Seclusion is much the same every day. Congee, clothes, music, painting, Wangji, food, sleep. Rinse, repeat. Everything is controlled and orderly so as to promote mental stability. Even here, in this new realm where everything is so strange, it has elements of familiarity. No one has ever shoved a bouquet of flowers at Xichen before, at home or here. A froth of colour and sweet scents hasn't been offered his way since ... no, not even as a teenager. Perhaps when he was a little boy, and he and Wangji picked snowdrops? He can't recall. Can't remember if he ever had this many different blooms in the hanshi, though he strongly suspects not, it's very tepidly hued in there.

"Oh," he manages in surprise, holding onto them carefully as he arranges their stems so they don't crease. He looks mildly confused for a moment, then accepts them with graceful resignation. "If they aren't yours and you don't like them ..."

Then, that seems okay? He can't think why anyone would accidentally leave flowers on Jiang Cheng's clothing if they didn't want him to keep them as a token of affection, but it would be a shame to waste them all the same. Xichen inclines his head gratefully, taking a delicate sniff and smiling as a result. It's the nicest thing that has happened to him since he awoke gagging in unknown waters.

"Thank you, Jiang Wanyin, they're beautiful."

Enough to permanently upgrade a name in fondness.