[ His eyes flicker in his surprise, and then lower, a soft exhale. He doesn't let himself think about the way his breath must be sour, the tangles in his hair or the way his robes bunch and stick to his skin, salt in the creases of his joints from how he'd apparently had a fever earlier. ]

No.

[ It's quiet, soft. An affirmation, an agreement, and an invitation. Zhou Zishu is surprised, but only just. If he's true to himself, he's been waiting for this since their time spent at the Manor. Since Zhou Zishu stood between the Sword Saint Immortal and his zhiji, and since Wen Kexing flew in between them nonetheless. Since Wen Kexing flew in, a whirling demon in red, protective fury radiating off of him. Since Zishu saw Wen Kexing fall backwards off the cliff and dove after him. Together in life, and together in death, he promised. Since he reappeared at the conference and claimed his birthright in front of all those self-righteous jianghu sects.

He's been waiting, it seems, and he's still surprised. Zishu raises a trembling hand, brushes his fingertips over Lao Wen's beloved face, and then gently coaxes him back in. ]

You're not drunk this time.