It is so in every dream he's had, from Nightless City thereafter: they fall together. Mimicry of paths untaken, of what they might have, should have, never pursued.

Wei Ying tumbles first, slithering and fast, and for the edges and snags of him, how he is no more than strings of bones, Lan Wangji might have thought, he would anchor on something — catch himself, catch them, heat and the groan of tired bone and brazen leaf yielding, and the rustle of branches. Splintered rock eats at his back. He hisses, fingers turned claws and their clasp deep, into the vine and the roots that hang, and any little perch might do, to stay them.

It takes no pity of them. Gravity notches petty triumphs on their backs. This, then, is what it means to bruise. At the last moment, he remembers, He lacks a core, the skins of his head my break —

— and fastens a hand on Wei Ying's nape, to draw him in, sweetening the landing on his back

( It strikes him, when aches come to haunt and live him like a husked home in abandoned market quarters, that he, too, all but lacks a core now. )

There is a moment, when he looks above, Wei Ying is safe, and he blinks, and he breathes, and he thinks, Thank you, and says only, "Hello."

...before promptly rolling Wei Ying beneath him, trying to sneak a hand between them and snake it around Wei Ying's throat again.