feels his stomach churn when he imagines Feng Xin looking at that.
Smiling comes really hard to Mu Qing these days.
“When can I leave?”
The nurse, on her way out of the room, turns to look at him. Her face betrays nothing, but somehow Mu Qing senses she’s keeping something inside.
“The doctor will come to evaluate you soon,” she says, smiling politely. “They’ll give you more information then.”
“Please tell that doctor to hurry,” Mu Qing says, adding as much authority as he can to his voice. “I can’t keep missing work.”
It was bad enough already. He’d been unconscious the whole Monday. His boss is going to kill him.
The nurse doesn’t nod or frown. She promises she’ll do what she can and leaves.
The silence feels like a gorge — an endless ravine. Feng Xin and him are standing on opposite sides.
It’s cold and empty. The sensation squeezes in through every crevice in his body, making him feel swollen and strange.
“You never answered,” he says, unable to put up with it. “How did you get in here?”
Feng Xin’s jaw hardens again.
“I came in the ambulance with you,” he says finally, voice rough. “Told them you were my fiancé on the phone. No one told me to leave.”
Mu Qing has to hold back a laugh. Fiancé. Fiancé, even though it’d been three days since the last time Feng Xin wore his engagement ring.
He sneers at the thought. Wonders if Feng Xin still has it on him; if he’ll hand it over to him, now that the worst of the danger is over.
His chest aches.
“Must’ve sucked to let them think you were gay, huh?”
The words have the desired effect. Feng Xin’s face scrunches up, and something inside Mu Qing coils; ready for an attack.
“Are you really fucking doing this now?”
Mu Qing laughs bitterly; not an ounce of joy in his voice. It takes so much space inside him; pressing onto his stomach and squeezing his heart against his throat.
“I’m sorry- maybe they’d realize you were bisexual, right? Though I doubt Miss Nurse here will care much for the difference… Should I call her back for you? Maybe she’ll give you her numb-”
A slam. Feng Xin slams his fist on the bedside table. Next thing he knows, he’s buried his face in his hands.
“Stop,” he starts, shaking his head. “Please stop. I can’t. Not right now.”
Mu Qing sees him sigh; his broad shoulders sagging. He takes one deep breath, then two, then three; all of them broken down by sobs. Tears well up in his eyes and he wipes them off, but more quickly follow.
He gives up. His shoulder sag, and tears stream down his face. He reaches to hold Mu Qing’s hand. He is far too stunned to pull away; kept in place by pure shock.
He can’t remember seeing Feng Xin cry. Why would the first time be about him?
“Qing-er- you almost died.”
Mu Qing hated that the word “recreational” had ever been associated to the use of drugs.
The handful of times his so-called friends had tried to get him to try them, he’d declined. He didn’t get the appeal of anything that made you look stupid, or do stupid shit you’d end up regretting later. He had no interest in being one of those idiots at parties, drooling all over the floor and talking nonsense into the void.
Mu Qing had managed to avoid drugs at parties; he’d avoided drinking, too, for similar reasons. It was repulsive.
But the pills that helped him study were a different story.
It was all very simple: a single bad grade could end him; his scholarship and future would go down the drain. Mu Qing needed to study; he needed to stay awake in class and pay attention. Focus.
But he also needed to keep the lights on.
His mother could barely make ends meet as it was; buried under the weight of the huge debt Mu Qing’s father had acquired before going to jail and dying. His sister was too young to work.
Mu Qing was in a bind: he needed time to study and he needed time to attend to social gatherings so his stupid friends wouldn’t drop him and he needed time to work; all of it for his future.
Graveyard shifts paid extra, so it was a no-brainer to pick them. He’d go from work to school, and from school to studying and socializing, and then from socializing to work.
There wasn’t much time to sleep so he needed the pills.
It felt like the perfect solution: finally, he didn’t have to struggle to stay up. He had enough time to work and study. Keeping his grades up became easier.
For the first time in his life, he was ahead: no longer scrambling to reach deadlines; never having to lower his head while a friend begged a teacher for an extension on his behalf. Finally, he could do everything.
Paying for the pills meant skipping on a couple things, but he was working enough hours to cover it. A couple naps here and there were enough to keep him going. If money got tight, there were many idiots in his fancy private school that would pay handsomely for a passing grade. It didn’t take much effort or time, and it meant he could afford his lifeline.
To need something everyone else didn’t need wasn’t exactly a novel concept. Mu Qing already knew he wasn’t like them — the rich kids in this expensive hellhole that got everything on a silver platter. If Mu Qing wanted to get to their level, it only made sense that he’d need a little extra help.
