They're a writing mass of limbs at some point, and Wei Wuxian bites back the impulse to apologise for it, when none of it is intentional, and there's a witch to dislodge, who yearns for the release from her own pain: there she goes, and he props his torso up as she's swallowed by the expanse of white and marring ice down below.
Lan Zhan slides himself free, Wei Wuxian all too aware of his absence and the cold stealing in when he'd been doing his best to ignore it before. Planting his heels against the dragon's scales, he reduces his points of contact: hands, rear, covered heels, and it's not worse than many a time he'd been out in the snows or cold of night. He can tell himself that much, while Lan Zhan calls for his sword, while the blade responds.
His attention pulls to the side, watches the tower loom too close again as the dragon, uncaring of passengers or their foibles, rears back to slam forward again, reverberations echoing down the length of its body.
Fabric rucks and pulls, and Wei Wuxian lifts his hands as Lan Zhan kneels, Bichen sheathed and at attention. His hands fall toward Bichen, but shy away, fingers twitching in anticipation of—movement, the dragon beneath them. Two layers of many is still two men less than properly dressed, and Wei Wuxian almost considers objecting, but he's been stripped down by circumstance to nearly nothing.
"No worse than bruises, I—"
It's cold, there's a question posed, and the remaining answer skitters away on many legs when the dragon lifts up and bears down hard again, against one outthrust room that breaks beneath its bulk, and he's tossed forward, layers clutched like veils for modesty lifted on a wedding's eve, to slam into Lan Zhan's chest, Bichen stiff between them, the dragon rising, then sinking again, reversing the direction of their tumbling positions.
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Lan Zhan slides himself free, Wei Wuxian all too aware of his absence and the cold stealing in when he'd been doing his best to ignore it before. Planting his heels against the dragon's scales, he reduces his points of contact: hands, rear, covered heels, and it's not worse than many a time he'd been out in the snows or cold of night. He can tell himself that much, while Lan Zhan calls for his sword, while the blade responds.
His attention pulls to the side, watches the tower loom too close again as the dragon, uncaring of passengers or their foibles, rears back to slam forward again, reverberations echoing down the length of its body.
Fabric rucks and pulls, and Wei Wuxian lifts his hands as Lan Zhan kneels, Bichen sheathed and at attention. His hands fall toward Bichen, but shy away, fingers twitching in anticipation of—movement, the dragon beneath them. Two layers of many is still two men less than properly dressed, and Wei Wuxian almost considers objecting, but he's been stripped down by circumstance to nearly nothing.
"No worse than bruises, I—"
It's cold, there's a question posed, and the remaining answer skitters away on many legs when the dragon lifts up and bears down hard again, against one outthrust room that breaks beneath its bulk, and he's tossed forward, layers clutched like veils for modesty lifted on a wedding's eve, to slam into Lan Zhan's chest, Bichen stiff between them, the dragon rising, then sinking again, reversing the direction of their tumbling positions.