"I remember," slips free of him like a measured exhalation, a truth clung close to chest. There is a look to Cato's armour that has held Wangji's interest, raptured, since the first hour of their reunion: an organic sense to its metal cut, as if the pieces of defensive plate and the rounded balls of his elbows and shoulders, the wire of his ligaments must combine seamlessly into a whole.

Praise to the forger: too often, armour does not present itself so pristine, strong and unblemished. It is a layer, disparate, estranged. An imposition. But now, the birds seize again, lured by Wangji's loitered lethargy, hoping to find two targets distracted.

He hisses, lending his hand to a generous swat, only to misjudge the distance — deceptively tall, Cato requires him to raise himself, stretched taut like willow's branches, and swing above his head. Warmth unexpectedly blooms his cheeks to ripe, sustains his hesitancy after. Men are not for mounting or use as crutch and stair's step.

"Apologies. They appear to fixate upon you."