He nods against Lan Zhan's shoulder, watching the far wall.
"I'm glad you are," he whispers. "I know I have -- not been myself tonight. But it is not because of anything you've done."
(Except stand there and be beautiful, he thinks, and has calmed enough -- or grown tired enough -- that he can even find a touch of humor to it.)
There are no sudden shocks beneath Lan Zhan's touch now: only a quiet, steady warmth. He imagines the blues and whites and greys of Lan Zhan's energy enveloping him like a second blanket; the brilliance of his golden core illuminating the blackness of the nightmare, driving it back as surely as a sword.
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"I'm glad you are," he whispers. "I know I have -- not been myself tonight. But it is not because of anything you've done."
(Except stand there and be beautiful, he thinks, and has calmed enough -- or grown tired enough -- that he can even find a touch of humor to it.)
There are no sudden shocks beneath Lan Zhan's touch now: only a quiet, steady warmth. He imagines the blues and whites and greys of Lan Zhan's energy enveloping him like a second blanket; the brilliance of his golden core illuminating the blackness of the nightmare, driving it back as surely as a sword.