He doesn't dodge the touch, nor duck away from the words. He smiles, and judges that they know each other well enough for the tiredness there to be seen, for the warmth of colour that flushes Lan Zhan to only be met in turn by what colour Lan Zhan gives him.

"We do," he says, "And we've held many. Hold man. Not all in... not all as romance, no, but Lan Zhan. Even I've felt loved."

By a brother, a son, a series of soulmates who saw him, by the dead and the living on the train, by all these things.

"It's not a narrow bridge anymore."

Not isolated, alone, and rejected. The things which aren't fine aren't ones either of them can fix, and it's not in his nature to be distracted in pursuit of a cause. Yet he can hear, and believe, and trust, and say again:

"Remind me of that. And tell me the name of that song, finally, when you wake, ah? You're the slyest man in the most unexpected ways."