Even as the years passed and he moved onto stronger drugs, it didn’t really seem like a problem. Mu Qing was good at everything: he did sports, got excellent grades and worked all the way through university. He landed a prestigious demanding job. He got all the acolytes. Everything he did, he was great at.
Even if he needed something to get him through the day (and sometimes a different type of something to help him sleep), he didn’t think it was that bad: many people took medications to function in normal society. It’s just that what he needed happened to be outside the realm of legal substances.
He monitored his body for any major signs of decay, and told himself he’d quit before anything truly bad happened. He could quit whenever he wanted. He didn’t need it, even if it made things easier.
And then Feng Xin moved in.
Their relationship had moved on fast. Feng Xin was intoxicating in a way no substance ever had been. His attention felt exhilarating. It always had.
But Mu Qing knew how he felt about drugs: the kind of hard-headed no-nuance approach that had led him and Xie Lian to quarrel with their friends in school. He would definitely not understand.
It’d be easier, he thought, to stop using, but it wasn’t hard to talk himself out of it. Why would he need to? As long as he was careful with the when and where, there was no reason to stop.
Thinking back, it wasn’t his smartest moment.
Of course, Feng Xin ended up finding out. They fought about it. Mu Qing promised he’d quit — and he meant it.
But it was so hard.
He never imagined it’d be like that. He-
He needed more time. That was all. It was unreasonable to expect him to give it all up at once! He just needed more time. A little bit. Just- just a little bit.
Of course, Feng Xin found out again, and they fought again. He lied — about how long he’d been using again and said he’d stop.
The third time, Feng Xin seemed too disappointed. He seemed about ready to quit. Mu Qing had offered counselling desperately; trying to get him to stay. Swearing up and down that he’d quit; that it was the last time. And he meant it, but-
But it was hard.
“Qing-er- you almost died.”
Something inside Mu Qing cracks. Next thing he knows, Feng Xin’s head is buried on his lap. Mu Qing’s fingers are petting his head, scratching the nape of his neck without making a sound. He’s too stunned to form words, and he’s never been good at those anyways. They seem to fail him constantly, especially with Feng Xin.
So, he stays silent, playing with his lover’s hair and making circles on his shoulders. Feng Xin just clings to his legs and the hospital robe; like he wanted to drag him closer.
The words stumble out of him through the sobbing. I found you in the bathroom, he says. You were not moving. He talks about his hair; about the sickness coming off his mouth, from when his body tried to purge the poison by making him vomit.
Mu Qing’s hands are shaking. Now he is the one taking deep breaths. His heart hammers in his chest; a delayed sort of panic that he didn’t think to feel before the world went black.
“Y-you don’t have to cry,” he attempts; trying to ignore the way his voice shakes. “I didn’t really die, did I?”
“But you almost died,” Feng Xin pushes, squeezing him tighter. “You don’t get to fight me on that. You overdosed. If I had arrived home ten minutes later, you’d be dead.”
The ringing in Mu Qing’s ears gets louder, like the heart that had been about to stop was fighting to make itself heard. Feng Xin has given up on fighting the tears. He’s openly clinging to him now, like he could somehow keep him from leaving this world if he held strongly enough.
“You know I’m careful,” he tries again, through the knot in his throat. “It was- I wouldn’t have-”
“You did.”
Silence stretches again. Mu Qing feels stripped raw, pink and sensitive and like even the air around him is too much.
He had it under control. He was only using sometimes; and he knew his limits and was careful with his dosage. He’s been doing this for years. He-
He’s not an addict. He has a job, for crying out loud! He is one of the most functional adults he knows. He can keep it under control. He has it under control.
But then again, isn’t that what every addict thinks? Mu Qing used to sneer at the characters that used in shows and movies; how they all said they were fine while their lives crumbled around them. Mu Qing was so unlike them: the perfect employee; the perfect son and older brother. The one who had his shit together.
He feels sick.
“How didn’t I notice you were still-?” Feng Xin starts; loathing creeping into his voice. “Fuck. I keep- fucking hell. I know I’m not supposed to ask, but it’s fucking me up. What did I miss? I thought you’d quit.”
Mu Qing swallows.
He had said that to Feng Xin: that he’d just stop using altogether; to get him off his back.
Seriously? You believed that?
But Feng Xin’s eyes are too wet; he’s sobbing too hard for such a remark to come out.
“I was trying- to quit,” he replies, instead, swallowing hard. “It- it had been a couple days since the last time.”
“A couple da- fuck,” Feng Xin shakes his head. “I thought you were done with that shit.”
“Well,” Mu Qing mutters, morose. “Being broken up with would make anyone relapse.”
It’s supposed to be a joke, mostly. It’s a bad one, but what was Feng Xin expecting? Being broken up with is hard. Even if Mu Qing had fully quit, it wouldn’t be that weird for a break up to cause a relapse. It happens with every addiction, really. What was he expecting?
