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The flowers start not long after they move into the cottage in Yucun.
One moment, she’s leaning against the wall, watching Pangzi cook, Wu Xie sprawled on one of the chairs, chattering about the latest books she’s been reading, the sunlight flickering as the clouds blow by, obscuring and revealing the sun in turns, bathing the others in almost glowing light—Wu Xie, head thrown back in a laugh, throat bared, scar shining; Pangzi, lips curled into a smile as she tends to the wok over the stove, dark hair almost glowing, curls messily tucked behind her ears, threatening to come loose at any moment. It stretches out, White Rabbit taffy, viscous and sweet, and Zhang Qiling’s heart trembles at the sight—a not unfamiliar occurrence, in the time since her return from beyond the Bronze Gate, ten years lost and new sorrows gained for each of them.
The next moment, there’s a catch in her throat; a tickle swallowing doesn’t rid; and on instinct, she coughs, hidden in her hand, neck bowed as little as possible; hopes that neither Wu Xie nor Pangzi will notice, because even now, they’re all a little on edge any time anyone coughs or shows signs of illness. And then—something lands in her palm, damp but solid, and Zhang Qiling thinks, Oh. Thinks, I’m surprised it took this long.
“Xiaoge?” Wu Xie says, her attention suddenly focused in full on Zhang Qiling, eyes no longer laughing but worried, searching; hands stilling, falling to her lap. “Are you okay?” Pangzi’s looking at her now, too; two lighthouse beams, blinding signals in the dark. Zhang Qiling thinks about all the times the memory of them was the only thing that had kept her sane, the only thing stopping her from disappearing in the Gate for good. She drops her hand; crushes the petals and offers a faint smile and a nod.
“Swallowed wrong,” she says, and hopes they believe her. The blood that runs in her veins makes common ailments a non-issue—but then again, this isn’t exactly the realm of common medicine. The irony of it doesn’t escape her. And then, because Pangzi, in her distraction, has forgotten about the oil on the stove: “The wok is smoking.”
That works, thankfully. “ Goddamnit, ” Pangzi says, irritation tinging her tone bright, and turns hastily back to the stove. The oil wasn’t smoking that badly, but Zhang Qiling knows that Pangzi tends towards the perfectionist when it comes to food; doesn’t want to watch her brow furrow with frustration at needing to start from scratch.
Wu Xie tilts her head at her; smile back, now, lazy and satisfied. She doesn’t say anything, but, really, she doesn’t have to—Zhang Qiling’s concern and affection for Pangzi is hardly a secret. This, perhaps, is why, later, perched in the branches of one of the trees on the perimeter of the garden, Zhang Qiling finds herself turning the question over in her head—it’s not as if she hides her affection for Wu Xie and Pangzi, tries to guard them with indifference and inattention; hasn’t in many, many years. In the stories, the movies, the legends—it’s always a repressing that causes the flowers to grow; a denial of affections. Zhang Qiling has not had any illusions about the nature of her feelings towards her companions since, perhaps, the first time they were spoken of in conjunction; since, perhaps, the conception of the Iron Triangle. She may lie easily, but not, generally, to herself. It expends valuable energy and time that could be better spent.
As if sensing her churning thoughts, a couple of the cats who hang around the cottage— God knows why, Pangzi likes to grumble, as if she doesn’t secretly feed them choice scraps—appear at the base of the tree, heads tilting this way and that as they watch her. Zhang Qiling watches them right back. A moment later, the smallest one, a little tortoiseshell that Wu Xie calls Suipian, lets out a low mrrrowr , and, without preamble, begins to make her way up the trunk.
A moment later, another follows, and then another; and, within moments, Zhang Qiling is practically overrun with furry little bodies, each one demanding attention. They remind her of Wu Xie, when they first met—all bright and unselfconscious. The thought brings up a tickle in her throat, and this time, without anyone awake from which to hide it, she lets the cough rumble through her chest. It’s much longer this time, ragged and wet at the end, and when she pulls her hand away from her mouth, there’s multiple flowers—spider lilies, fragile and elaborate, as if plucked from the surface of painted silk fabrics.
Ah. Perhaps she shouldn’t be surprised that the flowers blossoming in her chest are ones so closely associated with death—after all, Zhang Qiling herself has been likened to death on more than one occasion. There’s irony there, too—she’s fairly certain that her blood will keep her from dying to the blossoms. She gazes at them for a long moment; wonders if, perhaps, she should crush these, as well; bury them in the garden, leave them for dead themselves. But something about the concept seems almost offensive—this sign of her affections, no matter how painful, doesn’t deserve an ignoble end.
Her breath has finally returned to normal, no longer catching and raspy. The cats have settled on the branches and on her, and Zhang Qiling reaches out with her free hand; runs her fingers along Suipian’s spine, finds herself smiling faintly at the purr that rumbles from the small cat in its wake.
