Work Text:
“I can’t take this anymore, come here.”
Mu Qing finds himself being tugged back by the collar, heels leaving the path as an arm belts about his waist. He’s half lifted, half dragged, and only by his bewilderment at such a comfortable attack on his person does he hold back from immediately lashing out.
“What the hell are you doing?!” Spits, knowing by the voice (and scent and shape of the arm) that this is Feng Xin carting him like an awkward sack of beans to the mouth of a tent. One of many temporary housing scattered across the debris of what was once their homes.
“It’s driving me crazy, sit down.” He’s ordered rudely, but too tired and curious to fight. Letting himself be manhandled to the stool kicked over by Feng Xin, trying to turn around and see what the man was doing.
Mu Qing scowls when he sees the elaborate gold scissors shine in Feng Xin’s hand - something likely uncovered from the ruins of toppled palaces as one of the handles were bent.
Without warning Feng Xin snaps the band of ratty leather keeping Mu Qing’s hair in an improper knot at the back of his skull. Giving cause for a hiss of pain as archer’s fingers move deft through the tangled locks - being none too kind when greeting more difficult knots where burnt ends fused with the remaining length.
“Ow!” Mu Qing ducks down, trying to escape the sting as his scalp is assaulted. “Get off me!”
“Hold still!” Feng Xin’s hand grips the back of Mu Qing’s neck with one squeeze, an unbreakable collar at the base of his skull, soft calluses from the bow brushing the nape of his neck. Fingertips like blunt points, but not painful, carding through the mess of his hair. “If you don’t fix it now it’s just going to get worse and we’ll have to shave your whole damn head off!”
“Then I’ll shave it.”
“Like hell you will!”
“Try and stop me!” Mu Qing declares against the sudden drop in his gut at such an idea. Pride was against his code - but if there was one thing he couldn’t deny it was that his hair had been something he kept particularly good care of. Even beyond the expected measures. (His mother used to call him sweetly, rubbing his thin shoulders when he’d sit on the floor and shrink down as she trimmed his hair when needed. He’s clung to the sensation of her lean fingers combing gentle and adoring as she wove a thick braid down his back. Tying it off with a strip of red cloth she scavenged from an old coat and stitched a few glass beads to make it look special. At one point the tie was the finest thing Mu Qing ever imagined owning.)
“At least use a comb.” Mu Qing’s voice falls low in his chest and where he’s hunched Feng Xin’s hip brushes his back.
“Couldn’t find one, stop complaining.”
The archer-carved hand’s soften against expectation as they move from handful to handful, trying to work the knotted band of hair as low as possible down the length of the hair. Fingertips brushing Mu Qing’s ear occasionally as they did, causing him to suck in breath at surprise and Feng Xin apologized quietly like he’d caused the man pain.
“That’s about as long as I can get it.” Eventually Feng Xin speaks up after what feels like hours of repetitive strokes and thin cursing at the scorched and tangled hair. Mu Qing, half in a relaxed stupor like a dog sated at the brush of warm hands, reaches back to check. Having no mirror to see for himself (because of course Feng Xin wouldn’t bring a comb or a mirror for this) and his hands are caught as they move blindly. Feng Xin guiding him with a light touch to where the worst of the mess has been fought back - leaving the salvageable hair barely resting at his shoulders.
He feels sick abruptly, and it must show because Feng Xin presses the weight of his hand against Mu Qing’s throat. A strange gesture of comfort, like he was trying to keep his head raised - thumb stroking against his jaw like trying to calm a startled animal.
“It’s not so bad,” He offers. “It’ll grow faster than if we were mortal.”
Mu Qing hates the sympathy in the man’s voice. (He suddenly misses his mother but that’s a silly thing to say for a boy who never stopped missing her.)
“Just do it.”
“Ok.”
The hand at his jaw glides back, gives his shoulder a squeeze, and Mu Qing would feel more in control if he’d just twisted his saber around and hacked the length off of his own free will. Gentleness did not suit Feng Xin, at least not towards him.
Mu Qing doesn’t realize he’s shut his eyes at the first even stroke of thin blades against his hair - the short length freed and fluttering to his cheek.
The second chop has him grasping a fistful of anything he can - resulting in Feng Xin pausing as Mu Qing digs nails into the back of his knee. He doesn’t say anything, just keeps cutting in as efficient strokes as he can until the weight is lost and Mu Qing feels the cropped strands resting against his shoulders.
The dizzy feeling returns and he doesn’t really care how hard he’s clawing Feng Xin’s leg. Only surprised that it doesn’t stop the other from combing through the shortened length once more with fingers. A shuffling above, and he tries to even out his breathing by the time Feng Xin is doing something more to his hair. Pulling and petting it upwards, gathering it into a fist and working with one, two quick tugs before securing it with something at the back of his skull.
“There. Better.” He seems proud of his work and has already gathered the ruined hair and kicked it out of Mu Qing’s sight before he opens his eyes (much like hiding the corpse of a loved one).
“Stupid.” Mu Qing struggles not to reach up and touch the humble halved ponytail that feels so light and strange in place of the hefty mass of his former style. “I could have done it myself.”
“You wouldn’t have.” Feng Xin scoffs.
“Anyone else could have.”
“You wouldn't have let them.” His ear is flicked from behind. Mu Qing turns to hiss and finds himself staring at Feng Xin with his shorter hair in loose disarray down his shoulders.
He reaches up to touch the ribbon securing his own hair and knows immediately it’s not the worn leather strap he’d been using - but a simple ribbon of red and gold, centered with a polished white bead. The one Feng Xin was wearing when he dragged him away.
“What the hell is wrong with you?” He asks instead of what he means.
Feng Xin just smiles in that aggravating way where only half his mouth tilts up and his eyes are too warm by far. So easily reading between the lines of Mu Qing’s words, 800 years well-versed in the art.
“You’re welcome.”