Wei Wuxian does not seek early beds. Not without exhaustion chasing at his heels, spiritually or physically, and it has been a different sort of dance that's become their nightly rituals, even when they're locked in daytime arguments. Laying head to pillows, side by side, whatever the bed is or isn't, whatever ground or platform or stuffed mattress is found underneath. He sprawls across surfaces he knows, and while the city runs itself to ruins and hope, himself helping on both sides to different extents, there is still a room with a hearth that burns, not to keep out the cold, lacking that strength, but to keep a light there even when the light-orb lit lanterns falter.

Magic of light, rather than fire. Steadier, those lights, but he flickers as the flames do, banked and tamed, not the weapons they are in his hands or the hands of witches or Lan Zhan, flames beckoned and cast and curtailed and consuming, like curiosity and silence.

Wei Wuxian sits upon the bed, draped in robes, cleanshaven. Papers in hand, quill that never writes as properly as he wishes even when the ink is smooth as silk and endless as regrets. Cloth folded bundle under the crook of one propped up knee, while he sketches through considerations, waiting.