“Shit,” Pangzi says, with a whistle, brows raised. “Xiaoge, did someone in Yucun die or something?” She’s dressed in a loose, faded t-shirt with cartoon characters on it and a pair of shorts in deference to the heat and humidity, and a pair of bright pink sandals. Her hair’s mussed from sleep, and a moment later, Wu Xie follows after her, stretching and yawning.
“What are you yelling about now?” she grumbles—never a morning person, it always takes her a good hour to fully wake up. She leans against Pangzi, head on her shoulder, and yawns again, wide, hastily covering it with her palm. Zhang Qiling feels her chest tighten at the sight, fondness like a trickle of honey from rib to rib, hot as the sun—the two of them, fresh from bed, comfortable and unguarded in a way that they only are here, with Zhang Qiling. A moment later, her eyes flicker back open; focus on the small vase on the table, and she raises a brow. “Those are new,” she says.
Zhang Qiling shrugs. “I took a walk last night,” she says, which isn’t even untrue, even if it’s technically not the source of the flowers. “Pangzi has been complaining about decor.” Pangzi has been complaining about decor, mostly because they left the majority of their things in Wushanju. For a fresh start, Wu Xie had said, expression always more than enough to do the convincing for her.
Pangzi lets out a sigh. “At least they’re red and not white,” she says. Wu Xie is practically plastered against her, now, and Zhang Qiling wonders, sudden and wild, if this is the reason this is happening—that her heart has finally recognised that Pangzi and Wu Xie have always orbited each other more closely than she has; them, twin suns, and her, merely a moon. Her throat, as if in agreement, catches; the tell-tale signs of a cough building. She swallows, thick and harsh, and turns to get herself a glass of water—a temporary solution, but one that will hold her long enough until she’s alone. When she turns back, Pangzi is frowning, and Wu Xie’s attention is focused on her, worry clear on her face. Zhang Qiling forces her expression to relax from the rictus it had fallen into; lets a smile play across her lips— see? Nothing wrong. They accept it, but it seems reluctant. Zhang Qiling only hopes that they don’t try and dig any deeper.
As the days pass, though, it gets harder and harder to hide it from them. It’s almost as if her body wants them to know—rarely does the cough ever come when she’s alone, forcing her to make a swift exit on more than one occasion, excuses that barely manage to hold up against scrutiny. The flowers become more and more abundant—more than once, Zhang Qiling has to run them under water to rid them of droplets of blood before she can put them into the vase that’s come to live on their kitchen table. If nothing else, at least her companions enjoy the scent of them—even growing in the dark cavity of her ribcage is, apparently, not enough to staunch the scent. But besides this—Zhang Qiling isn’t dying. Her throat and chest often hurt, yes, but she’s experienced worse. The world keeps turning, as it always has and always will, and Zhang Qiling continues living a life she never could have, in her wildest dreams, imagined for herself.
They’re watching a movie when it happens, this time; Pangzi sprawled out and Wu Xie and Zhang Qiling pressed against either side. Zhang Qiling had started off a bit more distant, unwilling, even now, to assume anything, but Pangzi had quickly scoffed and tugged her closer, muttering about skittish Zhangs. Now, her arm has found itself around Zhang Qiling’s shoulders, the other wrapped around Wu Xie. One of the actors says something—Zhang Qiling isn’t quite sure what; most of her attention has been distracted by the warmth of Pangzi’s body against hers, her sturdy arms and the faint scent of lemongrass from the shampoo she uses where her hair has come out of its bun—and Wu Xie laughs, the sound bright and full; cheeks rounding and eyes narrowing into crescents as she leans further against Pangzi, short hair falling forward as she tries to muffle her laughter with her hand. Pangzi, long used to this, merely turns her head to press a kiss to the top of Wu Xie’s head. It brings a burst of fondness in Zhang Qiling—warm and curling, to see them exchange such steady, unabashed affections with each other; and then, a moment later, the familiar tickle of a cough at the back of her throat. As quickly as she can, she disentangles herself from Pangzi’s side; says something about needing a drink. The kitchen is far enough from the living room that, by the time she starts coughing, she’s far enough away, the sound of the TV loud enough to hide the rattle of her coughing. She leans against the wall to steady herself; breathes as best as she can through the flowers pushing themselves up her throat; manages to catch them before they tumble to the floor. There’s more blood on them, this time—as if her heart is mourning the silent chasm between her and Wu Xie and Pangzi. It’s a little absurd—she knows her place, the way she fits into their precious, three-person family; has known for years that the way Wu Xie and Pangzi are towards each other is not the same as the way they are towards her. And yet, despite this, her body has yet to understand. She lets out a sigh; straightens and pads into the kitchen, gently rinsing off the lilies and exchanging them for the wilting ones in the vase.
