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"It's about a boy and…," Wei Ying looks at Lan Zhan, focused on the table behind a bunch of roses, face glowing against the halo of the evening sun, eyes determinedly avoiding him and lips as soft as the petals they're peeking behind from, "about a boy and a rose."
"A rose?" A-Yuan asks, confused.
"A rose," Wei Ying nods, "a beautiful rose, one that flowers in October."
Lan Zhan's demeanor stiffens. A voice niggles in the back of Wei Ying's mind to stop, to not play with fire, it tells him he's being unfair, instigating him like this – it tells him this isn't school anymore. Lan Zhan isn't just a passive face for him to crack, he's also the person who's been hurt at his hands.
"Are they friends?" Another kid prompts.
Wei Ying blinks, not knowing how to answer it, his nerves frayed with something bitter. "They used to be," he answers, softly.
"What happened to them?" A-Yuan asks.
"Roses are not a good subject for stories," Lan Zhan cuts him before he can answer, his voice just a little on edge. Mo Xuanyu snaps his head towards him, looking concerned.
Wei Ying's gaze turns to him – he's still focused on the table, although with his jaw set hard and shoulders tense.
"Why not?" He asks, equally bristled.
"They're inanimate."
"So are lighthouses and sandcastles," he retorts, only a second too late before he realizes what he's blurted out.
Lan Zhan's head jerks up, eyes wide and vulnerable. Wei Ying closes his eyes.
"Roses have thorns," he opens his eyes when he hears that. Lan Zhan's voice betrays nothing in his eyes.
"Thorns are for defence, not offence," Wei Ying says, much softer now.
"How will a rose differentiate?"
"It's not the rose's job to differentiate."
"That doesn't help the finger that gets pricked."
"My rose never hurt anyone."