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When Jinshi woke up, even with the stars above arranged like a glass mosaic, his first glance was downward. He stared downwards directly at the girl sleeping soundly atop his lap, curled like a cat, yet breathing quietly as if a mouse.
It took a moment for his thoughts to catch up to his eyes—to realize that the girl was not just any cat, but his cat. Her green hair was slightly frayed, resting atop the small of her forehead like small wisps of ivy, and her hand laid still against his knee. Her robes had become wrinkled, ever slightly in certain places, but Jinshi felt attracted to them—after all, he had similar indentations in his clothing too. Where hers were, his fit nicely against them like a piece to a puzzle, and he felt compelled to keep it like that for as long as they could withstand it. He could not help but think that perhaps their bodies aligned that way too.
It was only when mother nature blew chilled kisses against his cheek, it dawned on him that he was still sitting beneath a willow tree in the skirts of the rear palace. He tried to recall the moments that led up to this, the cause that drove such a stubborn girl to sleep against the warmth of his body. He could remember the bitter sting of liquor spilling down his throat, the honeysuckle voice that invited him to each sip, the lavender incense that lavished the room.
His body jerked suddenly at a thought—no, rather instinctively—as he remembered the sight of Maomao falling down from the palace wall, piercing the air as gravity took effect. He then, too, remembered the instinct to wrap his hands around her waist, pull her down and closer to him—anything to be inches closer, even if not for long—and beg her to stay. To plead to keep him warm.
Albeit, in the moment and even right now, he felt quite warm— likely because of the alcohol that he had consumed prior. He could not speak the same of his emotions, however, the ones that had seemingly spun loose and unraveled altogether. He tried to pick them up, to spin them back into neat, orderly fashion, but when he failed yet again, he sought his cat out like always.
Yet another instinct he had picked up as of recent, but no matter—he would tell himself it was the alcohol later.
Without a second thought, he took off his outer robe and wrapped it around Maomao. She must have been cold, after reluctantly abiding by his pleas to stay, and he would be damned if she caught ill because of it. It was an odd sight, knowing that she was only a mere lady-in-waiting—a food taster, at that—bundled in a cotton, prestige outer robe with gold frames and indigo velvet.
He could have considered it to be a guilty pleasure, or a poison at that. He should not have been as joyed to see another wearing his clothes, but even with the bright constellations swept across the black sky, he could not bring himself to tear his eyes from her. Nor could he snip away his heart strings that twined themselves around Maomao’s nimble fingers, but again, alcohol would be his excuse.
He lifted her gently off his lap underneath the tree, one arm below her knees and the other against her back. She was still warm, and Jinshi thought he could become drunk again off the sensation if he let himself bask in it any longer.
The thought of someone seeing him, with his arms entangled across her body, made his nerves wake up ever slightly, but he knew he would not mind. He had perfected his smile, and as long as he spoke with confidence, anyone could will to his words. Nearly everyone, for that matter—with the exception of a certain cat-like lady-in-waiting. His cat, he noted once more.
In the midst of his thoughts, he had realized his lashes were still damp and drying from the tears he did not mean to shed earlier. He could not blame himself for not holding them back, for even sometimes even the sun cannot hold back against the rain. He could only be thankful it was Maomao who had seen them, someone who would wipe the tears from streaming fully down to his chin. He knew that she would not talk of it, or this night if she could even recall it in the morning, and he would not either.
“Thank you,” he whispered into her ear softly, hardly audible to anyone but the dirt that stained the tops of her shoulders. “Maomao.”
From the corner of his eye, he found Gaoshun standing idly with a lit lantern. He had known of the invite, known of its sender and address, but had not inquired further. He had no need to, and Jinshi came to appreciate his reserved nature.
“Sir,” Gaoshun bowed his head slightly in greeting. No matter dusk or dawn, manners were manners, and Jinshi could not escape formalities. “Is Xiaomao alright?”
“Yes, although,” he hesitated to tell Gaoshun of her fall, or his action of breaking that fall for her. His back throbbed, especially now as his consciousness began to return to him, but he can claim a different cause to it in the morning. He could lie for now, on her behalf and his selfishness. “She may be cold. I found her underneath a tree nearest to the eastern wall.”
