#((them...

‎Legundo had always kept his hair short, soldier-short at first, buzzed down to nothing but discipline and habit. Back then it wasn’t even a choice. It was uniform. Regulation. One less thing to grab in a fight, one less thing to maintain, one less softness to account for.

‎Even as a student, when no one required it of him anymore, the comfort of it never really left. Short meant practical. Out of the way. Uncomplicated. He didn’t have to think about it in the mornings. Didn’t have to feel it brushing against his collar or falling into his eyes. It dried quickly, stayed neat, behaved.

‎It didn’t demand attention.

‎And Legundo liked things about him that didn’t demand attention. ‎So when he started growing it out, it was half curiosity, half indulgence, and perhaps a quiet rebellion against the version of himself that had once measured worth in efficiency alone. ‎He hadn’t announced it. Hadn’t made some grand decision. He’d simply… stopped cutting it.

‎At first it was barely noticeable. A little longer on top. Enough to fall forward if he bent his head too quickly. Enough that Owen, with sharp eyes and sharper instincts for change, noticed before anyone else.

‎“You’re growing it,” Owen had said, like he’d caught Legundo in the act of something scandalous.

‎“I’m not,” Legundo had replied automatically.

‎Owen had grinned. “You are.”

‎Louis noticed not long after. His reaction had been quieter, just a thoughtful hum and a gentle, almost absent brush of fingers through the slightly longer strands at Legundo’s temple.

‎“It suits you,” he’d murmured.

‎That had been the end of it, officially.

‎Unofficially, both of them had admitted, a little too eagerly, that they wanted something to run their fingers through. Owen had said it outright, no shame whatsoever. Louis had tried to phrase it more delicately and failed when he’d gone faintly pink at the ears.

‎Legundo had rolled his eyes. ‎But he hadn’t cut it.

‎Unfortunately for him, longer hair was not something he was used to. He kept forgetting it was there. It brushed his neck and made him tense. It slipped into his eyes when he leaned over his work. Wind caught it. Water weighed it down. It felt… present.

‎Too present. ‎So he defaulted to what he knew.

‎It was always tied back, twisted into the same neat bun at the nape of his neck while he worked. Tight enough not to move. Secure enough that he could forget about it. Functional. Predictable.

‎Every morning it was the same routine, brush, gather, twist, tie. Efficient. No wasted motion.

‎Owen had taken to watching him do it with visible offense.

‎“That’s it?” he’d demanded one morning. “That’s all you’re going to do with it?”

‎“Yes,” Legundo had answered, already reaching for the tie.

‎“You’re wasting it.”

‎“It’s hair.”

‎“It’s good hair.”

‎Louis, traitor that he was, had nodded from where he sat. “It does seem a shame to hide it all the time.”

‎Legundo had stared at both of them like they’d lost their minds. ‎But the next morning, when he caught his reflection, hair loose, falling past where it ever had before, he hesitated a second longer before tying it back.

‎It was strange, seeing himself that way. Softer around the edges. Less severe.

‎Less like the person he’d once had to be.

‎He told himself it was temporary. Just until he got bored of it. Just until it became inconvenient enough to justify cutting it again.

‎But he never did.

‎Instead, he kept twisting it into that same neat bun, pretending not to notice the way Owen’s fingers would itch to pull it loose.

‎Pretending not to notice the way Louis would gently free a stray strand near his ear, just to tuck it back in place.

‎Functional. Predictable.

‎And increasingly, not quite enough.

‎

‎Owen insisting on doing Legundo’s hair had started as a complaint and turned into a mission.

‎“You only ever wear it one way,” Owen had said, hands already hovering like he was afraid Legundo might escape. “Always tied back. Always a bun. You grew it out and then just—hid it.”

‎“It’s out of the way,” Legundo replied calmly, fingers looping the tie loose around his wrist. “That’s the point.”

‎“That’s boring.” Owen whined.

‎Legundo sighed, long-suffering, the way one did when surrendering to inevitability. “You’re persistent,” he said, which was as close as he ever came to admitting defeat.

‎Owen beamed. “Sit.”

