Here stands his husband, bedraggled and drenched, wearing the detritus of the last handful of days as forlornly as the borrowed robes. Here he stands, swallowing, and clutching at one solid dependency, looking to slither away from the rest, lick his wounds.

Wei Wuxian points toward the waters, the coiling steam from its surface.

"Stay, Lan Zhan. You can make better use of this than I can."

He, wearing a wreath of healing bruises around his neck, and he stares, firm, at the one who this time, has been running.