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Maomao wakes on a luxurious bed that she did not go to sleep in. She blinks away her grogginess. There’s a vast difference in her body after a desperately needed full night of sleep, but the emotional exhaustion still lingers.
She feels disgusting, to put it lightly. The thought of even a meager bath—scratch that, even just wiping herself down with a wet cloth—seems like heaven.
How did she get here, again?
She’d found herself wandering towards Jinshi’s office. He looked nearly as haggard as Maomao herself; he pulled her towards him, and both of them, in their mutual sleep-deprived lack of coordination, had fallen onto the floor.
But that was the floor. And this is a bed. The carpet was very soft, though.
Jinshi had fallen asleep before her. She’d stared at his face for a moment, thinking about how she’s unable to reciprocate his feelings to the extent he deserves. Maomao had touched his cheek then, and even unconsciously he leaned into her touch. She didn’t really think too hard about that when it happened, but recalling it now makes her scowl, burrowing her face into the pillow. Why does he do this to himself? What would he gain from being with her?
Nonetheless, from further examination, she recognizes this as his room. She’d seen it a few times visiting him.
As if it weren’t already likely for someone to make the wrong assumption when they had been laying on the floor with the door wide open. She sighs.
With the adrenaline drained from her body, she can really reflect on it now: surgery is terrifying. She was nowhere near qualified to do such a procedure, and she was more than aware of it. Maomao has always known this was a limit of hers—there’s a reason she sticks to medicine, after all—but she’s never felt so acutely inadequate. To see Chue on the brink of death, desperate not for survival, but to still be of use after this… knowing that there was nothing she could do to ensure that… it felt hopeless. Maomao saved her life, but she can’t be proud of her work.
If it had been her father, or Doctor Li, or even Tianyu, would Chue have been able to retain control of her hand?
Prior to their departure for the western capital, Maomao recalls being in a room full of physicians far more capable than her. How they doubted her for being a mere palace lady, as if they didn’t know the rigorous training required to even get into that circle of people. What if any of those men who she’d never seen before would have been a better choice?
Of course, the quack’s presence there had proved that attendance didn’t necessarily equate to talent. But still, that was what, one fluke?
Maybe they were right to question her skill. Maomao’s far from irrational. She knows surgery is an extremely high-pressure scenario. The fact that she was able to do anything speaks volumes to her capabilities, especially in a nation like Li where such practices are considered taboo. Only the most promising candidates attended those dissections. It’s a situation where practice is different from the real thing—there’s no telling how good someone will be until they’re really doing it.
Nonetheless, she cares deeply for Chue. Such a failure, as understandable as it is, gnaws at her pride. It was terrifying to see someone larger than life get so gravely hurt. Chue had seemed invincible, dancing above the foolish rationality everyone else tethered themselves to. She flitted from branch to branch, singing all the while.
To be loved, even just for a little while—that’s a wonderful thing. You almost… start to think it means there’s a place you belong.
Really, what did she think she was doing, saying something so melodramatic in a moment like that? Maomao had hardly seen a glimpse of heartfelt emotion from Chue prior. Such sudden vulnerability felt all too much like she had intended those words to be her last.
Maomao can’t lose anyone else right now. It’s been years since Shisui died, but it feels too soon to experience another loss.
And every year that passes now, she’ll reach an age that Shisui didn’t live to see herself.
Death as a concept has never been distant from Maomao. The world’s wide variety of misfortune played out right in front of her eyes when she was still a child. Even if she hadn’t chosen the path of medicine, that would have remained the same. But being familiar with death doesn’t prepare one for when it happens to someone they care about.
The door creaks open. Gentle footsteps enter the room.
“Good morning. Did you rest well?” Jinshi asks as he approaches her. His voice is gentle, fond. Why does he bother? He knows she doesn’t fall for his sweetness, but she knows just as well that it’s not faked when it’s directed towards her.
And yes, she did, thank you very much. But she’s not going to give him the satisfaction of hearing it.
“How’d I get here?”
“I carried you.”
“Why?”
“Well, why not? It’s certainly more comfortable than the floor.”
“I’m gross right now, and I was sweaty. Why put someone so dirty in your bed?”
“Because it wasn’t just anyone. It was you.” He’s ridiculous. Maomao nestles deeper into the blankets. She doesn’t want to look at him. “Besides, you know I can have the bedding changed without hassle.”
That much is true. She won’t think about the other part. “Fair enough.”
He sits on the bed facing her. She reaches towards his face. Jinshi stills, as if the slightest move will startle her away. Maomao’s fingertips flit across the gentle ridge of his scar. His hand places itself atop hers, keeping it against his cheek. Her voice is quiet. “Do you ever think about her?”
Jinshi smiles wearily. “All the time. We wouldn’t have been half as prepared for the plague of insects if it weren’t for her knowledge. Even outside of that, she was… something else, truly. A force of nature.”
Maomao looks down. “…Sometimes I ask myself what I’d do if she were still alive. If I saw her again. Sometimes, it all feels so unreal—like she’ll somehow pop up as if nothing happened.” She swallows. “Isn’t that awful of me?”
“How so?”
“It’s awful to assume someone dear to me lied about their death. That’s an awful thing to lie about.” Maomao didn’t see her last moments, didn’t see her body. She’s never been one for belief without evidence. How can she believe Shisui died if she didn’t confirm it firsthand? But she knows that’s foolish. It’s only denial.
