( He bristles, cat hissing. Breath ebbs laboured and strong and soured, warm in the self-reflecting confines of this wretched skin, his red suit. So often, he does not intend to enact the petulance of children, who forget grace and etiquette are but an acceptable mask, and they all grow up inexorably thespian.

Conceal. Smile, perhaps, in brother's way, his name. The dark candour of Zewu-Jun's lips, when he weaves and paints and perfects the lines of his gentle diplomacy, when he sets the lure of his courtesies and tugs. Lan Wangji trembles to think of his comparative failure. )

Lan Wangji. ( Slow, trickled, like melting ice. A thorn and snagged edge to it. Then, academically: ) To exclude the clan name is intimacy.

( Unearned. Folly. And she, a woman of seeming marrying age, taking idle stabs at the tatters of her reputation. Half an accident of ignorance, half play. He wishes he knew the game, for all he shares his bed with a master of it — that Lan Wangji too could pretend the kind, warm approach of those who do not struggle for words, for friendly acquaintances. )

Duress has forged us companions. Whatever your needs, name them. They are ours.

( A simple thing, the confluence of interests. Strategic. )