( Feet regained, he regards Lan Zhan, something softened under his breastbone. Warm enough that his marrow under Lan Zhan's grasp feels liquid, his bones heated, and disparaging words over Lan Zhan's fumbling in a world that's not built to bow its head to him willingly, to recognise lineage, to pay heed to unwritten rules and the visible realities of wealth and skill and here? Here, Wei Wuxian remembers all he's learned from his own chosen falls from grace, from thin times and thinner pretenses, and this time not a choice, except in its survival.

Lan Zhan was never meant to learn of a life like this, and yet, yet. He is here, and he tries, and it's arrogance to think either of them are becoming better men, though he does feel it may be true. Not necessarily better fathers, not necessarily better cultivators, but better men.

Little by little, in rebuilding, in the deconstruction of what is true in their world in false absolutes, and what's aching and horrible and real here, likewise without absolutes.

Wei Wuxian doesn't think. He moves, barely rising to his toes to press lips against Lan Zhan's forehead, and his ribbon, the metal clouds, all at once. )

An embroidered pillow still promises a place to rest. That's a great deal more than I'm used to having, ( he says, settling down onto his feet, aware of the feat they must try in seeing spirits addressed, in allowing them acknowledgement, in providing them access to avenues for passing. )

Making mistakes is not the same as being incapable. Don't speak poorly of yourself. The only ones to disparage of are those who never adapt, never change, blame all that happens on others. You are not that man. You, Lan Zhan, are not afraid to try.

( And aware that there is opportunity for success and failure, in unequal amounts. )