Zhang Weiran was a little baffled. Any and all descriptions of this “Xiao-Xiao” he’d gotten from Xingyu was reminiscent of a sweet but jealous little boy—one that couldn’t disguise his emotions and always lost whatever flimsy control he had around his brother. Weiran knew he must have changed some, but Xingyu hadn’t indicated anything drastic, and so Weiran had expected at least a thin frame, some amount of nervousness especially at meeting his brother’s acquaintance, stumbling over a word or two. There was none of that—indeed, Xiaokai was perhaps the most well-mannered and respectable person Weiran had probably ever met; his manner of speaking was smooth and mild, the way he stood stock-straight but not stiff—even his way of walking seemed refined. “Not at all, not at all.” The words came automatically even as he was trying to process the transition from clumsy little brother to confident businessman. “I’ve heard a lot about you.”

Liu Xiaokai’s gaze flickered to his brother, if even just for a moment. “Nothing too exciting, I hope.” His voice had turned dry but not offensively so. Weiran found him unfortunately very charming.

“Just the good things, I promise.” They released hands and Xiaokai smoothly moved into the next topic of discussion.

“May I ask what you are studying?”

“Photography,” said Weiran, and then because everyone always asked: “Portraits, mostly.”

“Do you photograph Xingyu-ge?”

Weiran blinked. “Ah—yes, he’s my main subject.”

There was something knowing behind Xiaokai’s eyes, but it was only for a moment, and then he was blindingly charming again. “He’s always been an interesting subject.”

Weiran was a little unnerved.

Xingyu entered the conversation quickly: “We took art lessons when we were younger. Xiao-Xiao liked to do portraits, and he always ended up drawing me since the employees didn’t like staying still. Should we head inside?”

The inside was just as intimidating and obnoxious as the outside, and the staff did not hesitate to give Weiran glances of badly-concealed disgust. That is, they did until Liu Xiaokai said his name for the reservation, and then it was nothing but smiles and respect—all “what can I get you, sir?” and “can I interest you in the wine list, sir?”

“Just water.” Zhang Weiran forced a smile at them. “Thank you.”

“Don’t worry about the price.” Xiaokai hadn’t even touched his menu. “I’ll pay for everything.”

“I don’t drink.”

Xiaokai just delicately lifted one shoulder. “Fine.” Then to the waiter: “We’ll have something medium bodied and old world. Red. Bring the bottle.”

“Yes, sir.”

He was getting less charming by the minute.