Chapter Text
Day 1: Anniversary
Word Count: 1,362
Spoiler Status: Post canon S2 - current WN (briefly)
Tags applied: Jinmao, Loulan/Shisui, Mentions of prev Emp and his previous SA
Throughout the years they knew of each other —constant dodging, denials, push and pull included—Jinshi liked to think he knew Maomao better than anyone at this point (well, anyone aside from her immediate family anyways. He wouldn't dream of competing with them nor did he think he reserved any right to). Jinshi took pride in the fact that he could now guess her otherwise placid emotions and far too questionable behaviour, what they meant and what he would soon be met with.
And there were indeed a lot of her actions bridging on the brink of pure insanity, that frankly, Jinshi had yet manage to figure out nor understand. Still, he managed. Albeit, barely, to read the girl.
And this, sitting on the chaise in his room as he watched her sipping her tea languidly, was perhaps one of the rare times Jinshi had come to recognize as one of her more despondent moods. nearly imperceptible to the naked eyes, but plain to see when one knew what to look for.
In Maomao's case, it was the tense—well, tenser than usual—set of shoulders, the obvious stiffness in her jaw, the way her voice took a slightly more subdued tone instead of the usual terse and clipped note.
The fact that she hadn't once said anything about his complexion—whether or not it was meant as grudging praise from her side was unimportant, because she always had something to say about his looks and the quality of rest he was supposedly getting or not—had all but sealed the deal for him. Jinshi would find it amusing if not for the sole reason that he actually enjoyed the attention she showered him in, whatever or however inconsequential of a form it may be, he'd bask in it nonetheless.
Last but not least, there was also this;
One of Maomao's fingers dragged along his collarbone, gently —softly, in small circular motion, as if the woman herself hadn't realized she'd been doing it. Jinshi could barely regain himself before she had taken incentive and climbed up his lap, teacup lay forgotten as her face buried into his neck, breathing him in.
After several instances—one, which caused either of them to be in mortal danger or in a state of mind stressful enough that a "recharge" was needed, Jinshi had come to realize Maomao become considerably more touchy (more so than the usual Maomao standard, at least) during her vulnerable moments.
Instead of inquiring, Jinshi dragged one of his hands down the length of her hair; soft and silky, tinted with the scent of medicine so very alike her. He repeated the motions several time, the only comfort he could relay for now. She would tell him when she deemed necessary, and if not, the one thing he could do was stay with her. He was merely glad that his presence was welcomed, and dared he say, a source of comfort for the woman before him.
Still, Jinshi ruminated at the source of her melancholy. Today of all days, where she sought his presence and comfort alone could be anything but a coincidence. She didn't need to tell him the source of her despondency, not really. He was well aware what day of the month it was, had been made increasingly aware of it with each passing year as the passage of time showed him the repercussion of a scheme long enacted, set in a stage that was once the stronghold of a renowned clan during a dark winter night. Performance so wonderfully executed they had all become mere puppets to an unknown narrative.
A narrative that was now circulating around the common people. A written book that had soon enough granted itself a professionally produced stage performance, with an accompanying musical number in the work, last time he heard.
Jinshi shook his head silently, regretting how it had gotten so terribly out of hand. They had yet figured out the actually author for the book, how it had begun production in the first place.
In truth, Jinshi would much rather have people forget about it, let the past stay buried and may the dead lay peacefully. But as things stood, that was now nearly impossible.
It had perhaps been impossible in the first place, for him, for the emperor and certainly ever for Maomao. How could she? When she had experienced it all first hand, directly casted and involved as one of the key players for such an elaborate play, dragged along by an although lost friend, still never forgotten.
How could he? When the proof of such events formed itself on his cheek, a way of promise —a payment for a debt long over due and left to fester. Though he hadn't been born long enough to be involved with the mess, it hadn't matter then and it certainly wouldn't matter now. The blood oneself carry determined their fates after all, the course of their action, and how it dictated their livelihood. It hadn't been him, but it had been his blood regardless.
How could he? When he had her to thank for, separating him from the very visage that had been the cause of it all, that he had felt repulsive of.
And how could the emperor ever? Not when his —their father, the previous emperor, had been the one dirtying his hands, smearing the mess all over the palace. Leaving nothing but resentment behind each and every steps, behind each and every young girls he had continued to defile. How could he ever? When the sole perpetrator had been a long-standing clan, trusted by the previous empress dowager and regarded in such high esteem he had taken his daughter as one of the high-consorts to his imperial garden.
How could he, when this had been a constant reminder as to what his brother had failed to abolish, wished to abolish years ago when he took Ah-Duo as his only and longest consort.
How could any ever, truly?
"Master Jinshi?" A dull voice called out. Immediately, he directed his attention toward the woman still sitting on his lap. "Are you hungry?"
He hadn't had dinner yet, and he knew neither had Maomao. This was as good of an invitation that he would get from her, requesting that they eat together. Still, he was pleased by their development thus far, and nodded his assent.
Though seemingly impassive, Jinshi picked up the way her eyes lingered on his scar just a moment longer than usual. He thought that maybe this would be one of the rare times they'd confide in each other, talk about what needed to be talked purely because they wanted to—not because they had to. But the moment was soon gone when Maomao stood up, her gaze flicking to the other side of the room. This much was fine, it was expected, it was how their relationship work and Jinshi wouldn't ever delude himself into thinking it'd change anytime soon. He was happy with what he got, what they were able to offer each other.
What caught him in surprise, however, was how she offered her hand and pulled him along to his feet.
Not once letting ago even as he was fully standing in front of her, instead, he felt the callous palm that was easily smaller gripped his tightly. A squeeze, two, and he was soon dragged from the chaise to the dining table, an assortment of food already warmed and prepared expertly by Suiren.
Jinshi could feel her hands starting to pull away, and in quick succession he squeezed her hands back. A comforting—gentle gesture, a way to convey that he'd be here, for whatever and whenever she may need him for, a quick recharge for them both. And though it wasn't quite a smile, he could see how tension slipped from her shoulders and how her eyes gazed softly upon him.
Indeed, Jinshi may not be able to do much, nor was he able to say anything just yet, but he trusted himself enough to be there for her when needed, just as she would undoubtedly. And this, Jinshi decided, was more than enough.