Unbidden, he yields, until their hands meander, and it is only a soft grip, a negotiation of fingers gently bound and they are — teasing in open sight. As men who have earned the privilege do, as friends or lifelong companions. Past the study or interference of their witnesses, deep-scowled men who bargain the cost of legumes and trinkets, rickshaws that rattle their carcasses and the road in passing.

Wei Ying steers him. He feels light for it, adrift, an agglomeration of limbs without purpose. A stranger, and unburdened for it, as if, for once, his footprints may leave snow and mud without casting print. Unsaddled of the corset fettering that binds his breath, of Hanguang-Jun.

"This time, you have tea." He remembers. They both do. Scarcity, where now sleeps wealth. They walk up stairs where a door creaks and the tavern master gives welcome to a cracked, heavy wood table — empty, as most seating arrangements are, in a place devoid of clientele.

He sits, with all the straight-backed ceremony of a man who dignifies an establishment through sheer will and presence, the sea of his silks spread evenly about him. He waits for his tea, overly steeped. The wine, faintly clouded. The pickles, requested on whim, and the rice, the millet, the soup.

He pours Wei Ying's wine, unasked. Then, softened, "Pour my cup."

His tea. Their binding rites.