( There is an edge to experience, to sympathy and commiseration that betrays itself within heartbeats. She speaks, and he listens, and he hears the tinny notes of that compassion —

And he shields himself from outburst, from speaking his true mind. Nods, pleasantly, as if it costs him nothing to advocate for Jiang Cheng's fury. It comes with casualties, with dead things and feuds and years of silence.

It comes with the corner of Lan Wangji's mouth frosted, gaze sharp. )

Is that what you practise?