It is one thing to glimpse your reflection at its most beautiful: honor, goodness, strength, every ideal you wish to live up to. When you reach a hand to it, you hope you are worthy enough that it will deign to reach back.

But to stand before a mirror with bloodied hands as hatred burns hot in your gut, and to see your reflection stretch out its own red hand in reassurance as if to say, Yes, I see you too --

He's still shaking. The mug will spill if he doesn't set it down. Wei Wuxian does, as gingerly as if the tea inside were still boiling hot -- and then buries his face in his hands, choking down as many of the tears as he can before they turn into something far worse.