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Maomao has always liked silence.
She doesn't get to hear it that often. Living in the Emperor's palace means there's always something to do. Cleaning, cooking, whatever Gyokuyou commands of her. She is a servant. She is here to serve. At any hour, for any reason.
Crouched in the garden in front of the Jade Pavilion, Maomao gathers the herbs she buried four months ago.
Has it really been that long? Sure, people don't bother her much—aside from her roles as an apothecary and practically the palace detective—but it is still a bit strange to have not heard from a particularly annoying eunuch, or from one of the millions of servants who ask her for advice on everything. Xiaolan doesn't bother her much, but sometimes she can be a bit of a handful.
Before she can daydream any longer, two hands cover her eyes.
“Guess who?” a voice sings out behind her. It can only be one person.
“Shisui, come and help me,” Maomao replies without looking back. She hears a giggle behind her and has to suppress a smile.
“How did you know?” Shisui whines, sitting down beside her and pointedly not helping. Maomao asks her one thing and it's like she's deaf to orders.
“Who else would it be?” Maomao stands up, brushing the mud off her knees. Shisui makes a face like a wet cat as Maomao starts walking toward the storage room she’s turned into her home.
“Xiaolan?” she muses.
“Xiaolan's too loud. I’d hear her coming before she even got close,” Maomao says, opening jars of ingredients to prepare some medicine for the doctor. He's truly so incompetent; it amazes Maomao that he managed to reach such a high position.
"Jinshi?"
Maomao gives her a look. "Well, no, actually..." Shisui pauses to think, but Maomao cuts her off.
"I don't know that many people, either. Besides, you're... interesting." Shisui looks at her as if she were an insect. Or rather, as if she were a rock.
"Interesting? What do you mean by that?" As if she doesn't know.
"Shisui, you know you're the only person in the palace—maybe the world—who would make me guess who you are." For some reason, Shisui decides to play dumb.
"Don't be like that, Maomao. I know you're popular."
"Popular?" She knows a lot of people, sure. That doesn't mean she's popular. She just has contacts. People who require payment or a trade. Maomao may not have many, but she knows what a friend is.
"Of course! Who wouldn't love you?" It's a silly question. If everyone loved her, she wouldn't have scars on her face or an indifference toward everything.
"Let's see... there's this woman who works in the Outer Palace. Suirei. She certainly doesn't love me." A dead woman can't love her. Especially not if Maomao knows how she ;died'. "Lihua's ladies-in-waiting, Lishu's ladies-in-waiting, the Madam of the Verdigris House, and forty percent of the palace's female population."
"If Suirei doesn't love you, I'll make her love you." Maomao rolls her eyes and goes back to her work. "What's wrong? Do you have so little faith in me?"
"Yes. You don't even know her."
"Oh, Maomao, you doubt me so much." Shisui leans against her, acting as if she isn't in the middle of doing something. She needs to learn to respect other people's personal space. Maomao lets it slide because it doesn't really bother her, but she does need to learn.
"It doesn't bother me if people hate me. Even less if they don't love me. I don't love that many people myself, so why would I expect that from others?" Shisui laughs at her, as if she's telling a joke. "What?"
"Nothing, nothing. It’s just that you’re quite interesting yourself, Maomao." She's always said Maomao’s name differently. As if it's something softer than it truly is.
Shisui watches Maomao prepare her herbs in silence for a while; the only sounds being the grinding of the mortar and the breathing of the woman behind her.
Arms—much warmer than Maomao’s, and ones doing far less work—wrap around her, and Shisui rests her face against Maomao’s cool neck. Maomao has always run much colder than normal. She had to adapt after growing up on the streets. "You know I love you, right?"
Ominous. But okay.
"Yes," Maomao replies suspiciously. She can’t help but ask, "Why?"
Shisui makes a sound Maomao can’t quite define. It isn’t disappointment. It’s more like a question.
"I just want you to know," Shisui finally answers after a few minutes.
"That didn't answer anything," Maomao says, her expression serious. Shisui laughs. At least she’s back to herself.
"On the contrary. I think it says everything." Shisui smiles, squeezing Maomao’s waist. She's always been like that. Prone to unnecessary touches. Maomao doesn't know what she’d do without them.
"Sometimes you say such strange things." Sometimes isn't the right word. She says strange things all the time.
"You love me anyway," Shisui teases.
Maomao doesn't answer.
She must know by now.
<—————————>
Maomao has never associated being kidnapped with steam and the scent of oranges.
"Maomao, what do you want to eat?" Shisui asks, rummaging through one of the thousands of cabinets. Maomao hums, partly to answer her, and partly because—
"Are you still mad at me?" Shisui murmurs, placing a hand on her head to soothe her. She has always known how to read her mind. "Maomao," she sighs, looking at her with eyes so disarmingly earnest that Maomao can do nothing but reassure her.
