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Jin Guangyao has blossomed into such a handsome creature. He captures Lan Xichen’s eye more often than not, drawing Lan Xichen’s undivided attention across any hall, and he has the good fortune to often be seated right beside such beauty. He spends the majority of the banquet enjoying idle chatter with his close friend and appreciating that loveliness up close. Jin Guangyao’s pale skin seems to glow in the light of candles and the setting sun, his eyes so striking and crinkling so cutely when he laughs. His lips are gentle and captivating, his features so soft, so pretty, and more than once, Lan Xichen is tempted to lift his hand and cup those fair cheeks. He doesn’t know how he resists. Jin Guangyao looks particularly fetching in his new white-gold robes, complete with a black velvet hat, a cinnabar dot between his brows, and an intricate red-brown pattern fancifully scrawled across his hands.

That sparks curiosity several times, but every time Lan Xichen tries to ask after the strange new decoration, the conversation naturally lilts into something else. There’s never an opportune time to steer it back. By the end of the evening, Lan Xichen still has no answers. Then it’s over, and they’re each bidding good night to all the guests. Lan Xichen should bid good night as well—his quarters are far away from Jin Guangyao’s, and there’s no real reason to stroll the halls of Golden Carp Tower together. Lan Xichen finds himself tight at Jin Guangyao’s side nonetheless, and that’s pleasantly common enough that none of the guards they pass give them a second glance.

Finally, just as they’re nearing Jin Guangyao’s private chambers, Lan Xichen has the chance to note, “You have the most marvelous line-work on your hands, A-yao.”

Jin Guangyao’s steps falter, his eyes blinking adorably with surprise, as though he’d completely forgotten the striking fashion statement. Then he dons a sweet smile and muses, “Thank you, er-ge. ...It is a new technique a traveling artist brought to us from faraway. I am so pleased that you like it.” The smile hesitates, and he sighs, “It is such a shame that the rest will go to waste...”

He lifts a hand, wistfully eyeing the petal-like curves twisting across his knuckles. Lan Xichen doesn’t understand; surely it’s already done its purpose. He asks, “What do you mean?”

Jin Guangyao glances over at Lan Xichen beneath his long lashes. Then he sweeps forward, continuing to the grand doors of his quarters. Lan Xichen automatically follows. Perhaps he shouldn’t be so quick to enter a sect leader’s private rooms, but Jin Guangyao has invited him inside so many times that it’s hard to remember that rule. Jin Guangyao strides to a low table and gestures at a bowl sporting a thick, rust-coloured paste, a thin brush sticking out the corner of it. Lan Xichen shuts the doors behind them before coming up to it and asking, “This is the paint?”

“Yes. It’s meant to be applied directly to one’s skin and can leave the most breath-taking marks. I was delighted to apply it to my hands earlier, only...”

He trails off, head tilting aside, and Lan Xichen has to prompt, “Only?”

“Well... there is just still so much left, and I don’t think it will last much longer in this form. I wish desperately that I could put it to use, but...” He holds up his arms, and his sleeves slide a fraction back, revealing that his arms are painted too, already full. Lan Xichen can’t help stepping closer, instantly fascinated—he’s sorely tempted to roll those sleeves right up to Jin Guangyao’s elbows and see how far the markings go.

Then Jin Guangyao glances up at Lan Xichen, eyes suddenly wide, and he asks, “Er-ge... could I, perhaps... that is, if you would not mind... you could—”

“Ah,” Lan Xichen cuts in, predicting the outcome. It physically pains him to shoot his lovely Jin Guangyao down. “I wish that I could offer you that, A-yao. But... my clan’s tenets...”

“Of course,” Jin Guangyao splutters, looking instantly regretful. “I’m sorry, forgive me. I know your rules, I should not have—”

“No, it’s alright—”

“I didn’t mean to disrespect you—”

“A-yao, you did not.”

Jin Guangyao still winces into an apologetic smile. He tries so very hard to please everyone, always has, and it breaks Lan Xichen’s heart. There are times when Jin Guangyao looks at him, with those gorgeous eyes and charming dimples, and Lan Xichen desperately wants to give him the world.

