There's an art to tumbling alone, and an art to tumbling together that he recalls from forays into wrestling and the like with Jaing Cheng, two boys growing up confident in themselves as long as the shadow of parental expectation didn't eclipse Jiang Cheng's nascent heart. Then there's another sort of tumble, one neither of them are versed in as far as Wei Wuxian knows, the thought flitting through his head and gone again before so much as making another sound.

He blinks down at Lan Zhan in the stunned moment of their abortive ending, the hello meriting a twitch of his lips and raised brow before he's rolled again, trapped under Lan Zhan's bulk, a hand squirming for his neck intent on its rainbow of delivered bruises, adding to whatever peppered his back, sides, legs, in their usual arrays.

He rocks up, elbow slamming back, body a twist and struggle that latches onto the hand seeking to throttle him again, not so much managing to get back on top of his husband as to force them side by side.

"Lan Zhan—" breathing out, voice gaining solidarity out of a winded, bruised throat, "Lan Zhan."

Then, abstractly, and not usefully, he added, "Kneel." While both were on the ground, and no one was particularly close to being on anyone's knees.