On the willows there, we hung up our lyres

The utterly straightforward way that Galahad is asking makes it easier to push aside the half-instinctive rise of shame that wants him to look away. He thinks of Wei Ying, who examines the bruises and bite marks he leaves with put-upon petulance, then looks down at them a moment later with an expression of soft delight. "Yes," he says again. "He likes it."