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King wasn't very particular about his hair, all things considered. Perhaps he should've been—he knew that his was the type that got… finicky. The type that needed to be washed and conditioned and all sorts of other things at specific intervals of time. The type that needed products to be put into it, which he had experimented with at some point.
He also knew that he probably had yet to wash his hair since the last time he'd gotten something in it. What was it last time? Soul Sand from the valleys? Netherwart or bits of netherrack? Was it even something from Minecraft, or the snatches of time he'd spend in real life?
…Did he even have any shampoo left? Or was it on the ever-growing shopping list on the never-ending to-do list he'd yet to actually fulfill? He'd been getting the necessities, of course—though, he would admit to himself that it was mostly to sate the other person now occasionally rooming with him now. He hadn't gotten around to everything, though.
He didn't take good care of his hair, anymore, was the point. This particular fact seemed like downright sacrilege to Purple.
"But it's—" Purple frowned, trying to capture their thoughts on the matter. They were sitting on the couch, clutching a mug of tea that was decidedly still tea, unlike the spilled remains of 'coffee' that had gotten into King's hair at some point or another. King hadn't been aware that coffee could… become something else until he'd seen it sticking to the strands.
In light of that, Purple didn't need to complete their stuttered statement for King to understand the necessity. Nevertheless, they continued. "It's important, King.”
"I am aware."
"Not just for hygiene!" Purple waved a hand around as they spoke. They didn't do that back when they were a prince; they were far more subdued back then. King tried not to think about it more than they had to. "It's a style thing, right? I know you like it down, but—"
"I do not." King cut Purple off, wincing after he realized that he did. It was a bad habit, but one that Purple never called them out on. They really should. King should talk to them about that. King should talk to them about a lot of things.
"You don't?"
"It gets in the way." King took a sip of his own tea. He didn't like tea, but Purple had made it; it was rude not to drink it. Though, he had a sneaking suspicion Purple didn't even like tea and was doing this for King's sake. There were things like that—one of them doing something for the other, and the other never saying anything about it. The ice they trod on was too thin to deal with petty things like preferences.
“Then cut it.”
"I do not want to cut it." King didn’t know why. It had been so long, but–the thought made him panic. He’d get around to figuring out why later, he had better things to do now.
"With how matted it is, maybe you should," Purple muttered into their cup, which King graciously elected to ignore. Mostly because, well, they were right. "How did you usually wear it?"
"...It wasn't this long before."
That was a lie, more or less. There was a time when it was around this length. They hadn't been able to catch a haircut for the first year or two when Gold had been born. They'd worn a lot of buns, back then, but it wasn’t exactly his… style, so to speak. He didn’t care about such things then, or really about them now, but–still. Just like cutting it, there was something stopping him from trying it out.
"Oh, then I can help you with that!" Purple set down the cup, but not before knocking it back, cleaning the thing in seconds like it wasn't scalding. Not for the first time, King wondered if this kid had taste buds, or if they'd been burned off long ago, "If you want!"
"Uh… I wouldn't mind it, but—now?"
"Yeah!” Purple stood up, "It's good to do things as soon as you can! I mean, if you want. It's fine if you don't want to, and obviously you could do it by yourself—"
"Purple, it's fine." Purple's shoulders, which had been steadily hiking upwards as they'd stammered, the tension so easy to see (why had he always elected to ignore it before?) dropped, "I don't mind. You'd probably be better at this sort of thing than I. You’ve always done well with your hair, haven’t you?"
"I mean, I'm not an expert… but I guess I know a thing or two. Where's your comb?"
Where was King's comb?
"I'll go get it," King said, instead of admitting he had no clue. He'd find it. Probably. Maybe.
"Oh, ok! I'll go wash the cups."
King nodded, letting Purple take his still half-full cup. He probably wasn't going to drink it anyway.
Purple seemed excited. King had no clue as to why.
The comb was in the desk drawer, underneath a hand towel used only for cleaning up water spills, and several clothing tags King hadn't thrown away yet, which was par for the course.
(King did not let himself look closely at the clothing tags. He knew what they were for. The clothes were for sizes far too small for him; the brands were all for children. It was one of the many things that hung heavier than a crown and a kingdom. Heavier than the weight of the revenge he only recently lifted off his back.
The pressure, as suffocating as it was, grounded him—no, anchored him. It kept him from drifting but locked him in one place, one mindset. He doesn't quite want to deal with any reminders at this exact second).
Purple, when King found them again, had managed to find the hair products that King had long squirreled away. How on earth they'd managed to find the coconut oil is beyond King. That was not going in his hair. It wasn't for him. It was also probably expired, it had been over three years since he’d seen that bottle. Did coconut oil expire? The keratin in hair cells is dead, right? Why should it care if the oil is expired?
Purple must have seen it—the reluctance, because they quickly reassured, "We don't have to do all this! It's fine! Besides, most of this has gone bad, but I was just checking to see.”
"I'm surprised you found them."
"Oh, I mean, they were just on your desk, so…"
King needed to clean his desk. As soon as possible, if he'd gotten so desensitized to the containers that he couldn't see half of them anymore.
"Ah."
There was a moment where Purple just waited, expectedly, sitting on the couch. Then they gestured for King to sit in front of the couch because—oh, right, yes, Purple probably couldn't reach if they both sat on the floor, huh?
So King sat in front of Purple. Awkwardly. He could tell that Purple had to sit up a little, too.
There's another pause, before Purple gathered all the hair King had into one hand, and started running the comb through the ends of his hair with the other.
It, of course, hurt. Only a little, though. King had expected much worse, for how bad his hair was. There were sharp, disconnected pinpricks, but overall it wasn’t intolerable.