When she returns to the living room, Wu Xie and Pangzi have paused the movie. The consideration for her absence makes her smile without thinking about it. When Pangzi gestures to the spot next to her, Zhang Qiling can’t help but settle down against her once more, as tight as it makes her throat. “Now the Iron Triangle’s united once more,” Pangzi says, theatrical; tugs Zhang Qiling closer, and then presses a kiss to the top of her head. “Tianzhen, hit play, would you?”
The sound of the film starting is drowned out by the sudden, disorientating rush Zhang Qiling feels—a fall from the top of a tree, the head of a waterfall, nothing beneath her to catch her. Perhaps that’s what stops her from reacting in time when she feels the return of the scraping tickle at the back of her throat; what stalls her just long enough that she finds herself doubling over, coughing hard and rattling, Wu Xie and Pangzi’s voices rising in the background, words she can’t make out, vision spotting with the force of it. When she finally comes to, there’s flowers on the floor, Wu Xie kneeling before her and Pangzi’s hand steady on her back, rubbing comforting circles.
“ Xiaoge, ” Wu Xie says, and her tone is half-broken. “Why would you hide it from us?”
How is she meant to answer that? A long silence passes as Zhang Qiling catches her breath. Finally, she shrugs. “I’m not in danger of dying,” she says. “No need to...burden you.” From behind her, there’s a shuttered inhalation—Pangzi. Before her, Wu Xie’s eyes are wide and wet, her hand finding Zhang Qiling’s own and grasping, almost desperate.
“Who?” she says—demands, more, really, and her tone is—grief, sorrow, a thousand unnamed things. “Why would you hide it from them? Xiaoge—” Her eyes press closed; brow furrowing, and Zhang Qiling watches as she swallows. She thinks, Zhang Qiling realises, suddenly, that this could mean anyone—anyone but her, but Pangzi. That misconception is not one Zhang Qiling is willing to let stand. She leans back; swallows to try and clear the ache from her throat, even just a bit.
“It could never be anyone else but you,” she says, finally; careful, careful, to include the plural. Worse than them thinking it could be anyone else—the misconception that it could be one or the other.
“Xiaoge,” Pangzi says; and a moment later, she finds herself engulfed in a hug; face pressed to the crook of Pangzi’s neck. The force of it is almost startling, but without thinking, she finds herself melting into it. “You...” She sighs, full-body. “Seems like we didn’t do a good enough job, eh, Tianzhen?” she says, and her voice is deceptively light, but her hold on Zhang Qiling is tight, as if she’s afraid she’ll disappear. A moment later, she lets go; draws back, gaze locking Zhang Qiling’s. A moment later, Wu Xie settles on her other side. She’s still holding her hand. “Xiaoge,” Pangzi says, and it’s gentle in all the ways that make her chest ache, “what exactly do you think we are?”
Pangzi isn’t cruel, but for a moment, it almost feels as if she’s trying to be. “You and Wu Xie have always been…” more human, she almost says; more alive. “Different,” she settles on, instead, but even that doesn’t quite encompass the thoughts she struggles to put into words. “Your love for each other is different from your love for me; from mine for you.” It’s not hard to admit it—it’s a truth she’s long grown accustomed to, that her affections, existing as they do, are not equivalent.
“Idiot,” Wu Xie says, and the words are harsh, but she tugs Zhang Qiling towards her; hands coming up to frame her face, her eyes searching Zhang Qiling’s, and she sighs. “Idiot,” she says, again, but it’s fonder, now; and a moment later, she leans in; presses a gentle kiss to Zhang Qiling’s lips, lashes fanning across her cheeks as her eyes flutter closed. Zhang Qiling finds herself rooted to the spot—Wu Xie’s hands on her cheeks, Pangzi’s on her back. A moment later, a gentle kiss to the nape of her neck—Pangzi as well. Zhang Qiling’s chest feels too full, fit to bursting, and she has to pull back; turn to the side and cough, long and low, flowers spilling out from between her fingers. When her eyes open once more, it’s to find that Pangzi has drawn her once more into a hug, this time from the back, hands around her waist, chin hooked over her shoulder, and Wu Xie’s hands on her thighs, her gaze fixed on Zhang Qiling’s face, brows furrowed with worry. Without thinking, Zhang Qiling reaches out to smooth it with her fingers.
Wu Xie’s lips twitch. “Xiaoge,” she says, and then she’s smiling, full-on, bright and precious; “you really are ridiculous. Of course our love for you is the same, isn’t it, Pangzi?”
“Always,” Pangzi says, her voice rumbling against Zhang Qiling’s back. “I’m sorry you thought otherwise. Will you be alright?”
Her throat still stings, blood on her teeth. But—her blood has kept her strong this long. It will pass, her lungs healing back to their former condition, even if it takes a while. “I will be,” she says, and it’s a promise and a profession all at once, and when they smile at her, she finds herself smiling in return.