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It's elegant. It's decadent. It's shockingly Eastern in style. The Earl would surely disapprove. Neither of them care. The sick-sweet fumes curl and curl in the air around them, a delicious poison that makes colors dance before their eyes.
For once, they are alone. The crowds, the noise of the den they shared with the masses is far, far away now. For now, it is simply the two of them, and the fiery vapor that warms them to the core.
Long ago, Zhuang Zhou would dream of becoming a butterfly. Now, there is no need; butterflies, Lau concluded, were best left in their own world, their wings safe from the flame of human wrath and avarice.
He saw a collection of preserved butterflies, once. At a museum in London. All pierced through the middle and encased in glass. It seems that not even the purest souls are safe from harm, in this day and age. But there is nothing he can do about that. Worrying is beneath him, now.
A delicate hand reaches for the pipe clutched in his own. Ranmao's chest rises, ever so slowly, and then falls. From between her painted lips emerges a cloud of toxic perfume.
He can see her, but beyond that he is blind. Oh, he knows where they are; their home is richly furnished, filled with everything they lacked before: comfort, security, and most of all, solitude. Outside the walls, a thousand butterflies continue their everlasting search for the sweetness within the flowers of the field. But here, they are wrapped in their own narcotic chrysalis. There is no one to disturb their reverie; they are lost, chasing imaginary butterflies beneath their eyelids. The rest of the world can collapse where it stands for all they care. All they need is each other, and the ember-warm air they breathe.
Ranmao rests her head on his chest, leans them both back until they are recumbent on the silk pillows. She looks up at him, an idle, wordless question in her eyes.
"Heaven only knows, my dear," Lau whispers, "but wherever they are, I'm sure they can't be near as happy as we are now."
He thinks of the butterflies outside, free to fly wherever they wish, without needing to forge their own wings in the heat of an opium lamp. They will go out and watch them later, Lau decides. Really, their beauty never fades. True beauty never does, no matter what mankind might do to try to ensure otherwise.
He tilts the pipe very carefully, fills his lungs to the brim, and then holds the clouds inside for a moment, savoring the lightheaded sensation it brings.
Ranmao looks up at him, slides herself up to meet his relaxed gaze, and then does something he had previously thought impossible and surprises him.
Her lips slide open over his in perfect unison with her eyes sliding shut. Gently, she presses on his chest, and he obeys and lets his own lips seal against hers. Like some backwards resuscitation, his breath becomes hers until she moves her head back to his chest and lets the smoke curl into the air again. Neither of them have stopped to breathe between each draw from the pipe. In this world, they don't need to. There is no coughing; they have no need for it. It's much better this way, they agree, to enjoy the calming fog without the fear of sickness from taking too much, or of death from taking much too much.
Finally, they have had enough, and just like that, the lamp and pipe are gone. They will return when they are needed. For now, It is time to rest.
They drift into nothingness, wrapped in each other's embrace, the remnant of the past few hours covering them like a blanket. Ranmao gives him a very satisfied look.
Lau nods in agreement before closing his eyes. Thank you, Earl. We are safe now.