"He'll know, if he asks. He's been safe. He's been well." A sigh, but one in fondness, as Lan Zhan makes of himself a whole that possesses the space of the tub and its waters in the slow, spreading, unfurling manner of an easing.

Wei Wuxian reaches for the wash rag, left draped over the lip, and rewets it, sets to his work again, with a small turn of his lips, and a smaller shake of his head.

"Wen Qing, too, because I don't have the steel in me to lie to her, and Jiang Cheng can recognise what his hands might have once done." If Wei Wuxian had lacked a core at the time of Jiang Cheng's parent's murder, if the massacre of Lotus Pier hadn't been in that liminal space between an assurance of stability, of sanctity, and the gaping maw of war. More voracious than any one of them, and as blind as anyone could be. Blinder still than his martial uncle.

But he rubs cleansing circles down Lan Zhan's arm, strokes fingers through his floating locks of hair to coax them away, tend to his chest without undue lingering or ceremony. Pays no heed to the scar of the brand, beyond the fact of its existence, and says instead:

"Can we have tea with them all?" Meaning, moreso, the family I will not have once we are gone from here?