( no sound, to either. only the quiet of staying, the furrow on his brow that hasn't smoothed. lan zhan is a light that doesn't necessarily burn comforting or welcoming, but he burns, and that compels.

it's kinder, when he doesn't think their inclinations in this are kindness. he exhales, long, slow, unending, the wheeze of existence whistling past his teeth in memory of every time he's sung, played, commanded, thanked the dead or the living. )

To all three. Sizhui, too. She can't be near where he can reach.

( the death lord that lurks outside the gates, metaphorically and literally, biding his time.

silence again, and the rabbits shift, one nosing then nibbling at his hair. the mischievous rabbit nibbles likewise on lan zhan's sleeve, one ear swiveling forward as wei wuxian speaks. )

I'm tired of death, Lan Zhan. Am I allowed to be?