Wei Wuxian watches this whole production with a curious air, drawn yet further out of his own thoughts watching Lan Zhan bear his arms again, skin pale and glistening where damp clings like another layer, silks coaxed to elbows, a landscape of veins thrumming beneath the surface of flesh, warm and warmed; the last time echoed like the burn of wood underfoot, kneeling behind a man, dressed in damper, fewer whites, fresh from the ice cold of preference. Wei Wuxian should have woken to the purpose sooner, but from this audience, play does not come as his primary expectation.

Lan Zhan raises hands cupping water, wrists dampened, fingers slick with heat, raises and extends for an inevitable release, the plateau a head and the cascade of it warmth that splashes and drips and trickles over his hair, down his face. Salty, not for the water, but for the sweat that drips with the deluge, and his eyes widen, mouth dropping open, water intruding as water does, invading with little regard for the sanctity of form.

An open mouth is an invitation for filling, after all.

"Lan Zhan!" An exclamation he follows with a breathy laugh, smiling in spite of himself, or perhaps entirely because of himself. His hair is pulled back, bound by ribbon, and Lan Zhan tells him to bow it for further rites? Water dribbled over, and he could fight this, could argue, but why?

His expression is a touch helpless, but his hands come up and work at ribbon, at hair knot. "Are you planning to wash my hair or just shove me in the barrel?" He suspects the shoving. Lan Zhan could make sure he fit in, and leave him to launder as he cleans.