“Break up?”
Feng Xin sits up. In any other situation, the face would’ve almost been funny: his nose and eyes are all red; his hair is messy, and he’s looking at Mu Qing as if he’d grown two heads.
It’s not all that funny now. Mu Qing didn’t mean to bring it up- he didn’t want to. He didn’t want to make Feng Xin remember that he hated him and leaving.
But Feng Xin doesn’t look like he suddenly remembered Mu Qing is his least favorite person. If anything, he looks confused, like he didn’t remember their fight.
“I do remember we had a fight,” Mu Qing starts, feeling his throat way too tight. “And you-”
“Did you think I was breaking up with you?”
Mu Qing’s mouth opens, but no sound comes out. He closes it, going over their argument.
“You said you were done,” he hears himself say; through the ringing of his heart in his ears. “You said-”
“I was done with the fucking fight!” Feng Xin barks, running a hand through his hair. “Fucking hell, Mu Qing! I went on a walk to cool off! Who said anything about breaking up!?”
Mu Qing opens his mouth to reply and then closes it.
“That’s not what you said.”
Feng Xin groans, and stands up, letting go of Mu Qing completely. He starts pacing the room back and forth, taking deep breaths. He looks like he wants to go on a rage, or maybe break down crying again. All things considered, he might end up doing a bit of both.
“Look- I didn’t know, alright?” he hears himself say, through a tight far too tight throat. “I didn’t know you were coming back! You said you were done and you left! How was I supposed to-?”
“Mu Qing,” Feng Xin interrupts him, “we fucking talked about this! The fucking therapist said I couldn’t be screaming and cussing! We said I had to fucking cool down and come back when I could talk and not scream! I didn’t even take anything! Where the fuck would I even go!?”
The reply is at the tip of his tongue, and Mu Qing has to hold it back. It’s not like Feng Xin lacked places to go. Sure, his parents lived in another town, but they owned their place; it wouldn’t be a problem for them to host him. Then they could introduce him to the myriad of eligible candidates.
There was also Xie Lian and his stupíd new apartment with space for guests. Mu Qing had never doubted that, if they broke up, Feng Xin would be the one keeping their friends. Feng Xin would’ve had plenty of places to go.
Still they- they had said that.
When was it? Two, or maybe three sessions ago. It had been such a satisfying session. Their two first sessions had all focused on him: his apparent addiction to work, which the therapist thought had replaced his addiction to work; his inability to let go of things; the grudges he held and how he sometimes didn’t feel like spelling out everything for Feng Xin. It was always his fault, so going over the screaming and cussing had felt nice.
Feng Xin had nodded at the words, looking mortified and upset. Still, he hadn’t argued. Something inside Mu Qing was extremely satisfied.
The two sessions after had been more like the first one. It didn’t help that Mu Qing’s boss was a jackass, so he’d had to miss nearly half of their next session — which obviously set their therapist against him all at once. He hated all the pointed questions; the attempts to poke at things Mu Qing really didn’t want to poke at.
He was fine. Relationships were not all fields of roses and maybe theirs was just one of the bad ones. Maybe Mu Qing was just bad. His boss certainly seemed to think he was.
Thinking about therapy started to feel- bad. So, Mu Qing didn’t. Ever. He’d never visit that corner of his head if he could help it.
It remained true, even as Feng Xin was throwing the door closed.
His ears are ringing again. He wants to be angry at Feng Xin for something — for leaving, for arguing with him, for fucking existing and making everything so hard and-
He hiccups. His eyes well up with tears and he has to bury his head in his knees to keep them in. He feels- he-
He almost died. He almost died and Feng Xin was not leaving him. He almost died and-
“Qing-er- it’s- I’m-”
In another world, maybe Mu Qing would laugh. Now Mu Qing is crying, and nothing makes his partner panic more than tears. He can’t say that it’s okay, because it’s not, so he’s standing there, silent.
God, he feels pathetic. He sounds pathetic. He is an addict. An addict that almost died because he thought he’d been broken up with and he can’t even stop fucking-
A calloused hand closes on his, grounding him. Feng Xin’s other hand finds his hair and pets it so softly. It’s so slow and tender and it’s clumsy, because Feng Xin is trying to be soft. Because he cares.
“I’m not- alright, or okay, or anything even remotely close to that,” Feng Xin starts, voice tired. “I’m fucking scared, alright? I almost lost you and it sucked. All of this sucks.”
“I’m s-sorry,” Mu Qing starts, swallowing. “I’m the- I’m the fucking worst.”
