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Roboute sat hunched at his dressing table, head in his hands as he took measured breaths. His wings drooped behind him- his wings. He was still struggling to wrap his head around everything. Heron missing, Father injured, Durandal's entire existence. Titus… Horus…
Focus. Father was healing well; it wouldn’t be long before He was back to full form. Then they would find Heron and bring him home. And Titus was settling, shadowed by his men from second company. He would be fine.
And the wings…
Roboute lifted his head, then raised the shimmering golden feathers that were attached to his back. He stretched them out, watching as the light caught the shimmering vanes. They were messy, in need of a good grooming but he didn't have the energy, and the others were busy doing… something. He wasn't sure, and he felt guilty about his lack of care but the pure exhaustion that had sunk into his bones made it difficult to do anything about it.
He sighed, running a hand through his hair. He grimaced as his fingers caught on the tangles; with everything else that was going on it wasn't only his wings that had been neglected. He picked up a brush and began to work the knots out. As he worked, he realized that his hair really had gotten wild; if he brushed it out it nearly reached his shoulders!
It was both a blessing and a curse that his hair grew out so quickly. From what he could tell it grew quickly even for a Primarch; none of his brothers had to trim their hair as often as he did. He mourned the long hair of his youth, when he was still small enough that his mother would settle him in her lap and show him the various loops and braids that the court ladies would wear.
Roboute had always loved the intricate designs that could be made with one's hair; the stories it told if one knew what to look for. At its longest his own hair had gone all the way down to his knees, and it drove his mother to distraction when he'd return home from playing with all manner of greenery stuck in it, no matter how well she'd tied it in the morning.
When he began training to fight he'd kept it shorter, just under his shoulder blades kept back most often in a braid or ponytail. That had been his main style until Konor's death, when he had cut it short in mourning.
He'd tried growing it out again after a time, but with the constant conquests and then, after the coming of his Father and the Imperium, longer hair became impractical. It had stayed short ever since- except in cases like this, where he neglected his own hygiene for a time.
When he finally got the worst of the tangles out, he set the brush down and picked up a pair of shears. Both the implements and the dressing table had been a gift from his mother, handmade specifically with his size in mind. She'd gifted them to him the first time he'd returned home after an Imperial compliance, saying that while she understood his choice to keep his hair short, she hoped that he would accept this to remember times past. Now, ten thousand years removed from her, he cherished those memories all the more.
He pulled a lock out, judging the best place to begin. He could get the most of it, then ask one of his sons to help clean it up later. He set the shears to-
"What are you doing?"
Roboute startled slightly, pulling the blade away and looking to see Mortarion reflected in the mirror behind him, standing in the doorway to Roboute's room. He was watching Roboute oddly- though the Death Lord had been acting oddly since the parade. Something had changed in the way Mortarion held himself; he seemed more self-assured, more at ease in his own skin. It reminded Roboute somewhat of the change after Father had healed most of the damage lingering from Mortarion's childhood, but… more, somehow.
"My hair is getting too long," Roboute told him, running his fingers through it again to show his point. "It's going to get untenable soon; I was about to cut it."
Mortarion hummed quietly, then stepped forwards to stand behind Roboute at the dressing table. "May I?" he asked, waiting for permission before running his own fingers through the dark honey colored hair. Roboute felt some of the tension in his body ease; he truly was weak to having his hair played with.
Mortarion frowned as he hit a snag, reaching over to pick up the brush before resuming Roboute's work and teasing out the last of the knots. "I hadn't realized how long it was… your hair grows quickly."
"It always has," Roboute told him, fighting to keep his eyes open at this point. "I used to keep it long when I was little; was easier on my mother than trying to wrangle me into the barber's chair every two weeks. It's simpler to manage now short, but I admit I do miss it."
His brother was quiet for a moment. "Why not grow it out now? It's not hard to adapt to it for power armor; I could even help, if necessary."
Roboute hesitated, unprepared for the sharp pang of longing that assaulted him. "…It's really not practical," he started, but Mortarion could hear him losing the argument with himself.
"Not everything has to be about practicality, Ro," Mortarion wrapped his arms around Roboute's neck, leaning down to rest his chin on the top of his brother's head. "It's ok to be selfish. And in the grand scheme of things, longer hair is a very minor vice."
He pressed a kiss to Roboute's temple, and Roboute sighed in defeat.
"I'll let it grow for a while and see how I feel about it," he conceded. Mortarion gave him a soft smile, leaning back and setting the brush back down on the dressing table.
"Good," Mortarion said, tugging Roboute up to his feet and leading him over to the bed. "Now let's do something about your wings. They are almost as bad as Corvus's were when you brought me home."
"Now that was uncalled for," Roboute grumbled, but he was grinning under the complaint. They settled on the plush cover and Mortarion began working on the unsettled feathers, batting Roboute's hands away when he tried to help.
"Sit and let me work," Mortarion scolded lightly. "You're exhausted. Relax, Robu."
Roboute sighed but let his brother work. He must have been more out of it than he realized, because he must have missed Mortarion pinging the others. Corvus and the twins appeared from wherever they'd been hiding, Alpharius dragging a reluctant looking Titus behind him.
"Oh, is it preening time?" Corvus asked, getting up onto the bed and positioning himself behind the wing Mortarion wasn't working on. Alpharius pushed Titus up onto the bed before clambering up himself, finding a free stretch of feathers to work on.
"Damn, you've really let yourself go, Ro," Omegon murmured as he tugged a broken flight feather out of the mess of gold.
"You should see his hair," Mortarion said dryly. This prompted everyone to look and see the current state of Roboute's hair, which prompted several gleeful comments about its length and how pretty it looked. Titus sat awkwardly for a moment, watching the others work before Roboute held out his arms and Titus fell into them, grateful for the direction. Roboute pulled one wing around slightly so he could reach, Titus sat in his lap with his Primarch's arms wrapped around his waist.
They worked in companiable silence for a while, the occasional bit of banter and small talk the only thing breaking the silence until Corvus paused.
"Is he purring?" He asked gleefully, leaning in to confirm that Roboute was, in fact, purring, the deep rumbling reverberating through his chest. He'd also slumped forwards slightly onto Titus, the lieutenant perhaps the only thing keeping him upright.
"Roboute," Mortarion called gently, getting only a soft grunt in return. He chuckled, "Perhaps it's time for a nap."
They managed to maneuver their half-asleep brother so that he was laying down, wings folded gently against his back looking much better for their work. They all settled in around him, and Titus realized he was bracketed in place in his father's arms.
"I really should-" he tried, but he was gently but firmly pushed back into place.
"No escaping it now," Omegon told him with a half-smile. "Come on, rest. We know you haven't been sleeping well since you got back.
It was a nice way to dance around the subject but Titus had to admit he could feel the lack of sleep weighing on him. He resigned himself to at least a short nap, safe between his- safe in their embrace, and drifted off to sleep.