Chapter Text
The front door of Feng Xin's apartment opens easily, though the man himself shuffles inside with an almost petulant weight to his steps. His gym bag lands on the floor, his shoes discarded haphazardly next to it, and he knows Mu Qing will complain about it later, but he can't be assed to put either thing away neatly at the moment.
It makes sense, he supposes, that vomit splattered all over the floor of the gym would require the gym to close… but it wasn't on the treadmill, was it? Or the leg press. Forgive him for being annoyed, but the cost of the gym is rolled in with his rent and he ought to be able to use it when he wants—vomit or not. Health and safety, blah blah blah. He knows how to step around shit—or, vomit, in this case. Whatever. He's annoyed all the same.
He flops down onto the recliner in the living room and knocks his head back to look up at the ceiling. Off to his right, he can hear that Mu Qing is showering.
Their apartment is compact, fitting in it two bedrooms, a bathroom, a kitchen, a living area, and a laundry closet. There's not much room for privacy this way, though the bedroom situation works out well enough. If Feng Xin is in his bedroom and Mu Qing is in his own, they can only really hear each other properly if they shout. But the bathroom door is right off of the open-concept living room, so Feng Xin's gym-less woes are accompanied by the depressing soundtrack of water thundering rhythmically against tile.
He groans quietly and rubs a hand over his face.
They were fighting again. About recycling this time. It really doesn't fucking matter, actually, what their fight was even about. The two of them can fight about anything. If Feng Xin were to say the sky was blue, Mu Qing would just as quickly correct that, no, it was actually cerulean or some other made-up, pretentious-sounding bullshit he pulled out of his ass just to be contrarian.
But as often as they get into it, they don't make an awful pair of roommates.
Mu Qing always does his dishes.
Feng Xin never lets the trash pile up.
Neither of them brings over unexpected guests.
They both respect the space, at least. It's respecting each other that's the difficult part.
It's not all bad, petty arguments aside. Feng Xin would go as far as to say he even enjoys eating dinner with Mu Qing most nights and that he looks forward to watching their stupid survival shows together.
He thinks about their argument tonight and closes his eyes, listening to Mu Qing's shower and feeling a kind of mental exhaustion that only Mu Qing can stir in him.
Feng Xin was in the wrong on this one. He hates to admit it and he most certainly doesn't feel like apologizing for it.
… he might have to, anyway.
Uhg.
He rolls the words over in his mind, trying to pick the route that diffuses their tension without giving Mu Qing the satisfaction of being right. He's not so sure he can balance that.
A different kind of sound catches his ear.
It's rhythmic, too. And oddly familiar.
It starts, carries on maybe 10 or 12 times in a row, and then stops.
And then again.
The pacing is consistent once it gets going but the pauses in between each set don't have a rhyme or reason to them. Not one Feng Xin can discern, at least.
A line forms between Feng Xin's brows. He grips at the arms of the recliner and looks behind him, at the single wall they share with their neighbor, and then above him, at their other neighbor's floor. Neither direction makes sense for the source of the sound. Really, it only makes sense for it to be coming from—
Feng Xin flushes.
From behind the bathroom door.
No fucking way.
Mu Qing is fucking someone.
Confirmation of that comes in the form of a moan—just loud enough to be heard over the sound of the shower. From Feng Xin's place in the living room, it's too hard to tell whether the voice belongs to a man or a woman. Inexplicably, Feng Xin has a strong feeling Mu Qing swings both ways so, really, it's anyone's guess. What he does know is that the tone of this person's voice is almost sorrowful, like what's happening to them hurts. Like it hurts good.
Sweet. Eager. Overwhelmed.
Oh, they are thoroughly enjoying themselves.
And Feng Xin shouldn't be listening.
He should get up, go to his room, and put on his headphones. Or maybe he should see if the cleaning service would allow him into the gym as long as he promised not to step in the vomit.
Feng Xin does neither of these things.
Because Feng Xin can't stop listening.
He grips at the plushness of the recliner, his feet planted firmly on the carpet, and cranes his neck.
He can't explain it—hell, no one could pay him to even try—but he listens for the other voice.
He listens for Mu Qing.
