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“If you would put my hair up, I would appreciate it.” Lan Wangji shifted until his back was to Nie Huaisang, the full flowing length of his hair easily within reach. “I— I was not allowed to do so myself, during the initial recovery, and on days when everything is too much…”
“I understand,” Nie Huaisang said quietly. He gathered Lan Wangji’s hair in his hands, and wished he had the time to braid it as artfully as he knew how. At the same time, he was glad not to need to worry that his braiding would reveal something it shouldn’t; the Qinghe Nie braided relationships into their hair, and Nie Huaisang wasn’t sure if he’d be able to resist marking Lan Wangji’s heartbreak for those who could read the subtle patterns to see.
Instead, Nie Huaisang pulled Lan Wangji’s hair up into a simple bun. He didn’t bother with anything more complex than a length of cloth to wrap it with, and only a single straight pin to hold it in place; from how Lan Wangji talked, anything more complex would make it harder to remove later. Still, he did it neatly, with the proper braids along the nape of Lan Wangji’s neck; those were for stability, both literally of the hair and symbolically of the heart, and Nie Huaisang thought Lan Wangji needed that.
-Ch. 2, Blossoms Amidst the Snow, by Shadaras
The Thousand-Blossom Courtyard was blooming in defiance of winter’s final grasp. Plum trees stretched pale pink flowers towards the sky, bright and beautiful against gray stone and overcast skies. Nie Huaisang had always loved this courtyard; since becoming sect leader, he’d been slowly but surely planting more flowering plants around the Unclean Realm. The contrast between the simple military design of the buildings and the unrestrained beauty of the plants elevated both, in Nie Huaisang’s opinion, and he didn’t care what anyone else thought.
Lan Wangji stood in the middle of the courtyard, looking up at the blossoms. Nie Huaisang observed him quietly, looking at the calm profile of his face. He was wearing blue again, pale as the winter sky but more promising than the mourning-white he’d clung to during seclusion. Snowflakes dusted his hair, speckling the long dark strands like stars. Nie Huaisang rarely thought consciously about how beautiful Lan Wangji was, but right now he looked like he had stepped out of a painting meant to celebrate the oncoming spring, and Nie Huaisang wanted to appreciate him the same way he would any such piece of art.