Shen Qingqiu's thumb traces the column of Sagramore's throat, then back up along the line of his jaw, mirroring his gentleness. He's always gentle—gentle in speech, in touch, always so careful with Shen Qingqiu. It's sweet, dizzyingly so while he's like this. He remembers, unbidden, Laertes in the greenhouse: I wish thee every joy of him. He'd induct thee as gently as thou couldst wish.

It was said to mock, but with sincerity, too, and from experience. Shen Qingqiu's thumb makes its way to the swell of Sagramore's lower lip and catches there, along with his gaze. He swallows. "Can you—will you—"