He laughs, twice over: for the smugness of you could not take, and for the hand that finds his forehead, that covers his eyes. He can't remember if Yanli ever did this, and that's the extent of childhood that can emerge from the murky depths of a past he more often forgets than lets himself linger on, but he can imagine she did, in their injuries, in their fevers.

It's surrender, one he doesn't fight and push and instead settles back, humming a two-tone note that follows from the end of Lan Zhan's playing, lips still curled, but eyes closing under Lan Zhan's touch. The curl of his eyelashes plays against the other man's palm, capitulation.

"Okay, okay. I'll rest," he says, but not promise. Promises feel weighted and worthless, and he's tired enough he can sink down into the sea of it, a blackness barren of ill will beyond whatever dreams might strike, lying in wait. "For a while."

Before called back to wakefulness, be it due to cold or his own sleep rising to the realm of nightmares and waking him hence; be it habit now to move around in the hours of light they have, to trek down to the citadel and trek back, as if the hour each direction is a joy and not tiring on its own.

For now, however, sleep, and the fall of breathing to more even cadences, the wash of wakefulness from langly limbs, and stilled, Wei Wuxian slumbers for just this bit longer, by his soulmate's wish.