"No," Maomao lies. "Well, a little," she corrects herself. "I just don't understand why—" The words fail her, and once again she feels like a child in a world far too big to be alone in. "Why, Shisui?"
And Shisui’s entire face relaxes, as if asking has eased something in her soul. She sits beside her—where Maomao feels she belongs—and takes her hand, inspecting it like a work of art. As if Maomao were a masterpiece and she wants to study every brushstroke.
"You're special, Maomao. You're important. Invaluable."
"Is that what I am? A pawn?" Shisui’s hands tremble as they grip hers more tightly. As if she were afraid Maomao might slip away. She can't. Even if she could, she wouldn't leave.
"No. That's why they think you're important. Not because of who you are." She says it as if she knows her. Shisui does know her. But Maomao doesn't know if she knows Shisui.
"What we—" Maomao can't bring herself to say what we had. They hadn't had anything. "What you told me. Was that all a lie?"
"No," Shisui answers, much faster and much more firmly than Maomao expected. "It’s true. Of course it’s true."
Maomao senses the rest of what she wants to say: I would never lie to you about that.
But that isn't the truth.
"I don't know if I believe you," Maomao confesses.
"I love you," Shisui pleads. Maomao thinks her heart has stopped, but that isn't possible without a far more potent poison.
She doesn't answer. Shisui keeps smiling, continuing her search through the cabinets.
A few minutes later, a bowl of soup is set before her. Her favorite. Maomao eats it in silence while hands arrange her hair, a strange, sharp point pressing against her scalp. She reaches up to touch it, but Shisui swats her hand away.
"It's a hairpin," she says, handing over a mirror so Maomao can see it herself. It's beautiful, and clearly expensive. It wouldn't surprise her if it were made of real gold and it was entirely hand-painted. "I thought it suited you."
Maomao tries to focus on her book as Shisui clears away the dishes, only to find the letters have all gone blurry.
<—————————>
"Shisui, I beg of you."
Maomao dislikes begging. She believes in no god, and has long since accepted that if one truly exists, it isn't paying her any mind.
It is only now she realizes that even if one doesn't exist, she ought to pray anyway. Surely someone would have to listen, right?
Loulan approaches the door again, smiling as if she were heading to a party rather than her own death.
What more could Maomao say that she hasn't already? She's given Jinshi's hairpin and asked for it back. She's asked her to run away with her. And yet Loulan presses on. Eternally persistent. She's always been that way. Maomao never thought anything about Shisui would ever bother her this much.
"Please," Maomao breathes. She has tried yelling. Now she tries whispering. Any way at all. Just as long as Shisui hears her.
"Don't worry, Maomao," Loulan says, opening the door and glancing back with her eyes closed, as if looking at Maomao might be the thing to destroy her. "I promised you."
"Shisui, please." Maomao reaches out, trying to grab hold of one of the many layers of fabric draping her. "I don't care about some—some stupid hairpin. Please. Come back. Don't go." Is it selfish to want her not to leave? To want them both to stay here forever?
Shisui has a duty. No matter how much Maomao wants her, she has to see it through.
"Anything. What do I have to do to make you stay?" Shisui looks beautiful with her lips stained red and an intricately tailored dress. Maomao never told her that. Does it count if she thinks she always is?
But it doesn't matter. No matter how much she screams or pleads or begs, Shisui doesn't look at her. Doesn't listen. Shisui, who is always searching for something, doesn't turn around.
"I love you," Maomao yields, kneeling before a goddess. Her own. "Please."
And for some reason, Shisui looks surprised. As if she doesn't know that. As if she doesn't know Maomao would travel the whole world to find her if necessary.
And as always, her sun smiles. Maomao wonders how men manage to get up in the morning without that smile. She'll have to learn.
"I love you, Maomao," Shisui leaves her, waving goodbye like a dead girl walking. All that’s missing is blood. Not grief. Alive or dead, Maomao will mourn her.
"Please!" Maomao screams, pounding on the blocked door. She can practically see Shisui locking it with trembling hands. She pretends it’s from the cold, not fear. She doesn't know what she would do if she let Shisui leave afraid.
She doesn't move when Jinshi breaks down the door. She doesn't look up, nor is she distracted by his elegant attire, garb that could only belong to a high-ranking imperial soldier.
What matters is that Shisui closed that door. And she will never open it again.
<—————————>
The night is cold without someone in her bed.
Maomao learned to sleep alone at three months old. She had to. There was no one to look after her, and no one who could understand her. There still isn't. Only one.
She turns around, expecting her smile, but finds only the starry sky instead. She wonders if Shisui is looking at the same stars, or if she's so far away that even the constellations cannot find her. It seems the task falls to Maomao.
