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In the first few days after Lan Wangji’s punishment, it was entirely impossible for him to lift his arms overhead to tie up his own hair. While he was being attended to both day and night in the medical wing of the inner compound, the healers put it up for him in a practical topknot, keeping all of it out of the way so it wouldn’t interfere with their work on his back. After half a month, when he was well enough to begin his secluded meditation in the Cold Pond, he wanted to return to the style he had previously worn it in, but he couldn’t hold his hands above his head for long enough to do it himself, even though he had regained almost all of his passive range of motion in his shoulders. The healers were busy enough with their own responsibilities, and it wasn’t as if he had maids to help him dress—it was only natural, then, that he asked for his brother’s help.
Xichen didn’t mind. In fact, privately, he enjoyed it: every morning, he rose half an hour earlier than most of the rest of the sect and made his way up to the cave on the back hill, bringing washing supplies on the days that called for it, and the required selection of small ties and pins on the others. After all, Wangji had committed himself to staying entirely in the cave for the duration of his reflection period but there was no injunction against him being visited by others, especially his own family; Xichen believed it to be a good sign that he cared enough to maintain his appearance in private. Wangji rarely spoke, but this was hardly a change from before the war. Xichen was talkative enough for both of them. Of course gossip was forbidden, but there was more than enough legitimate news to go around.
After another month, Wangji’s shoulders and back had recovered enough that he was ready to take care of the entire process of dressing himself each morning without assistance, including his hair, but to his embarrassment he discovered that he had slightly lost the muscle memory for the exact series of twists and ties that went with his preferred guan. So Xichen taught him again, accommodating the new stiffness of his upper body. Without a mirror, they worked by feel: Xichen’s hands over Wangji’s own, coaxing his fingers this way and that and describing what he was seeing, what parts of the style he was touching. Sometimes he moved his hands down to Wangji’s elbows to help him find the best angle at which to pull a section of hair into place without straining his shoulders.
There was also a salve for the scars. At first it had been far too painful in application for either of them to enjoy the skin-to-skin contact it provided—Wangji gritted his teeth through it, and Xichen’s brow furrowed in concern at the tension he felt under his hands, although he never actually hesitated to press as hard as was necessary to work the salve into the healing skin—but there was a point at which it became painless enough that the simple joy of spending the time together more than outweighed the annoyance of the dull ache.
One day, Xichen returned uncharacteristically late at night from an extended diplomatic discussion, and, feeling an urge for companionship but not wanting to risk striking up a conversation with anyone who might ask him how the meetings had gone, went up the back hill to visit his brother. Wangji had spent a large portion of the day working through moving meditations, rebuilding his strength, and although he seemed as alert as ever when Xichen arrived, his exhaustion became apparent as soon as he settled himself down at Xichen’s feet and closed his eyes. He drifted in and out of not-quite-sleep as Xichen deftly undid the tight style and ran his fingers through the loose strands, and when Xichen worked his fingertips in through the roots and lifted some of the weight of the long hair away from Wangji’s scalp, Wangji tilted his head back into the touch and moaned, surprising them both.
Xichen froze, registering the fact that his body had responded to that sound with a sudden flare of arousal. Enough, he told himself firmly. Don’t. He breathed slowly in and out, staring at the far wall, and when he had regained his usual calm, he nudged Wangji back into a proper sitting posture and quickly finished combing his hair and putting it in a simple braid for the night.
When he was done, he stood up to leave, but Wangji grabbed him by the wrist. The suddenness of the movement surprised Xichen—he hadn’t expected to see Wangji move with any other demeanor than the languid softness of someone on the verge of sleep at this point in the night. They locked eyes.
“The salve,” Wangji said.
Xichen tugged his wrist free, feeling disastrously off-kilter. “You can apply it yourself,” he said. The fact that Wangji had reached up and grabbed him and didn’t seem to be in any pain from the movement was proof enough that he was capable of it.
“I can also braid my hair myself.” Unspoken: and yet, here you are, doing it for me. Xichen couldn’t even argue.
“Wangji….” Xichen knelt next to him so they were at eye level. “What’s this about?”
He didn’t get a verbal reply. Wangji just grabbed him again—one hand in the front of his robes, the other on the back of his neck—and tried to pull him in for a kiss. Xichen flung his own hands up at the last minute, planting his palms on Wangji’s shoulders, stopping him with their faces barely a handspan apart.
If you won’t say it, I will, Xichen thought. It was hardly the first time he’d had to translate Wangji’s obstinate silence into words. “You don’t want me,” he said, wishing he were wrong about it but guessing that he was probably right. “You want Wei Ying.”
Wangji flinched slightly at the name, fingers curling tighter into the fabric. “I want both of you,” he said, gaze fixed resolutely on Xichen’s mouth.
Xichen felt something give way inside his chest. It was good enough—it had to be. “And the salve?” he asked, adjusting his grip so he was only resting his hands on Wangji’s shoulders instead of keeping him from getting closer.
Wangji shook his head, just one tiny economical motion. “Don’t bother,” he said, and pulled Xichen forward into a kiss.