Jin Guangyao starts, “Then, perhaps we could...” Only, he swiftly averts his gaze, downtrodden like he used to be, and mutters, “Never mind.”

“A-yao...”

“No, no, I should not even suggest—”

Lan Xichen reaches to clutch his sleeve, only just managing to hold back from clasping his hand. He gently turns Jin Guangyao to him and coaxes, “Please. Tell me.”

“Ah... it’s foolish...”

“A-yao.”

Jin Guangyao’s pink tongue pokes out between his lips, tracing over them, wetting them, and Lan Xichen is drawn straight to the movement. Jin Guangyao’s mouth glistens afterwards, so sinfully tantalizing. Gaze still cast down, Jin Guangyao mumbles, “Would it... be too impertinent to ask Zewu-jun to draw more upon me?”

Lan Xichen doesn’t even know how it’s done. But he can’t deny Jin Guangyao again and asks, “Where would I...?” Jin Guangyao’s hands are already so well done, and there’s nowhere left but his robes and face.

Jin Guangyao seems to think, and then he muses, “My... back, perhaps? There is plenty of room there... though, that would be dreadfully inappropriate... but it is only my back...”

He still sounds so unsure, so of course Lan Xichen assures him, “That would be fine, I think.” Technically, there are no Lan clan laws against painting on another’s back. “If you’re sure...”

When Jin Guangyao looks up, his eyes are sparkling. Lan Xichen feels utterly ensnared. Jin Guangyao gushes, “I am. I would consider it an honour to be a canvas for your artistic talents.”

Lan Xichen wouldn’t consider himself an artist of any renown. But he finds himself meeting the confidence with a smile. It’s such an odd request, but if it will make Jin Guangyao happy, then he’s happy to oblige.

Jin Guangyao is the one who behaves so obligingly. He collects the bowl and sets it at the very edge of the table, kneeling down beside it and turning his back: he sits like an obedient servant waiting on their master. There’s something so intoxicating in the vulnerability and trust he shows to Lan Xichen. Lan Xichen sinks down too and picks up the bowl.

He would write on Jin Guangyao’s robes. Except Jin Guangyao carefully begins to undress. He sets his hat on the table and runs his hands back through his hair—Lan Xichen watches those talented fingers part and comb the sleek strands until they shine, and then he smoothly gathers them over his shoulder. With that drawn aside, he looks all the more exposed, and that sense only increases as he slowly shimmies out of his robes.

Lan Xichen’s breath hitches. Jin Guangyao draws his robes down his shoulders bit by bit, the sleeves cascading into rich pools around his elbows, the expensive fabric tumbling all the way to Jin Guangyao’s waist—and there’s a moment where Lan Xichen traitorously waits, hoping for the rest to fall away. But it stops there, secured by the low sash across Jin Guangyao’s hips. There’s still so much beautiful bare skin for Lan Xichen to take in.

It’s truly the best canvas any artist could wish for. Jin Guangyao is a work of art, made all the better by his shy posture and the way he glances coquettishly back. His trim body is slender but sumptuous; he doesn’t have the hard muscles won in battle or any jagged scars, only the ripe flesh of a man meant for much softer things. It’s all Lan Xichen can do not to reach out and touch the gorgeous expanse before him. Lan Xichen almost breathes the praise aloud.

Fortunately, he’s spent his life maintaining propriety and fairness. He forcibly remains respectful. He picks the brush, wiping the excess dye off on the rim of the bowl, and asks, “What should I draw?”

“Whatever you would like,” Jin Guangyao simply answers, placing himself fully in Lan Xichen’s hands. “You can write ‘property of Lan Xichen’ down my spine, if you wish.”

Lan Xichen stills. His eyes flicker up. He knows Jin Guangyao is only teasing him, but he can’t repress the shudder it brings on, the horribly erotic thought of using this moment to claim Jin Guangyao as his own. It would be so easy—he could write anything, and Jin Guangyao would never know until it was too late. Jin Guangyao would let him. Lan Xichen doesn’t betray that trust. He aims to do his perfect canvas justice.