The crickets are particularly loud tonight. Perhaps they want her to miss home even more than she already does. But Maomao has already lived a year without her home. Missing something is a feeling she knows intrinsically.
"I love you," Maomao whispers, clutching a blanket instead of a hand. She hopes the wind carries the words to the one to whom they belong.
<—————————>
Maomao thinks she's hallucinating when she sees her across the street.
"Shisui!"
She turns around, more out of exhaustion than curiosity, and smiles.
Oh, how Maomao has missed that smile.
She doesn't care much about the stares of the people around them. No, what matters is that Shisui’s eyes are open. Amidst all the pain and fear at Shi Castle, what terrified Maomao the most was the thought that she might forget the color of those eyes.
They're green. Green, like poison. Like love, Maomao thinks.
The ground where they collapse is hot from the sun, but never as warm as Shisui. She hasn't found anything quite like her in two years. She wouldn't be able to in two hundred.
Shisui laughs as she embraces her, Maomao’s favorite tune. She might almost believe they had been apart for minutes rather than years if not for the lingering tremors in Shisui’s arms as she holds her. Did they stop after she closed the door, or has she been unable to stay still since that day? Maomao certainly hasn't been able to.
Then again, Shisui has always been stronger than her in that regard.
Maomao tries to pull away a little—just to look at her, she’ll never let her go again—but Shisui won't let her. She holds her even tighter, as if loosening her grip would mean this is all just a dream. It wouldn't surprise her much. Maomao has had thousands of dreams like this. But none could replicate the ragged breathing that makes Shisui’s shoulders heave. None mimicked the tears falling onto her neck.
Maomao doesn't know whose they are.
"Hello, my love," Shisui finally murmurs between sobs. Her voice sounds the same. The only difference is that Maomao can hear the pain in it this time.
"I asked you not to leave." Maomao doesn't know why her first instinct is to be angry. But Maomao remembers what she answered when she asked her to stay. To not go.
"I'm sorry," she replies, without a drop of remorse in her eyes. Maomao doesn't really mind. At least she can see them. "I thought it would be quick."
Maomao looks at her. She sees the dark circles under her eyes and the bullet scar on her shoulder. "It wasn't."
"No. I'm sorry," Shisui says, cradling her face with such tenderness that Maomao can do nothing but forgive her. She forgave two years ago, and she’ll do it again now. For her. "I thought it would hurt you less if I didn't answer you."
Maomao knows what she’s referring to. "You were a fool. Stupid."
Of course, it hurts to say that to someone she loves so much. But Maomao has already learned that love almost always hurts. What one must learn to love above all else is pain. That way, no one else can inflict it upon you.
But Shisui is hard not to love. Especially above all else.
"There’s still something I want to tell you, Maomao."
Maomao doesn't like having hope. Quite the opposite. She believes hope is one of the most dangerous things a person can have. And yet, she cannot stop herself from hoping with almost her entire soul, that what Shisui wants to tell her is exactly what she has longed to hear for years. "What?"
"I love you. I’ve loved you from the moment you said my name for the first time, and I’ll love you until you say it for the last." And for the second time today, Maomao feels as though she has just breathed fresh air for the first time in years.
"And how will you know when that is?" she counters, trying to calm her racing heart.
Shisui smiles again, as if Maomao is the only thing capable of making her smile and she hasn't been able to since she left. Maomao has always wondered what that smile would feel like against her own lips. "I don't know. I guess I'll just have to love you forever, then."
"Shisui," Maomao replies, exasperated.
"Maomao," she answers in the same tone. She missed this toying.
"Don't say things like that."
"Things like what?"
"Things you know you won't be able to follow through on." The look on Shisui's face can only be described as one of betrayal.
"How can I prove it to you?" Shisui takes her hand. It's warm, as always. Her friends had asked her to bring a jacket, but what need was there for one? "How can I make you trust that I'm staying?"
Maomao reasons through it. Maomao, who has never had anyone stay, thinks about it longer than she has ever pondered any case or problem. "I don't know."
"I'll learn," Shisui exhales against her lips, her hand firm against Maomao's jaw as if she's afraid of losing her again. She ought to know by now that she won't lose her unless Shisui wants her to leave.
"You say things like that with such confidence," Maomao says, as if it isn't one of the reasons she loves her. One of the millions.
"Of course. The first step to making them happen is believing in them, Maomao."
Maomao stands up. She doesn't let go of Shisui's hand as she guides her through the palace, between the buildings and into her office. It's cold. Cold, except for one thing.
"You kept it?" Shisui asks, picking up the gold hairpin from her nightstand. The center is polished, worn smooth from daily use. Every day, it seems, except for the one that mattered.
"Of course," Maomao echoes. "You gave it to me."
"But you have so many others. I know people haven't stopped giving them to you." Shisui sounds worried. I wonder why?
"Because I'm yours, Shisui. I always was, and I always will be."