Lan Wangji is unruffled by standing by, holding the piled layers of clothing for Claudius, and waiting for him. It would be impossible for him not to notice the chains of purpling bruises, however, with the tiniest little twitch of a smile. This must be how Wei Ying would look every morning if he did not have a slowly-growing golden core to speed his healing along. It's something of a shame that he does, in this respect only. He steps in once the zhongyi's components are in place so that he can wrap the skirt around Claudius' waist and tie it crisply for him; then, as he holds out that middle layer of robe with the expectation that Claudius will slip his arms into the sleeves, lets his gaze catch on one of those blossoming marks, now especially visible where the color bleeds beneath the white collar of that undershirt. "Galahad," he guesses, with confidence.