On the willows there, we hung up our lyres

He is silent for a moment. The memory is recent enough, and heady enough, to pull at him. Wei Ying teased him all the way down, laughed until there were tears in his eyes at the pink handcuffs with the texture of rabbit fur, picked the lock on the flimsiest pair of handcuffs solely to prove that he could -- and then he went so, so still when Lan Wangji tightened the straps that pinned him, face down, to the table. "Some of it," he says finally.