The skin under Ya Qing's gloves is soft, is as to be expected; she only uses her claws when she has them. Her palm is sweaty against Zhu Hong's, but every time she tries to pull away with an excuse, Zhu Hong holds on tighter. On her other side she can see Ying Chun bring Ya Qing's knuckles up to her mouth and kiss them. A flower is tucked in the crease between Ya Qing's fingers when she pulls back, tiny and purple: Clematis, Zhu Hong's brain supplies. She's been learning from Hua Yuzhu; not that Ying Chun wouldn't tell her, but Zhu Hong likes the bright light in her eyes when Zhu Hong tries.
(She has been trying so hard.)
"This is pointless," Ya Qing says. Her upper lip is beading sweat as well: the heat is merciless, today, and she continues to swathe herself in black. Zhu Hong respects the commitment. "I can fly."
"So this should be a breeze," Zhu Hong says, because she has learned that Ya Qing finds it amusing when she is mean. Sure enough Ya Qing glares at her, and it takes a little bit of the blazing panic out of her eyes. As Ying Chun ducks to hide a laugh Zhu Hong turns to skate backwards, slow as slow so she can keep holding Ya Qing's hand. "Just move your weight to one side. We've got you, Qing-jie."
Doubtfully, clutching at both of them, Ya Qing cocks her hip to the outside. Her ankles are rolled in; she immediately begins to topple, and has to be propped back up by Ying Chun's easy willow-tree grace. The intensity of her stink-eye begins to rival that of the sun. "I wanted to have a picnic."
"Picnics are lovely," Ying Chun agrees, because she is the sweetest person who has ever existed, and because she is basically half herbaceous. Since she has progressed to audible laughter, breathy and soft, Ya Qing doesn't seem to be appeased. "Point your feet straight ahead, remember?"
"I am," Ya Qing snaps. There is a pause while they all look down. She is not. Her face begins to flush blotchily. Zhu Hong clucks her tongue, but she relents and bends her elbow so she can return to Ya Qing's side. Just in time: a squad of teenagers screams by on skateboards, asphalt scraping, and Ya Qing flinches hard enough one of her rollerblades leaves the ground completely. Delinquents. The next time they pass by Zhu Hong might trip one or two, teach them a lesson.
"Come on," Ying Chun coaxes; she strokes one hand soothingly down Ya Qing's back to rest it at her waist. "Once around the park, and then we can go?"
"...I hate you both," Ya Qing says, teeth gritted tightly, and Zhu Hong starts laughing, too.
