( Somewhat appeased, if not completely. Lan Wangji's gaze does not shift from that of his prey, utterly and hatefully canine, metabolising Wei Ying's restlessness as advantage. So close, Wei Ying's head turned, his sight is a lake blurred, rippled and startled. He cannot see the whole of his husband for the blandly pretty, delectable sum of his parts.

The next breath is a negotiation, lungs-burning. Each simple process of this interaction burns, the moment crisped and stormed, charged past measure. He exhales —

Wei Ying gazes into the mirror again.

— and the threat of submersion eases. A slow relinquishing, Lan Wangji's arm as much removed as unpeeling itself. In the wake of close intimacy, he feels at distance from himself, divided. Here a part of him rests, feverish and bright-eyed, flush governing his cheeks to a bloom. And there he looks away, askance. )

They will not. ( Before him, the ghost of the bathtub crawls up, nearly mounting the bath's rim to free himself. ) Spirits desire soothing or vengeance. He has not entrusted me.

( Despite their brief, tender moment of reunion prior. )