Galahad's gaze flicks back to Lan Wangji, and he lifts his own cup in turn, copying the slow, thoughtful way he drinks his tea. It tastes green and earthy; Galahad savors that taste. It's late enough in the evening that he's allowed to drink now, the sun having disappeared beyond the tree line, and after a day of fasting the warmth of the tea in his stomach and the flavor of green on his tongue is as heady as the mulled wine at Wanderers Gather. He closes his eyes. The noise recedes to a bearable level as he lets himself stop being present and sink into his field instead, and as he sits cross-legged there watching the heads of wheat and the fish move as if caught in an invisible pull of tides he feels such immense gratitude towards Lan Wangji.