Work Text:
Pantalone feels his cheeks go red with rage as his brother trips into the front door, trembling with fear and his eyes threatening to spill tears. The mean-spirited laughs of the other children chase him while he slams the door shut behind him. Baizhu falls down on his knees, fists clenched and pressing into his knees, turning the skin red and his small knuckles white.
“What happened, Zhuzhu?” Pantalone’s voice is sympathetic and gentle in spite of the fury simmering in his chest. The kids down the street always laugh at Baizhu, tricking him into joining their games and kicking him out once he makes a mistake. He witnesses his brother grow more and more recluse as a result of those awful children.
“They– my hair is all… It’s dirty and too long…” He whimpers out and now the tears flow in salty tracks, hair out of place and sticking to his face. Pantalone leans over Baizhu and grabs his hand, offering him a small smile.
“Well, I love your hair. I wish that mine would grow that long.” A pause and a sniffle as Baizhu looks up at his brother. “Who cares what they think? Come, I can help.” Baizhu stands up wearily, knees all scraped up but it doesn’t bother him. As long as he has Pantalone by his side, any wound can be mended.
–
Once they’re in the kitchen, Baizhu is standing on a stepstool and leaning over the tall basin, hopping up on his tiptoes. Pantalone shares the stepstool so he can reach the basin and drips a cup of lemon juice into his hair. The grime and oil gets under his fingernails and soaks his palms but he pays it no mind.
He doesn’t stop until he can somewhat run his fingers through Baizhu’s locks. Baizhu gasps as he reaches back to feel his hair. It’s never able to get as clean as this, their parents never have the time nor products to care to his mane, letting it get matted and dirty. He can’t blame them. Hair care isn’t cheap in Liyue. Baizhu gathers the tresses into his hands and sets it over his shoulder, enthralled in how smooth it is. The motion gives Pantalone an idea, though he is a bit hesitant.
“Go sit down, Zhuzhu. I have something I want to try.” Baizhu tilts his head in curiosity but eventually drags the stool out and takes a seat. Pantalone scampers off to find some pins and ribbons, sneaking into his mother’s drawer and taking a handful of each.
“Now stay still for a bit…” The last time Baizhu went to visit Ningguang, she was pestering him about how ‘pretty his hair would sit in a braid.’ When he gave in, he was enchanted by the results, how effortlessly she could twist the strands around each other and make it so neat and comfortable. “It’s nothing, my mom is a hair stylist and she tries out her ideas on me. I can teach you, if you’d like.”
Pins and clips litter the floor around them, a wooden chopstick hanging out of Pantalone’s lips. Left strand first… no, it’s right… then the left… A tangled mess later, Pantalone huffs and tugs the design out of Baizhu’s hair to start again. After much trial and error, both brothers are quite pleased with the results. Baizhu gives a wide gap-toothed grin as he looks in the mirror and Pantalone admires his hard work, and the gleeful expression on Baizhu’s face.
“I love it! Thank you so much, you’re the best brother ever!” Baizhu suddenly jumps forward and wraps his brother into a warm and to be honest, crushing hug. Baizhu had always been the stronger out of the two, albeit younger.
“I’ll always be here for you.” Pantalone’s smile crinkles the corners of his eyes.
“Do you promise?”
“I promise.”
–
“Hey dumbass, I said you could braid my hair, not stare into space.” The Balladeer sits with his arms crossed, snapping the Regrator back into reality. His gloved fingers sit between the thin purple threads of Scaramouche’s hair.
“My apologies.” Pantalone hums nonchalantly, giving a warm mask of a smile. It’s almost gut wrenching how disgusting this is. How he’s using this as an excuse to relive those menial childhood memories. He’s not that person anymore. He’s more than that now. So much more than…
“Shit! That hurt! What’s up with you?” Pantalone warily opens his palm and resting in the black leather is a clump of purple hair, growing dimmer the longer he stares at it. He quickly pockets it. He can’t be losing his cool like this.
Pantalone swallows. A small, pathetic noise that bubbles in the back of his throat. He feels that same fury coming to a boil in his chest, reminiscing of his brother and the hate. All that hate.
“I must go attend something Balladeer. Apologies for wasting your time. Goodbye.” He pays no attention to the shouts of the sixth harbinger as he escapes out the door, closing it tight behind him. It’s almost a slam.
He mustn't let his mask fall.