The marriage of grappling is one he knows from childhood to adulthood, not to pleasant gains at all times, but often enough as a child at least to improving ones. He doesn't expect it of Lan Zhan, the surprise in his eyes and the curl of his lips even as he would move, to disengage after the crash, but it's dizzying, sword still held and angled away, and then there's the wall.

The wall that Lan Zhan makes himself cushion for in his own outlandish move, and he can't find it in himself to be insulted, treated fragile, when it's as true that he's gained a specific tendency to collapse into Lan Zhan's arms for no particularly flattering reason. Only a host of silly to slighting to dangerous ones, and this, this is silly.

It's delight, warm sunlight raining down when the courtyard remains strewn with cool shadow, echoes of smoke, further out muffled cries of the ongoing revolution, such as it is, such as it was doomed to be from before they arrived.

Air squeezes from his lungs, and he sinks down, stumbled and by Lan Zhan's wheezing, silent mirthful form. Sword present, silent witness, as he sinks down too, drives shoulder into shoulder.

"I don't believe," he says, grinning, eyes bright and voice laced with laughter birthed out of surprise, "I've ever had anyone say that for the purpose of giving me a very enthusiastic hug!"

Nothing of what's happened, but it's a different bleeding, a different scoring. He is, frankly, still stunned. What wit, striking him witless.

"You wrestle now."