( There are things one could say, and then there's this: Wei Wuxian, dropping in through a window in a swirl of half skirts, a basket tied within a shawl that he settles lightly on the table he finds after having made his entrance. He's early; the skies barely blush to darkness, and his clothing is a match to it, blood red only at the collar, showing the layer underneath the satin-black brocade across his chest. )

Lan Zhan, for you!

( The unwrapping of a shall, the reveal of what lays beyond: scent tells of citrus, of fig, fruits fresh and heavy with promise of delight should one dig fingers, teeth, beyond their skin. )

The city has no loquats to boast, but I found what I could that was sweet and good. The oranges were grown in fields not stalked by the undying, which feels notable here.

( Tempered by the days between, and the nights returned to a sleeping, healing bedside, to test pulse with fingers, and sit watch before sleeping. To wake, without having exchanged a single word. )