Of all the times to be quiet, he doesn't know why now is the time Mu Qing chooses. Does he truly take his pleasure like this? Completely soundless? Frustratingly, the only parts Feng Xin can pick out are the spray of the showerhead, the dull slap of the thrusts, and the rare, pretty moans of whoever managed to be lucky—or rather, unlucky—enough to earn Mu Qing's attention.
The sound shifts. Feng Xin—who is still listening—imagines the position has changed. Mu Qing has his partner against the wall. The image Feng Xin's mind makes is… infuriating, for some reason. And so fucking hot Feng Xin can't help but adjust his shorts.
This is wrong of him. He shouldn't be doing this. He still has time to move if he hurries. They won't even know he was here. He can put his shoes back on, pick up his gym bag, and go sit in his car.
The thrusts pick up pace and then there are no more pauses, like the two lovers have finally found a rhythm together. Feng Xin expects the moans to get louder now and, stupidly, he leans closer, still struggling to hear anything from Mu Qing at all. The only thing he can make out is that sweet, sweet voice going ah, ah, ah, even quieter than they were before. And then, suddenly, one louder ohh as Mu Qing fucks them through their orgasm.
The thrusts slow and then stop. There's a loud, heavy sigh. It's the only sound Feng Xin knows for certain belongs to Mu Qing. It's criminal how he can piss Feng Xin off and turn him on in—literally—the same breath.
Any following sound is a fuzz of indistinguishable background noise to Feng Xin's ears.
He feels changed.
His pulse thrums under his skin and the back of his neck is sticky with the beginnings of sweat. Vaguely, he remembers he needs to get up but can't seem to get his limbs to listen. It should feel urgent—it is urgent—but despite this, Feng Xin chooses to wait just a little longer to make his escape.
The shower is off. Feng Xin has no idea how long that's been the case. He's been too busy having a crisis in his living room and trying to hurry along the softening of his dick by thinking about grandmas and funerals and shit like that. Unfortunately, Mu Qing's shower-fuck has embedded itself as a movie in the drive-in theater of Feng Xin's mind even though he never actually saw a goddamn thing.
And although all of Feng Xin's alarm bells are ringing, he sets aside all instincts of self-preservation and chooses to remain seated. It's his living room too, he thinks. He's allowed to sit here.
A weak argument. He knows that, too. But his curiosity is too strong to let him do the "right" thing right now.
He unlocks his phone and scrolls, unseeing, through his apps. And then again. Scroll, scroll, scroll. Nonchalant. Obviously so busy and engrossed with a normal face of a normal person who totally didn't just listen to his roommate fuck someone in the other room and who also, totally, didn't enjoy it.
Feng Xin spends the next several minutes sitting on his phone, the tension building in him steadily the longer he waits here.
As he goes back and forth repeatedly in his mind about whether he's going to flee or not, the choice is made for him.
The bathroom door opens.
Out of the corner of his eye, Feng Xin can see the steam curling around the door frame, like an unfurling red carpet. A lightning strike of anticipation bursts in his chest.
His curiosity is burning a hole straight though his gut and he simply can't stop himself from turning to look. He needs to see. He needs to know who.
Mu Qing emerges first.
His skin is thoroughly flushed—his chest and cheeks sporting the majority of the color—and his hair is loose and wet. It spills freely over his shoulders and Feng Xin traces a single water droplet as it falls heavily from the tips. Down down down. It lands just below Mu Qing's navel where he's holding his towel loosely closed around his hips.
Feng Xin feels each cell in his body swell with the breath he takes. His hands clench. He almost sits up straighter to try to get a better view of the doorway—but that's when he sees it.
The fingers of Mu Qing's free hand are splayed to accommodate a small, clear bottle that Feng Xin recognizes as lube and… a dildo.
It's milky white with spots of pink, blue, and green dotted throughout, like sprinkles.
Mu Qing isn't expecting to see him, which is evident by the horrified sound he makes in his throat followed by the distinct thwack of the dildo hitting the floor—bouncing—and then hitting the floor again. Feng Xin half expected the suction cup on the bottom of it to stick and to see it upright in all its cookie-frosting glory, but it lays on the long edge of its bottom instead, propped up by firm balls and a girthy head.
Mu Qing balks, stoops down to grab the dick—drops it again—and, once he finally has it, dashes off to his room with his towel barely staying closed on his way. His door slams.
Fuck.