“You’re not,” Feng Xin says, and Mu Qing feels him enveloping him in a hug. “Fuck! Don’t argue with me. You’re not! I said it. That’s final.”
Mu Qing doesn’t know if he wants to be angry or laugh.
They stay close again; Feng Xin holding him this time. The hug gets tighter; like he was scared he’d end up hurting him and felt able to squeeze just a little more each time.
“Qing-er, you need help,” Feng Xin speaks, after a while. “Fuck. I don’t even know where to start. But we have to figure something out.”
Mu Qing clings to Feng Xin’s arm. He hates himself for it, but he can’t help it. It looks like Feng Xin will not leave. He’ll stay.
Mu Qing doesn’t know if he’ll believe it tomorrow. Maybe he won’t believe it in an hour, once the emotions quell down and he’s able to think with his head.
Right now, though, he does.
“I’ll- do something,” he mumbles, hiding his face on Feng Xin’s neck, “I’ll- I’ll try.”
“Good.”
It turned out that quitting drugs wasn’t just about quitting drugs.
He’d gotten another therapist — one of his own who specialized in addiction. Feng Xin said it didn’t have to work out with this one. That, if it didn’t, they would find someone else. As long as Mu Qing kept trying.
Mu Qing did like her, though. She was calm and collected; a no-nonsense older woman with an even voice that would ask him questions and let him figure out the answers for himself. She’d asked him why he used, and nodded as Mu Qing told him the whole story: the scholarship, the grades, the graveyard shifts and the socializing. How exhausting everything was. How ne heeded something to stay afloat.
“That sounds like the story of why you started,” she pointed out, voice calm. “I would like to know why you’re using now.”
Mu Qing had to think about it. Was it because it felt good? Was it because it made him sane?
It helped him- stay. Without drugs, it felt like everything just ran out of him. He became irritable. He fell behind on his work. He couldn’t get the bonuses that helped him keep up with his expenses.
His therapist didn’t smile. She never quite did. Oddly enough, Mu Qing found this comforting. She didn’t seem like someone that would tell him pretty lies.
“It sounds like we could start by exploring coping mechanisms.” She pointed out, calmly. “But let’s touch back on your work for a second. How often do you think you end up working overtime?”
Mu Qing opened his mouth to reply, and then closed it.
Somehow, he finished that session in tears.
“We received your resignation letter. I’m so disappointed in you, boy. I thought you had a good head on your shoulders. Your name was on the roster for promotions this year.”
Mu Qing smiled, ruefully.
“What good is it for my name to be there? It never gets picked.”
“Please don’t worry, ge! My friend is really nice and she’ll let me stay with her until the end of the year — you can’t be paying both mom’s and my rent. Your husband is going to hate us!”
“So I called the moving company and- don’t look at me like that Qing-er! I’m too old to pack boxes all by myself! Once I move into the new place, you don’t need to send me anything anymore. It’s been long enough… When am I going to get a grandchild if you’re still looking after your mother?”
“Mom!”
“What? You remember Mrs. Chen? Her uncle’s cousin’s granddaughter just adopted a little boy! Look at those chubby cheeks!”
“Thank you for coming today. Now, let’s begin.”
Even though the meeting always started the same, Mu Qing made an effort to listen. He’d seen most of the people here multiple times — a few had been coming here once a week for even longer than him.
He remembers how nerve-wracking it was, at first: sitting in his car in a dark hoodie, trying to keep himself from a panic attack. He remembers wanting someone to come get him, and wishing that no one would notice him at all. He remembers driving back home in the middle of a panic attack.
He’d had to text Xie Lian and ask him to drive him next time. His eternally supportive presence was infuriating, but it also meant he couldn’t just go back.
It’s very different now: the faces are familiar. He knows their struggles and their stories. He knows them; he can see parts of himself in them: the struggles he faced, the lies he told himself and the truths he ended up having to face.
“Hello, my name is Mu Qing, and I’m an addict,” he waited, taking a deep breath, as the group greeted him. “I’ve been coming here for eight years, and I’ve been sober for five.”
He waits, not even trying to hide his smile as the group claps.
“I’m not going to lie: it’s hard,” he shakes his head. “It does get easier with time, but it’s the hardest shit I’ve ever done in my life.”
He takes a deep breath, a whirlwind of memories running through his head: he’d had to make so many changes, and even that wasn’t enough. It took effort; perseverance and a huge amount of pain, and healing, and then even more pain.
But it’s been worth it.
“I guess the one thing that helped me the most was- when I stopped saying I was fine.”
It was an uphill battle, at first. It’s a battle, still, but it’s not always uphill. Sometimes, the ground is even. These days, it almost feels like he has the advantage.
“I wasn’t — hadn’t been in years, before I got help. But I am now.”