"Lan Zhan is feverish," Wei Wuxian corrects, holding onto his arm while he shouts an impressive string of curses at Little Apple over his shoulder. "Perhaps you didn't know," he's reluctantly willing to concede, "Having never been ill before, but you ought to be in bed."

Little Apple, a saint, plods near, and Wei Wuxian maneuvers Lan Wangji upright. "You need medicine."