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Jia Huan had a certain routine going on.
Not for efficiency and definitely NOT because N Corp required it. He didn’t give two shits about what they required. If anything, it was the opposite. The routine was his. Something no one could touch or take apart.
Wake up at 6:00. Brush teeth. Wash face. Apply toner. Brush hair. Brush again. Condition. Brush. Tie back loosely. Check ends. Sometimes, regret not trimming them. Brush. Tie it again, properly this time.
He never rushed it, not even when he was needed ASAP. He’d sit there, half-dressed and barefoot in front of the metal mirror, going through every careful motion like it was something that mattered the most. Like it kept him human.
Ah…
Because some mornings, the face that stared back didn’t look like his entirely. He never liked to look at himself in the mirror. Sometimes when he stared too much, he started feeling like his skin was just borrowed, along with his name that wasn't entirely his.
But this—no matter how silly it sounds, was something he created. That's why then, and only then, was he ready for mission prep.
But of course, nothing sacred ever stayed untouched for long.
“Are you doing that again?” came the voice of his personal tormentor. Or in other words, just Gubo.
Jia Huan didn’t sigh, because sighing would imply he cared. Instead, he rolled his eyes like he’d practiced for months in front of that mirror.
“Yes. I am doing that,” he snapped, not looking up. His fingers were mid-sweep, undoing a small knot near his nape. “Don’t bother me.”
“It’s just hair,” Gubo muttered, arms crossed and tone flat, like he wasn’t even really trying to argue but instead, just stating a fact, or what he thought was one. “Cut it.”
Jia Huan scoffed, eyes narrowing as he carefully lifted a section near his temple, inspecting it for damage. He didn’t bother responding. Not until Gubo clicked his tongue and added, like this was somehow his problem to solve,
“You’re gonna get us late again.”
That got him.
“Then go without me,” Jia Huan snapped, putting a brush aside for now “Who do you think you are to command me around?” but then, randomly, he smirked, without even glancing back, “unless you want to comb it for me?”
It was a jab. Sharp and mocking. A test, if he was being honest with himself. He expected Gubo to roll his eyes and leave, grumbling something about how they didn’t pay him enough for this shit. But instead, he heard boots crossing the floor. Jia Huan’s brows furrowed mockingly as he watched Gubo approaching “Wait. Are you serious?”
Gubo didn’t answer. Just reached over, calm as anything, and took the comb right out of the sink. Jia Huan didn't even say anything. He just observed with a hidden curiosity, as Gubo grabbed his hair, the comb gently going through his hair, but then…
YANK.
“FUCK—!”
Jia Huan jerked forward, his knee hitting the sink cabinet. “Are you deranged?” he barked, voice pitching higher with pain. “Do you have zero brain cells?! You can’t just—”
“I told you to cut it. Would be easier, no?” Gubo replied flatly, comb still clenched in his hand like a weapon he hadn’t been trained to use but would gladly wield anyway. “You said do it, so I’m doing it.”
“That was sarcasm,” Jia Huan hissed, turning halfway to glare at him. “Have you heard of sarcasm, or is that above your reading level?”
“Sit still.”
“No.”
“Sit still.”
And somehow, Jia Huan obeyed. Partly because his scalp hurt like hell, and partly because despite every instinct screaming otherwise, he was curious what the scientist would do next. The other man seemed to be be treating this act like some kind of field repair. He tugged less this time, trying very hard to not be bad at it. Why? To impress him maybe?? Gubo was proud after all.
His fingers were warm and steady. He didn't had to be so close, though. So close that his breath was just barely grazing Jia Huan's ear.
He exhaled deeply.
The mirror showed them both. His own narrow face flushed red with half-anger, half with.. whatever that was. And behind him, Gubo’s expression was unreadable, eyes focused only on the strands of hair in his hand. It was humiliating. Not the act itself, but how.. oddly intimate it felt. The way Gubo slowly, stubbornly, kept combing. Like he wanted to get it right. Like he actually tried to make it not hurt.
“You’re gonna make it frizzy like that,” he mumbled.
“Then fix it later.”
“That’s not the point..” he said, voice quieter now. “You’re supposed to go root to the end..”
“I’m not a hairdresser.”
“No shit, really? I never would’ve guessed.”
But, surprisingly, the insult seemed to lack any venom. Gubo’s fingers brushed his jaw gently, moving a loose strand. Then, as if he didn’t even think about it, he tucked it behind his ear.
Jia Huan froze in place.
He stared at his reflection, stunned by that one simple act. The heat rose fast from his neck to cheeks to ears, like he’d been shoved under boiling water.
“Don’t—”
But he didn’t finish. Gubo didn’t say anything either. He just kept combing. More careful. Like something had changed, but he wasn’t going to acknowledge it.
And Jia Huan… Jia Huan sat there and didn’t stop him. Didn’t push him away. It was so fucking pathetic. If he could, he would literally punch Gubo and himself. He hated the way his breath caught in his throat like he was some fucking lovesick teenage girl.
Gubo finally set the comb down. Jia Huan almost reached for the tie himself, but then he felt the man's hands again. This time, gathering the weight of his hair into one hand, fingers carding through the ends with a strange sort of gentleness.
Gubo grabbed the red ribbon he always had in his hair, twisted it around, slow but firm, wrapping it just tight enough to hold. One loop. Two. Three. Then a pause, like he was checking it would hold. He didn’t say anything when he finished. No smug comment. No jab.
“…You didn’t have to,” Jia Huan muttered, almost under his breath.
“I know,” the scientist replied. Simple. Steady, “so, can we go now?”
Jia Huan blinked, eyes flicking to the mirror again.
His hair was tied up. Not perfectly, not with the same symmetry and care he gave it, but it was neat. It didn’t look like a rushed mess, or a joke. It looked like someone actually tried and gave a shit.
That someone being Gubo, of all people.
And now he was just standing there like nothing happened. Arms crossed again. Face blank. Like he hadn’t just completely trespassed into the one sacred thing Jia Huan never let anyone touch.
He know what to say. His mouth opened. Closed. He looked down. Then back at himself.
He looked at himself again.
And for the first time that morning, the face in the mirror didn’t feel so unfamiliar.