"Fuck," Mingjue swore, more on principle than because he had any coherent thoughts in his head, keeping Xichen safe and secure on his lap, one arm around his back. He kisses him each time Xichen surges forward, and he lets their fingers lace. When they do, he squeezes, hard, once, a little pulse of wordless 'I'm here, I promise I'm here.'

"We do whatever you want," he says, firm and a little hoarse. "Doesn't matter. Whatever you want."