He begins in the center, and Jin Guangyao shivers at the first prick of the brush—Lan Xichen murmurs, “My apologies.”

But Jin Guangyao whispers, “No, it’s... pleasant. Please. Continue.”

So Lan Xichen does. He traces a sweeping circle, indented at the sides, and another springs out of that. He begins on the inner petals of a white peony, done in a raw burgundy. He aims to keep his hand steady and his touch light, and after the first shudder, Jin Guangyao is blessedly still, wonderfully pliant for him. Lan Xichen has a surprisingly easy time painting him. But Jin Guangyao makes everything so easy.

The only thing that isn’t easy is surviving his premise without desiring more. Lan Xichen swallows down his greed and layers petal after petal in increasing size.

The time passes slowly, quietly, pre-lit candles battling the starlight through the window to give Lan Xichen just enough to work by. He keeps his eyes on his work, though he notes Jin Guangyao’s hair shimmering in his peripherals and thinks Jin Guangyao is idly finger-combing it against his front. The thought of Jin Guangyao’s front, his bare chest, quickens Lan Xichen’s breath. He wonders if Jin Guangyao’s pert nipples are a similar colour to the dye, and then he scolds himself and tries to purge his mind of Jin Guangyao’s breast.

Several times, he thinks of possible conversation, but he never starts them, and Jin Guangyao doesn’t either—he seems content to sit in silence and suffer Lan Xichen’s ministrations. He can only hope it truly is pleasant—that it’s something like a tentative massage. It’s bizarrely, unsettlingly pleasant on Lan Xichen’s end.

When Lan Xichen finishes the peony, he begins on floating clouds behind it, simply to delay the process. Jin Guangyao is such a dreadfully clever thing that Lan Xichen can’t help but wonder if he’s tracking and picturing the design, if he knows exactly what it is. He doesn’t say. Lan Xichen deeply regrets when it’s all over, and there’s simply no room for any more lines.

He settles back and begrudgingly announces, “I am done.”

Jin Guangyao tilts back as though the angle weren’t impossible. Lan Xichen asks, “How will you see it?” They could fetch two mirrors, perhaps, but it will take some maneuvering.

“I don’t need to,” Jin Guangyao answers, voice like a hushed song. “To know that I bear your mark is enough. I’m sure you’ve done splendidly.”

It takes tremendous effort to keep his face from flushing. Jin Guangyao is so pure, but sometimes he accidentally says the most sensual things, and Lan Xichen feels horrible for twisting his naïve words.

Jin Guangyao glances up and asks, “Will you honour me with your signature, er-ge?”

“My signature?”

“Write your name on my back. Please?”

It’s so very odd, but Lan Xichen takes pleasure in quickly scrawling his own name amidst the petals. He doesn’t feel like an artist finishing a painting, but a man blessed by the sight of a muse.

When that’s done, Jin Guangyao sighs, “Thank you.”

Lan Xichen feels as though he should be the one showing gratitude. Instead, he puts the brush back in the bowl, pushes that to the center of the table so what little is left won’t spill, and asks, “What now? I suppose we must wait for the ink to dry for you to redress...”

“No,” Jin Guangyao laughs, such a lovely sound. “It should be peeled or washed off. Which do you think we should do?”

Again, Jin Guangyao’s placed himself at Lan Xichen’s mercy. And Lan Xichen isn’t quite so pure as everyone thinks him. He knows what he should answer, and yet he seizes the chance to say, “I will have a bath drawn.”

Jin Guangyao nods his head. “Thank you.” Then he innocently asks, “Would you stay and help rub it off of me? Oh, please?”

Lan Xichen’s mouth is dry. Guilt swells in him. He knows that he will spend the entire bath ogling more of Jin Guangyao’s beautiful body and finding a sick satisfaction in his handiwork branded across Jin Guangyao’s skin.

He’s so much weaker than he’s given credit for. He agrees, “If A-yao wishes.”

Jin Guangyao’s smile could corrupt even the purest monk.

And Lan Xichen adores him.