“We should return her to the Jade Pavilion, then.”
“Let’s.” Jinshi agreed, even if the words caused his hands to curl around her small body more firmly, as if to grasp any essence of her and stuff it in his pocket for later. As if to pick the petals off of a rose and let their aroma soak into the sheets of his chamber as he slept, calm and tranquil.
Together, they returned Maomao to her quarters and left without the sight of someone seeing them. Gaoshun had offered to take Maomao’s weight, but Jinshi had politely refused without further questioning. The stars bore witness to his jealousy, and he needed not to worry Gaoshun with such childlike emotions.
A thought nagged him in the back of his mind that perhaps Gaoshun had already known, seeing as the way Jinshi often made detours in their daily schedule of the rear palace to visit the Jade Pavilion, but he merely let the thought flicker away and extinguish as any candle flame would.
As he laid into the sheets of his own chambers, now an hour after returning Maomao, he had realized he left his robe arranged around her waist. He imagined her snuggled close, taking refuge in her own sheets, tangled along the sleeves of his robe. He trusted her to not ask questions of how it got there, or even if she did, he was prepared to whisper sweet lies and make them seem apparent. Maybe Gaoshun would explain on his behalf that he had good intentions—although, it was not as if he did not. Jinshi had decided that it did not matter in the present. Soon, slumber washed over his body, cooed him to sleep, and there he went to dream.
~*~
The next day, or the day after, or any day that followed, they did not speak of the event that occurred that night. Maomao did not pester him with a question of how she had returned to her bed—likely, she had already pieced it together herself—and Jinshi made no references to any words or touches that may have been exchanged.
He had composed the situation as a wordless agreement to not draw more attention to it, to leave it as a promise with no officiality and move on.
That was his impression until Maomao presented herself to him alone in the Jade Pavilion, with his robe folded neatly on the parlor table.
“It has been washed, sir.” She bowed her head, raising her arms gently to hide her still, porcelain face. “Thank you for the kind gesture.”
“Oh?” Jinshi acted in surprise, although truly not fazed in the least, and brought his fingers to the bottom of her chin teasingly. He tilted her head up in taunt, a gentle grin spread wide across his face. “I did not have the idea in mind that you would have been fond of taking my clothes from me, Apothecary.”
“I was not aware that you were of interest in giving them to me, sir.” Her emerald eyes poured into his, and he found himself losing his consciousness amongst them. It was a duel—supposedly, anyhow—of who can withstand the taunts of the other, and here he was, his grip loosening. Yet, as it lessened, he found himself to be more alright with it simply.
Although before he was consumed entirely, he glanced to the ceiling for support before taking the robe up into his arms. “I appreciate the thorough cleaning, Apothecary, but perhaps, next time you will leave it as is.”
“Perhaps.” She whispered quietly, as she bowed once more, watching him leave the parlor swiftly. He would have much preferred to stay in her company, even if seconds could only be permitted, but Gaoshun would not stand for it, given his recent slack in work.
Later, as he let the bittersweet tang of the robe back within his grasp settle in, he would notice a dangling ribbon hanging out of a fold. He unfurled the robe, uncovering a silk blue ribbon, slightly tattered and worn. It was Maomao’s.
God, how she must have loved to poison him with this. To give back his clothes in exchange for an article of hers, as if a deal made with the devil in an angel’s skin. And he would accept even so, tie it in his hair the next day to match hers as he strolled with a glow on his face.
She had poisoned him surely, with whatever infatuation he had caught from her character. It should be considered to be treachery, but could such a crime be punished if he willingly allowed himself to be injected with such feelings? He quickly learned to let the poison settle into his veins, to race and rush down each corridor of his body, and to love it each time.
She was his poison, and he would let her do what she so desired, so long as she willingly kept him spun between her fingers. He would sip it all, drink every drop, and maybe by then, she would become his cure.
She was his medicine and venom, and to him it did not matter how long it took to take effect, whether helpful or harmful. He would wait—patiently and readily—for her to offer herself in full to him, and perhaps one day, they would fall asleep in the same chamber tied and tangled, in both robes and ribbons.