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Luo Binghe fingers one of his long curls, his reflection eyeing him disdainfully from the bronze mirror. "Shizun," he calls. His husband hums absent-mindedly behind him, accompanied by the sound of swaying cloth. "Husband."
Shen Qingqiu finally looks up from his musings, turning to face him. "What is it, Binghe?"
"Shall I cut my hair?" He asks, tugging on a lock of it.
It's soft and clean, meticulously cared for. He's put so much effort into caring for it, in looking pretty for his husband, in making himself look more absolutely deserving of a head pat. It’s too much like a wild lion’s mane, untamable and touchy. Even the slightest bit of too-high humidity makes it frizz. But Shen Qingqiu likes it, which had been enough of a reason as any to keep it. For that same appreciation, his question makes his husband frown.
He wouldn't mind it if Shen Qingqiu said something like, keep it since it’s so lovely or I like it long. Luo Binghe is happy to keep it if it pleases his husband. But Shen Qingqiu doesn't say that.
Instead what his husband asks is, "do you want to?"
As if Luo Binghe's opinion matters more than his or any of the outsiders who might have something to say about it. It brings a smile to his mouth. Just further proof of how his husband loves him, that he would ask such a thing.
"Long hair is a symbol of wealth, of gentry, of good breeding," he says. Shen Qingqiu steps up behind him, his soft hands coming to comb through Luo Binghe's wild mane. Tenderly, with care, like he's afraid to tug too hard and cause hurt.
Luo Binghe leans back until his head rests on his husband's stomach. It's become softer in the years that they've been married, but the man himself is no less strong, flawless, or unparalleled. "I certainly have those things, but long hair is also a symbol of great pride, and I..."
Lately, I don’t feel so proud.
He doesn't say it out loud, but Shen Qingqiu seems to hear him just fine. For a long moment, they sit in a comfortable, mutual quiet as his husband thinks over what he’s said. Then he dips to press his soft lips to Luo Binghe's temple, leaving behind a tender warmth even after he pulls away.
"If that is how Binghe feels," he says gently. "Then we will cut it." His fingers brush back Luo Binghe's bangs. "And each lock that falls away will take some of Binghe's regrets with it until the only things left are the good memories. The happy ones." His fragile hand cups Luo Binghe's jaw, warm and safe and secure. His pretty, bow-shaped mouth pulls into a soft smile. "How about that?"
Luo Binghe leans into the touch, his heart aching. How tender this man makes him, carving into his very core. A patient sculpture artist, carving away at his marble heart. Leaving swirly designs behind in the walls as he carves a spot for himself, big enough to take up the whole block. There's no room left with Shen Qingqiu in it, but it's a space that needs no one else. How full his heart has become, how sturdy.
With careful hands and a sharpened blade, Shen Qingqiu cuts Luo Binghe's hair. Luo Binghe trusts no one else to do it. His husband is nervous. His hands shake until he settles into the rhythm of it. Curly, dark locks of beautiful hair fall to the floor one by one.
A little too much is cut away, the ends falling at the middle of his neck, but it's perfect. There's a lightness that Luo Binghe has never known to seek before, as if his regrets really have fallen away with the weight.
Shen Qingqiu brushes one side behind Luo Binghe's ear, nervousness on his handsome face. "It doesn't look too bad," he says, because he's silly. Luo Binghe tugs him down for a kiss.
The mess is swept up and thrown away, the evidence cleared. Each clump of his fallen hair is a whisper of a terrible memory; Shen Qingqiu’s body lying cold, the abyss, the heartbreak, the betrayal, the shame, the rage, the despair. It’s all swept away. There’s still a lingering heaviness on his shoulders, resting against his spine.
The first time Luo Binghe goes out with his newly cut hair, he garners stares and gasps and whispers. It doesn’t matter. Both he and his husband resolutely ignore it all. It's Luo Binghe's hair; no one's opinion but his own and his husband's matters. Anyone who cares enough to cause a fuss is nobody important.
Spring comes and goes. So does the summer, the winter, the fall. Each month, each glance into a mirror takes away some of the lingering sorrow he had felt.
When he notices that it’s begun to grow long again, he smiles.