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Quan Yizhen didn’t really care about his hair.
It was long and curly and it got in his way when he trained or fought anybody, strands of it slipping free from his ribbon whenever he moved too much. It was frustrating and some days, when it got knotted or his bangs blew into his eyes, he wondered if he should just cut it off.
There was one reason why he didn’t.
When he was a disciple, long before he ascended, his shixiong always did his hair for him.
Yin Yu would take one look at him after he woke up in the morning, his long curls tangled together from moving so much in his sleep, and he would give a quiet sigh before motioning for Quan Yizhen to come to him.
Every time, Quan Yizhen would bound over and sit right in front of Yin Yu, barely able to keep himself still in his excitement. His shixiong would retrieve a wooden comb, sturdy and sanded smooth, and with dexterous hands, he would gather Quan Yizhen’s thick hair and divide it into sections. Then, making sure that he didn’t tug too hard, Yin Yu would methodically work the comb from the ends of Quan Yizhen’s hair up.
Section by section, the knots would give way until the comb’s teeth glided through the strands with ease. His hair was thick and it took time for Yin Yu to brush through all of the sections, spent in a peaceful silence that neither of them felt they needed to fill.
It was one of the only times that Quan Yizhen was quiet and still, his eyes closed as he relaxed into the sensation of his hair being brushed by his attentive shixiong. When it was completely tangle-free, Yin Yu’s hands were never rough as they gathered his thick hair and tied it in place. He always made a loose bow with the ribbon, the sides of it waving with the movement of his head, and it made Quan Yizhen happy.
No one else was allowed to touch his hair, only Yin Yu and his nimble fingers that would occasionally reach up to scratch against his scalp in a way that made him feel as if he could fall asleep under their touch.
These moments with his shixiong were special, held close to Quan Yizhen’s heart like little treasures, and even after Yin Yu ascended, he longed for the day that he could feel his shixiong’s careful hands once more.
*
The candles in his palace flickered as he growled angrily at the sharp pinpricks of pain along his scalp. He tried to force the jade comb down but it got stuck just below his ears, refusing to go any further, and it hurt.
He wanted his shixiong.
He wanted Yin Yu there with him, taking the comb from his hands and patiently brushing through the mane of hair on Quan Yizhen’s head without causing any pain.
He just wanted his shixiong.
But Yin Yu was gone.
Leaving him behind without even a hint of where he could be.
What if he never saw his shixiong again?
Shaking his head viciously to clear away those thoughts, he grabbed his hair once more and tried to brush through it in the way that Yin Yu always did. He made it a little further before the comb’s teeth caught in another knot, the stubborn strands prickling at his scalp as he tugged on them harshly.
Frustrated tears burned in Quan Yizhen’s eyes, his chest aching with the intense feelings he couldn’t name, and he angrily wiped them away when they fell down his cheeks.
He missed his shixiong.
He missed his gentle words, the fingers taming his hair and ensuring not to pull too hard as he pulled it up to the top of his head.
Even after what happened with the Brocade Immortal and the confused sadness it left him with, Quan Yizhen wanted nothing more than his shixiong.
The jade comb in his hand shattered and he threw the pieces at the wall, fragments of stone embedding deep into the wall.
When his tears finally dried and the prayers echoing incessantly in his mind grew too loud to bear, Quan Yizhen forced his messy hair to the top of his head and put on the heavy crown that he wore as a martial god.
He glared at the ruined comb before leaving his palace, the urge to destroy something coursing through his muscles.
He was going to find his shixiong no matter how long it took.
From that day forth, if anyone bothered to look close enough, they could see that the great Qi Ying, martial god of the west, always wore his hair rather messy, as if it were barely brushed through.
And the high ponytail he wore it in was always slightly off-kilter, leaning towards one way or the other, but never as perfectly balanced as it was during the early days of his ascension.
*
It had been many, many, many years since the last time Quan Yizhen’s hair had been handled so gently.
“Your hair is a mess,” Yin Yu chided, though there was no bite to his voice as he held Quan Yizhen’s ponytail idly. Simply a familiar exasperation that didn’t dull the fondness that crossed his face in a way that made Quan Yizhen stare in awe.
It took time, so much time, for Yin Yu to open up to him and allow for his feelings to truly show.
He was even more beautiful than Quan Yizhen had ever seen him, open and content as he was now.
Noticing his eyes fixed on him, Yin Yu looked away and dropped Quan Yizhen’s hair. If he could blush, the younger was sure that his shixiong would be red. “Why are you looking at me like that?”
Quickly, Quan Yizhen searched through his robes until he found a familiar wooden comb. The very same one that Yin Yu always used to brush his hair out all those years ago and was kept in the martial god’s palace until he found Yin Yu again. After Quan Yizhen found his shixiong, he started to carry this little piece of their past with him at all times.
Yin Yu’s brow rose in confusion at the sight of the comb offered to him before recognition sparked in his eyes, widening as he remembered it. “You kept it?” he asked, taking it in his hands. He ran his fingers along the smooth wood, feeling the wear of time in the occasional thin crack.
“Of course,” Quan Yizhen said. “Shixiong gave it to me.”
Something crossed over Yin Yu’s features, something that Quan Yizhen couldn’t name, before a small smile came to his shixiong’s lips. He patted the space in front of him and within the span of a single breath, Quan Yizhen was occupying the spot with obvious anticipation. He felt that he would vibrate out of his skin, his heart skipping in his chest as careful hands gathered his hair.
There was no pain when the comb began to move through the ends of his curls and Quan Yizhen relaxed into the sensation that he’d longed to feel again for centuries. His eyes slipped closed as Yin Yu brushed, his steady breathing filling the air where his shixiong’s no longer did.
“You’re quiet,” Yin Yu murmured, finishing a section with a smooth glide of the comb from Quan Yizhen’s scalp to the ends and moving on to the next.
“Shixiong likes quiet, doesn’t he?” Quan Yizhen answered. It had been so long since they first ascended, since the day that Yin Yu left him all alone with harsh words in his wake.
If all it took for Yin Yu to stay with him, to protect this familiar atmosphere between them, was quiet, then Quan Yizhen would never speak again.
There was a sigh behind him, one that was no longer necessarily of frustration as it once was. “You can speak,” Yin Yu told him, quietly. “If there is something on your mind.”
Quan Yizhen hummed, an acknowledgement of the offer, but he didn’t say anything. He could talk later, fill the silence between them once they left this room, but now, he wanted to revel in the quiet. It reminded him of his life before the responsibility of godhood was placed on his shoulders, when it was just him and his shixiong.
He focused on the smooth glide of the comb through his hair, methodical and gentle, and before he knew it, he was dozing off while sitting up.
When he came back to a hazy awareness, an indiscernible time later, his head was resting on Yin Yu’s lap as fingers scratched lightly at his scalp and moved through his hair. It made his chest feel fuzzy and light and so full of warmth that he never wanted to lift his head again.
Not knowing that he wasn’t asleep, Quan Yizhen felt Yin Yu’s fingers brush sweetly along his temples, down his cheeks, before diving back into his hair to repeat their soothing journey through the soft strands.
No matter how much of a nuisance it was at times, Quan Yizhen would never even dream of cutting it.
Never again was His Highness Qi Ying seen with his crown off-kilter.