( He is stillness, a shadow against the light. Lan Zhan asks, and it's something... stark, to hear it said. To know he has no easy singular solution, that laughing this off helps nothing, that easing the feeling means lying to both of them, as one.

Wei Wuxian closes his eyes. Opens them, to regard the windowsill, trace the interlocking of stones, where seams fit better or fit less well, smoothed over by grout that slowly comes apart with weathering and age. He reaches for it, tracing his finger along one widened path, that narrows, and his finger runs over pure stone, rough and chill and reminding him of what, he wonders. What is it he recalls, or doesn't want to? )

I don't know, Lan Zhan. I'm better at telling people to let go of me than figuring out how to help them want to hold on.

( Cutting losses for them had always seemed easier, seemed less of a demand on them. It's not what he wants here; it's not even his offering, on barren altar that oversees the courtyard. Careful to be caught, standing here, even in this light. He takes a step backward, further into the softened light and shadows of Lan Zhan's room, half turning his way. Not smiling, and not frowning. Torn. )

I can't teach you trust. I can't grant you faith. I promise I still stand at your side. I promise your fights are mine. And I promise, I will not resurrect you against your wishes.

( Gaze catching, dark. Glossy again, and something in his voice cracks, like fissures through the stones behind him, threaded with ache instead of white marble. )

You must promise me you will not seek me resurrected again, against my wishes.