‎So Legundo sat on the floor in front of the bed, back straight out of habit, knees pulled in comfortably. Owen climbed up behind him, dragging a brush from somewhere and immediately loosening the bun. Legundo felt his hair spill free, heavier than he expected, warm against the back of his neck.

‎Owen froze for a moment, like the reality of it had just hit him. ‎“Oh,” he breathed. “Okay. Wow.”

‎Legundo huffed softly. “Aren't you supposed to be doing something?”

‎“I am,” Owen muttered, more to himself than to Legundo. “I just— hold on—”

‎The brush slid through Legundo’s hair, careful at first, then more confident. Owen’s fingers followed, separating strands, raking gently through, checking for tangles. He leaned in close, brows furrowed in concentration, lips moving as he whispered quiet instructions to himself.

‎“No, that goes over— wait— Legs, dear, don’t move—”

‎Legundo didn’t. He couldn’t, really. The tension he usually carried in his shoulders eased without him noticing, his breathing slowing as Owen’s hands worked patiently through his hair. The touch was unhurried, reverent even. Not utilitarian. Not rushed.

‎It was… nice.

‎Louis found them like that. He stopped in the doorway without meaning to, the sight catching him off guard. Legundo sat with his eyes half-lidded, posture relaxed in a way Louis almost never saw. Owen was behind him on the bed, utterly absorbed, fingers combing gently through dark strands, brushing and braiding with careful precision. There was a softness to the scene...domestic and intimate.

Louis smiled before he could stop himself. ‎He crossed the room quietly and climbed onto the bed behind Owen, kneeling close. Without a word, he reached out and gathered Owen’s hair, running his fingers through it experimentally.

‎Owen startled, shoulders jumping. “Oh—!”

‎“Shh,” Louis murmured, amused. “Hold still.”

‎Owen relaxed almost immediately, realizing it's just Louis, leaning back just slightly into Louis’s space. “You scared me love,” he said, but there was no real complaint there, only warmth.

‎Louis brushed Owen’s hair slowly, deliberately mirroring the care Owen was giving Legundo. The room filled with the soft sounds of bristles, quiet breathing, the occasional muttered correction from Owen as he worked through Legundo’s braid.

‎By the time Owen finished, Legundo’s hair was neatly brushed and braided back, not tight, not severe, but loose enough to let a few strands frame his face. He lifted a hand, touching it carefully, like he wasn’t quite sure it belonged to him.

‎“…This feels strange,” he admitted.

‎“Good strange.” Owen said immediately.

‎Louis hummed in agreement. “Very good strange.”

‎Then Owen twisted around, eyes bright with triumph. “Okay. Your turn.”

‎“My turn?” Legundo echoed.

‎“You’re doing Louis’s hair.”

‎Legundo blinked. “I don’t know—”

“I’ll teach you,” Owen said, already shifting so he was kneeling between them, bright with determination. “You split it into three. No— three means three, Legs. That’s two. You’re holding two.”

“I am not.”

“You absolutely are.”

Legundo looked down at the sections in his hands like they’d personally betrayed him. He adjusted, carefully separating the strands again, brows drawn together in deep concentration. His fingers were steady, they always were, but this was a different kind of precision. No weight to counter. No resistance. Just silk-smooth hair slipping through his grip if he held it too tight or too loose.

“Gentler,” Owen instructed, softer now. “You don’t have to manhandle it.”

“I’m not manhandling it.”

Louis smiled, eyes already closed, trusting. “You are, a little mon chou...”

Legundo exhaled through his nose, something almost like embarrassment flickering across his face before he forced his shoulders to relax. He tried again, this time letting his fingers move slower, more deliberately. Over the middle. Under. Shift. Repeat.

Owen hovered close, hands occasionally reaching in to correct the angle of his wrists or separate a section that had begun to merge. “There. Yes. That’s it. See? You’re doing it.”

It was strange work. Intimate in a way Legundo wasn’t used to initiating. He was accustomed to being still for touch, not creating it. Not shaping it into something careful and deliberate.

Louis hummed softly when Legundo’s knuckles brushed the back of his neck by accident.

Legundo froze. “Did I—”

“You’re fine,” Louis murmured, a smile in his voice. “Keep going.”