“Her death was… picturesque. All too planned.” Jinshi speaks with an odd look in his eyes, as if he didn’t intend to, but can’t stop himself. “She exited the passageway onto the roof, snow swirling around her. There was blood on her face, blood on mine—she already looked striking when she was made up like that, but even more so at that moment.”
Maomao can imagine it, like a scene in a play. She stares at him, entranced.
“She laughed, and it echoed until the sound of gunfire forced her quiet. Paired with the sight of her, it almost sounded like applause. She was… I’m not sure what you’d call it. She was dancing, in a sense, even as a bullet grazed her cheekbone, as they barely missed her. Then another shot rang out, and it hit her in the chest. …Even as she fell backwards, she was smiling. Like she’d won. I couldn’t think. All I could process was the smell of iron and sulfur.”
Maomao taps his scar. “So you both got one of these, huh?”
“I never thought about it that way. I suppose we did.” His eyes drift aside. “I don’t want it to fade, as odd as it sounds.”
“The two of you, too reckless for your own good.” She smiles. “Do you think if she’d lived, she would have hated that?”
“I don’t know. In spite of it all, I don’t feel she hated me. More so what I represent, what she represented herself.”
“…You know, it’s been so long that I’ve started to second guess myself. I feel as if we were never friends to begin with.”
Friends isn’t the right word, she thinks. Maomao’s not sure if Shisui actually held any fondness for her. But they weren’t anything more, even if every touch of theirs left an odd fluttering in Maomao’s chest. She had always suppressed it, but in the carriage after it all ended, when Jinshi had told her Shisui was dead—she realized she’d never experience that touch again, and she realized just how much she had cherished it.
Despite everything, in Maomao’s mind, she’s still Shisui. She recalls Suirei’s words about how foolish of a choice it was for a fake moniker, painfully indiscreet about her true identity. Shisui had simply laughed. It was her way of hanging onto a forgotten name, of the wish she had for her and her sister to be equals. So Maomao can’t help but refer to her as such.
As Loulan, did she ever smile or laugh like she did as Shisui? Maomao doesn’t think so. And yet, here Jinshi says she laughed and smiled when she died. She knows it was different—not the fragment of joy she’d held that manifested in her commoner’s identity, but something more unhinged. Manic, histrionic. Even so, Maomao can’t bring herself to believe there was malice in it.
Maomao had seen her smile and laugh in her regal dressing, but when they were together, it seemed the look in her eyes was always the Shisui aspect of her. That fondness wasn’t found when she truly settled into the role of Loulan, when her mother’s influence shackled her down.
She was beautiful in both appearances. Maomao’s chest aches thinking about it. She recalls their last moments together, this almost unreal woman in front of her, surrounded by the supposed corpses of children. They’d all resumed their breathing later, though Maomao was too blinded by anger to consider the possibility that Shisui had given them the resurrection drug. How cruel of her to go and die without giving the recipe to Maomao, knowing how dearly she loved her craft.
With everything else that’s been happening—international political drama and her surgical training—she’d forgotten all about that mystery.
Shisui had almost cried then. Maomao wanted to reach out. To pull her close, to comfort her. It’s a foolish concept; Maomao’s never been the best at emotional matters. But when someone’s been offered so little sympathy, sometimes anything will do.
Maomao had always thought her work was all she ever needed. She’d be happy sticking to herself, minding her own business. But seeing how distant Shisui was in that moment, despite being right in front of her, she realized she wanted more. Why wasn’t her humble life enough? What was missing?
Once you know it, it’s hell, she thought bitterly. To know it was exactly why they went there.
Even now, she can’t bring herself to think of the word. Her mind dances around it like it’s a hot coal. What will it take to get her to acknowledge it? If not now, then when, if ever?
“I…” She can only say it like this, in her fatigue-addled state. It tumbles out of her mouth like bile. “I loved her, I think.”
Jinshi’s voice is hardly above a whisper. “But not me?”
Maomao frowns. At the change in her expression, something in his eyes softens—she must’ve looked more vulnerable rather than irritated. Or maybe he regretted saying it. “It’s different.”
It was easier to develop feelings for another woman, someone who she believed was of equivalent status, someone who received the same confused glances from others when going off into a tangent. There was a degree of mutual understanding that just isn’t possible for her and Jinshi. Even if he insists he’ll close the societal gap between them, Maomao doesn’t know if she’ll be able to stop seeing him as being worlds apart from her.
She’s always considered herself incapable of love, that an idealistic romance was unattainable. And she still believes that. But Shisui made her understand the draw of it, why the courtesans would act the way they did, why Pairin maintains hope for a fairytale ending, why Jinshi acts like such a damned fool around Maomao.
Jinshi loves her, as suffocating as she may find the thought. That hair stick was his affection manifest, though he’s long since committed to more and more ridiculous gestures. Maybe that’s why Maomao gave it to Shisui. Because she loved her, and didn’t have the words for it. In lieu of articulating her affections, all she could offer was that token of love, the hope that Shisui would survive. Hope they’d get to speak to each other like friends again, that Maomao could see the sparkle in her eyes as she flailed to catch an insect, the mischievous smile she’d have on her face when it was clutched in her hands.
A prayer. Shisui had said how unlike her it was. After she had walked away, Maomao felt an odd, bone-deep emptiness. As if she’d already known they’d never see each other again.
Maomao doesn’t speak. She curls in on herself.
Jinshi lays next to her, hand hesitating as he reaches out.
She’s just tired, Maomao tells herself. That’s all.
She lets him hold her against his chest, biting back tears. He’s all too warm. All too alive.