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Easthies’s hair was a problem. Any knight would tell you that. Little black strands of it followed him everywhere he went, littering his desk, paperwork, and uniform. One time, Utowin had somehow even managed to get a strand of it threaded under his skin.
It wasn’t just a hazard to Utowin, either. When it wasn’t falling into Easthies’s eyes and mouth, it was hanging in his peripheral vision, leaving blind spots where any manner of criminal could hide themself.
Easthies liked it this way.
Often, Easthies would look at Luluci, the way her hair was neatly combed and braided and curled at the ends. The way it shined, even in the dim light of the Great Hall. But a captain should not be staring at their subordinate’s hair, so Easthies always looked away.
Easthies’s hair was not like Luluci’s. It was not supposed to be. It was kept long as a distraction, the equivalent of a tassel or ribbon that flows around to draw attention away from a witch’s hands. Not that Easthies ever drew any magic anymore.
Galga had combed it neatly, once. He said that he was tired of watching Easthies blow his hair out of his face, and that it really could look quite nice if it was taken care of properly. Easthies had not been enthused, but he had let Galga brush his hair back and tie it into a headache-inducing ponytail. Galga had recently come out to the knights, and Easthies would rather suffer through a questionable hairstyle than give off the impression that he thought badly of Galga or didn’t want to be near him due to his sexuality. Besides, any concern Easthies might have had that the hairstyle was a romantic gesture was quashed when Galga gave the same treatment to the twins and even Utowin. Not Luluci, though. Never Luluci. Her hair was never out of place.
Easthies looked terrible with his hair combed back. His face had nothing to hide behind. There were no flyaways to divert attention away from it. It was pale. Exhausted.
Masculine.
Easthies had discreetly pulled his hair out of the neat ponytail the moment Galga had walked away.
Easthies admired Galga. He was so confident in himself, so casual about his sexuality. He hadn’t come out in a tearful, dramatic moment. It was little more than a passing comment. Utowin had been complaining about his constant lack of dates, and Galga had smiled with a faraway look on his face.
“What about you, Galga?” Utowin had asked. “Have you had any luck with the ladies?”
“No,” Galga said, “I prefer men.”
Utowin had just laughed and patted him on the back with a hearty “Good for you!” and the conversation continued as normal. As if Easthies’s world had not just been turned inside out.
Easthies was not sure if he was the same as Galga. He had dated a few women in the past, but it had always ended the same– he was accused of being insincere, acting out a role. More in love with his job than he was with them. It was fine. It kept his focus on upholding the law, anyway. He really had loved them, though. Or, he thought he did.
He remembered running his fingers through a lover’s hair. It was a dull brown, and she had always called it plain. Easthies thought that was foolish. He would do anything to have hair like that, hair not bound by expectations, hair of infinite possibilities.
The hair of a woman.
“I hate the way you stare at me,” she had said when they broke up. “It’s like you want to crawl into my skin and wear it for yourself.”
Easthies had no explanation to give.
Perhaps he would have better luck in the world of men. Easthies had never tried it. He never sought romantic relationships, always letting others come to him first. He did not have time to pursue love. There was too much paperwork to do.
And who could ever truly love a man like him?
It was obvious to Easthies that he was weak. Not the kind of weakness that could be solved by training for hours on end, though he trained his hardest anyway. No, he had a weak mind, a weak soul.
It was obvious when he compared himself to Utowin. Utowin, with his unkempt stubble and wiry hair. Utowin, with his short-cropped, unbuttoned uniform, uncaring of who might see the hair on his chest. Utowin, the height of masculinity with no qualms about it.
Utowin had to feel the weight that Easthies felt. The burning emptiness of his flat chest. The disgust at the low voice that slithered out of his vocal cords. The fear at the sight of his face every morning, stubble bursting out like mold on a rotting fruit. It was just that Utowin must be better at pushing it down. Better at ignoring the ache, never slipping, never watching his hair grow longer than ever because he was too afraid to cut it.
And yet. And yet Utowin never stopped looking at Easthies as if he didn’t see all his faults. He and Luluci both, they stared straight at him, even while bowing to him. They were not glares of judgment or disgust. Their eyes were filled with… admiration.
It was illogical. Easthies supposed they were blinded by their pasts. Even then, he had done nothing of note. Any man would hold his hand out to someone as reliable as Utowin. Any man would punish such scum as Luluci’s former teacher. Easthies wasn’t special.
And yet Luluci, in all her perfect femininity, relaxed her shoulders around Easthies. She did not trust men, and with good reason, but she let her guard down around him. Many a time, she would bring him lunch on the days when he didn’t eat, setting down the cafeteria food with a silent nod. Easthies did not question her judgement, but he didn’t think he deserved her trust. Not when he stared at her hair like that. Not when he envied the very thing that had hurt her so badly all those years ago.
And too, Utowin, in all his carefree masculinity, looked at Easthies like he wasn’t stuck in purgatory– too masculine to be happy, too feminine to be respected. Many a time, Utowin would reach out and tuck Easthies’s hair behind his ear. He would look at his revealed face with the kindest smile, as if all the protruding bones and shaving scars were something beautiful. No, no. Handsome. Easthies could never be beautiful, no matter how tenderly Utowin looked at him.
It didn’t matter. None of it mattered. Easthies knew how to deal with it. If he gave his all to his work, filled his mind with nothing but the law, he could stave off the burning ache, the hatred of the man he was.
But he could not work in his sleep, and his body always gave way to it eventually.
He’d had a dream once. A dream where his hair was shiny and neat and braided like Luluci’s. Luluci had smiled at him, handing him a set of makeup instead of a lunch tray. Utowin took his hand and called him beautiful, and Easthies was nowhere near awake enough to correct it to handsome. His dream self laughed, and it was high and bright like the tinkling of bells.
“My sister in arms,” Dream Luluci said.
“My lovely wife,” Dream Utowin said.
His dream self did not correct them, did not say No, that’s not what I’m supposed to be. He… she… just smiled, her hair scattering its dark threads onto her white dress.