So he did.

It took time. More than it probably should have. A few false starts. One entirely lopsided attempt that Owen made him undo with theatrical horror. But eventually, slowly, the braid began to take shape. Not tight and severe like the bun he defaulted to. Not perfect. Slightly uneven in places.

Human. Which was funny considering neither of his lovers were human.

When he tied it off at the end, his hands lingered there for a second, thumb brushing absently over the woven strands like he was committing the pattern to memory.

Owen twisted around first to inspect it, eyes wide and delighted. “Legs!”

“What? Did I do it wrong again? I swear I'm doing it like how you showed me-”

“You did it.”

Louis opened his eyes, reaching back to feel the braid resting over his shoulder. His smile was softer than either of them had seen all evening. “You did it mon chou,” he agreed quietly.

For a moment, none of them moved. Owen still half-kneeling between them. Louis sitting relaxed and warm beneath Legundo’s tentative touch. Legundo behind them both, hands resting loosely in his lap now that they had nothing to fix.

All three with freshly brushed hair, braided neatly, or as neatly as they could manage, the faint scent of soap and warmth lingering in the air. They dissolved into quiet laughter, into softer silence after. Into the kind of stillness that didn’t demand anything from them. And when Legundo’s hand drifted automatically toward the place at the nape of his neck where a tie would usually sit...

He stopped.

Jack can’t help the small smile tugging at his mouth. Robby’s always been like this; faltering at the first hint of tears, like he can’t stand Dennis being in any kind of distress. He’s ridiculously soft. Dennis was barely even reprimanded, and yet Robby still looks stricken with guilt.

“It’s okay, baby, it’s okay,” Robby murmurs into his curls while Dennis clings fistfuls of his shirt and whines miserably. “I think someone’s just really, really tired. Is that what’s going on?”

Dennis sniffles, peeking up at him through wet lashes.

“You wanna go to bed, honey?” Robby asks softly, kissing his damp cheek.

Dennis rubs his eyes with a tiny fist and nods, clearly exhausted.

“I think that’s a great idea,” Jack says warmly, squeezing Robby’s shoulder before leaning down to press another kiss to Dennis’ temple. The boy flushes under all the affection.

Jack smiles, amused, and gives Dennis’ cheek a gentle pinch. Dennis whimpers faintly.

“Jack.” Robby warns, pulling his hand away and rubbing the same spot soothingly.

“Michael.” Jack drawls, chuckling a little.

Dennis leans into Robby’s palm, yawning wide, his body sagging. He babbles something incoherent.

Robby pushes to his feet with Dennis in his arms, but a sharp twinge shoots through his back and he winces before he can hide it.

“Bring him here,” Jack tells Robby gingerly, stepping in and taking Dennis from him, carrying him with much more ease.

“Daddy!” Dennis cries, twisting toward Robby in distress when he sees him clutching his back.

“I’m fine, baby,” Robby assures him. Though his voice is tight, he manages a smile. Dennis grips his shirt stubbornly, determined not to let go any time soon.

In their room, Jack lowers him onto the bed. Dennis wriggles and fusses again, eyes dazed and heavy as he looks between them, like he’s afraid they might disappear at any moment.

Robby sits on one side of the bed, the mattress dipping under his weight, while Jack settles on the other. Robby grabs Sugar, Dennis’ well-loved teddy bear, and tucks him securely right beside the boy. Dennis immediately presses his face into the soft fur, squeezing the bear tightly. Jack places his pacifier between his lips, and Dennis accepts it without protest.

Robby brushes his curls away from his forehead. “You’ll feel so much better in the morning, Den. I promise.”

Dennis yawns again, eyelids heavy.

“Goodnight, buddy,” Jack murmurs quietly.

Dennis hums drowsily, a muffled “nini’ baba” slipping around the pacifier. His breathing evens out within minutes, fingers still clinging to Robby’s shirt.

Jack huffs softly and looks at Robby across the bed. Their eyes meet in shared exhaustion and fondness.

“He’s spoiled,” Jack whispers.

Robby just smiles, leaning down to press one more kiss to Dennis’ hair.

“Yeah,” he says softly. “I know.”