"Sorry," Purple still muttered, hesitating with each swipe down, "You haven't—That is to say, I mean, it isn't…"
"I know." King did his best not to move his head, and failed each time the comb swiped down. He felt a bit like a child again, but worse. Or maybe better. It had been a long time. "Caring for my hair… escaped me, at the time, I suppose."
It was a loaded statement; a confession that Purple already knew. King had neglected a lot of things during his time as The King. This was just one of them.
"All things considered, it isn't that bad." The comb got stuck, and instead of trying to brute force it down, Purple took the comb out, brushing lightly there and doing something with their finger, until somehow, like magic, it detangled.
"You do not have to lie."
"I didn't say it wasn't bad. I just said it wasn't that bad. I've seen worse."
"Really?"
"Yeah. I didn't tie my hair back all the time when I first started learning how to fight."
King did his damnedest not to startle at the confession. Purple never mentioned where they had learned how to fight. Never mentioned anything, really, of their past. King had gathered that they were a born stick, or at the very least a city stick, but that was about it. There was never a mention of parents or family; nothing of where they were before they'd met each other. King didn't even know how Purple knew the other colored sticks that held the Minecraft block in the first place. He'd never asked, and Purple had never opted to give him the information.
Purple was, at heart, a rather secretive person, King had come to learn. He believed that there was probably not a single person on the Outernet or the Internet that knew the entirety of their backstory. There was likely not a single person who knew where they even were half the time. It worried King, at times, how much Purple kept close to themselves.
So the fact that they were opening up now caught him off guard. He tried not to let it show. It was good they felt safe to open up. King could care less about knowing more or less about Purple as long as Purple was comfortable–but if Purple was opening up, King would encourage it, not be apathetic. That kid needed someone, and if they wanted King to be that someone, so be it.
"Is that so?"
"I'd get it all messed up, yeah. So my dad would uh, she would help. And taught me how to do all this." Purple paused, "Maybe you'd do well in a braid…"
"If you think it would fit."
"You're really indecisive, huh? Yes or no, Your Highness?"
King snorted. What had once caused a rift between them was quickly turning into a running gag. "Alright, sure. I don't know how to do it myself."
"It's super easy. Hold on." King felt the comb go through their hair one last time, fully. From scalp to the end without a stop. The feeling was achingly familiar, though King couldn’t place it. "There. Your hair is super dry, though."
"There isn't any fix for that."
"If you just use some of the dry conditioner—"
King wrinkled his nose, "No."
"You're a child," Purple scoffed, which were bold words considering Purple themselves were, in fact, still practically a kid, "It's basic care! Just use it every morning—"
"I would rather not. And besides, didn’t you say it was expired?"
Purple tched, but acquiesced nonetheless, though they muttered, “Excuses” under their breath. King couldn’t help but huff a laugh at it.
"It's surprisingly good for what you've done to it. You're lucky,” Purple said. There were fingers in King's hair, threading pieces apart, "Tell me if it hurts at all. It's… It's been a while since I've done this with anybody, alright?"
"Of course."
They lapsed into quiet. Not silence, no—there was the occasional hum as Purple worked and a mumble to each other about nothing in particular. But it was quiet. Not all there. Close enough to silence that it practically didn't matter, but… it felt important to note.
The house was always silent. No matter how much King blasted the radio, or tried to smother himself in his own muttering, without the sounds of someone dancing to it, or the sounds of someone playing on the floor alongside him… It was silent. Music couldn’t fill the silence, only try and combat the lack of noise. It was difficult to explain, but–it felt better, with Purple there. It did not feel silent. It did not feel like–
“There."
It didn’t feel like Gold was gone, for just a second. King realized why when he touched the braid and expected a messy, unpracticed braid to meet his fingers. It was smooth and perfected; it was so clearly something Purple had done a million times before. Something that Purple had done before.
Gold had done this only once. Gold had forced King to sit down, pulling him away from filling out important forms, to practice it in order to impress a girl in his grade to befriend her. He’d fully lied about knowing how to do it, so he’d forced King to be his test subject, and King had to carefully guide him through the motions, even if he himself didn’t have a full understanding of how to do it either.
“My King?”
King startled, brought back to the present. The present in which he had a braid that was intricate and tidy and not Gold’s, but someone else. Someone still important, someone still here filling the silence, breathing and alive and clearly a little anxious at the silence King was giving them. Right. Right.
“It’s excellent, Purple.” King twisted around to shoot Purple a smile. Despite how small his smiles were nowadays, Purple seemed to enjoy them regardless. The hair was now away from his eyes, and King realized how much easier it was to see with it tucked away. “Thank you. You’re rather talented.”
“I’m practiced.” Purple waved off, but they still held themselves a little higher, a little prouder, at the praise, “It was nothing.”
“Still, you did not have to do it.”
“Well, if you want to pay me for it…” Purple snorted, shaking their head, and subtly (but not subtly enough) wiping away the edges of tears from their eyes.
Because this wasn’t just about King, was it? Purple had their own struggles; their own griefs. Hidden within the words, before they change the subject, ever so slightly, it showed. King didn’t comment on it. Just as Purple didn’t comment on his own. “No, really, I needed the practice. It looks good on you.”
“Thank you. You’ll have to teach me how to do it better.”
Because they would be there to teach him. They would be there to pester him about it, and probably convince him to use all the products King didn’t know he had lying around if they weren’t expired.
They would be there. King would be there, too.
King wasn't very particular about his hair. But perhaps they could start caring, now that they had someone so willing to help with it.