The picture is of Wei Ying, that much is clear. It’s of a lot more of Wei Ying than Lan Zhan is used to seeing. He supposes that, technically, Wei Ying is dressed. It’s a bare technicality, since one of Wei Ying’s hands has rucked up his black tank top practically to his collarbone, showing a long expanse of abdomen and one nipple. Sweat beads on his sternum, catching the light like jewels. His other hand is--Lan Zhan feels his eyes widen, as though unable to look away from a train wreck--on his hip, one thumb tugging down the waistband of a pair of red briefs. Wei Ying is biting his lower lip and looking directly into the camera, sultry, his eyes dark and inviting. His erection is obvious, outlined against the red of the briefs and framed carefully with the hand on his hip. Lan Zhan’s brain goes wildly, screamingly blank. Or: Lan Zhan accidentally finds his best friend's OnlyFans account and has an ongoing emotional crisis.

Wei Wuxian is ready, waiting. The front and back doors of the Jingshi wait open, allowing the early summer breeze to pass through the house, bringing with it the scent of the flowers from the back garden. He has rope, crimson and smooth and well-worn, coiled in a neat pile. He has tea, perfectly brewed, the lightly flavored (nearly tasteless) kind that Lan Zhan likes, waiting in a pot with a warming talisman. There’s a comb, fine-toothed of carved white jade. There’s fruit, for later, perfectly ripe. There’s a small knife with a curved blade, still sharp as anything but stained with years of sap. There’s the garden, lovingly tended and fully in bloom in waves of pinks and purples and whites. There’s him, lounging against the frame of the back door, limbs sprawled about in the languid way that looks careless to an outsider but is actually carefully choreographed to put as much of himself on display as possible. He’s technically fully dressed, red inner robe and black outer, but the black outer robe is unbelted, half-hanging off one shoulder, and he’s decidedly not wearing trousers. His bare feet poke out the red folds, pale against the wood of the Jingshi deck. Or: Rope bondage as the deepest expression of affection.