[ He sits, then, when Wen Kexing guides him down, folding his legs beneath him and resting his hands on his knees. Zhou Zishu inhales, and then exhales, and when Wen Kexing's qi slides into his meridians (a trickle through cracked, dry riverbeds, Zishu barely able to coax his own weak qi into the proper alignment), he brings his hands up, his movements still sharp and practiced as he moves them to further encourage their mingled qi to slide limp its way through his body. ]

I know. [ He says it quietly, eyes shut and his voice distant. ] You were stretched thin enough, though. I meant to tell you once we arrived.