Work Text:
He’s gotten to a point where seeing his reflection is just - wrong. Glaringly, achingly so, and he’s tired of shying away from it.
Every time he passes the shiny, polished windows that cover the grounds of UA, he sees himself, recoils with the same question- is that me? Really?
The blank space of tiled wall that he took his bathroom mirror down from is still irritatingly reflective, and he still thinks with embarrassment - and no small helping of guilt - of the morning he asked Shouta to swap desks with him in the staff lounge, so that the sun would glare on his black screen and obscure any kind of image. And Shouta - sweet, gruff, kind and reserved Shouta - did it without question, even when he had to apply drops to his eyes three times more than his daily average. But the alternative; to have the staff see him wince away from his own face and silhouette, twist his hair fretfully around one scrawny finger...
He can stomach that guilt, when he looks at the alternative of inexplicable shame. He feels like he’s inhabiting a deflated version of his own body, weighing him down. If he could change so part, just enough to rip off that latex-cladding of someone he doesn’t have to be anymore, despite all of the clamouring voices insisting, reassuring him that he’s still All Might -
He had to put the mirror back up, for this. It was tempting not to, just to go it blind - but he wants to see. He’s angry enough to want to watch it all just flutter to the ground in clumps, shaking it loose and escaping out from under the weight crashing down on him like a barbell with no spotter, crushing his sternum.
It’s strange, being this kind of angry. Teary, throat-cloggingly so, rather than the hot rage that he’s fallen into when fighting - seeing Aizawa-kun crumpled on the ground. His mentor mocked, twice. Worse than the cold anger of being something to use he’s felt before and ached from the chill of, pushing himself through and clinging to warmth.
And for some reason that’s too clouded and stained for him to decipher, the clippers really look like relief right about now.
It thrums next to his scalp, louder when he pulls it forwards and takes off a chunk, breathing fast. No more All Might. The back - cutting it feels like it’s not enough, but he perseveres. No more tangles and matts from gel and styling and wind. Doesn’t do anything for the panic swilling around in his gut and burning acidic in his mouth - but the buzz of the clippers feels like a decision, even as his heart pounds. Sliding up through the back, hair falling on the nape of his neck and itching like he’s going to crawl out of his own too-big skin -
The bangs are the worst part. The biggest reminder of what he isn’t, not anymore. And he picks up the kitchen scissors; the handle a little melted from leaving it too close to the gas ring once. Smooth and small in his hand, too blunt to slice straight through his hair, brittle as it is.
“Hey - are you using the clippers in the bathroom? Did you put a sheet down -”
He freezes, scissors just barely pressing against the weft of hair and his other hand dragging the section down roughly, as if to yank the remainder once the blades manage most of the job. But for all that he stands still, the door continues opening out; moving honey-slow in the stretched moment of his pulse pounding in his ears.
“- it gets caught between the tiles,” Shouta murmurs, looking right at him with one hand on the doorframe. Scissors in hand. One of his bangs ragged and half-torn out, patches on the back of his skull. A tuft over his ear, and blonde hair scattered over the floor.
He’s wrecked the floor, now, he thinks distantly. That’ll take ages to pick out, to wrestle the attachment onto the vacuum. He never got the request to have the grouting updated submitted like he meant to. It didn’t seem important.
Shouta moves across the floor like he’s a spooked cat; quiet but steady steps. “Can I have those? Please?”
He hands the scissors over quietly, and holds still while Shouta leaves the room, a cabinet in the kitchen opening and closing firmly. He’s shaking, he thinks, and examines his hands with an odd fascination. There’s hair all over his white top, and he refrains from shaking it off and making more of a mess.
He has less than ten seconds to imagine Shouta never coming back, gathering his things and leaving, being kind enough not to mention the incident. But logical enough to leave well enough alone, remove himself from this crumbling impact zone around him.
“Come on.” He turns, startled. “We need to do something about your appearance. I love you, but I already have multiple ragamuffins in my life, you know.”
*
Sitting in the bathroom, facing into Shouta’s abdomen - it’s a little awkward. It doesn’t make sense, either. They’ve been together for over two months. Kissing, touching through their clothes. So why is it so tremblingly new and uncharted?
The way he touches him feels like it’s pulling the useless, aimless anger out, clot by clot.
It’s an effort, though; trying not to breathe or shift awkwardly as the younger man brushes his hands through his hair, feeling the brittle mess of it. It feels like it could be almost enjoyable, truly - but he can’t shake the sour awkwardness, the look on Shouta’s face when he took the scissors away from him. It’s tangled and unhealthy, too. Nothing like Shouta’s glossy hair, unkempt as it might sometimes be.
“Your hair, it’s - nice. Thicker than I expected. Are you sure?”
He looks down quickly, and jerks his head back up again when he realizes what part of Shouta’s body he was inadvertently staring at. He clears his throat, trying to inject some humor into his voice. It trembles, anyways, and his fingers dig into his lap.
He’s never let his boyfriend touch his hair, has he? Shying away, always being the one to sit up taller and guide Shouta’s head to his lap.
He licks his lips, tries for levity. “Ah, I’m not so attached to it. My appearance isn’t easy to make much worse.”
Shouta doesn’t reply; just smooths his hair back down silently and turns to pick up the shears and comb from the side of the sink. A little set he’d owned for some time; an old joke of Nemuri’s, apparently.
His fingers stop over a dent. Small, right over the end of his temporal bone. Explores it, testing the depth of old injury, and moves on to stroke over the smooth skin right behind his ears, firm and gentle. He exhales.
Breathing into Shouta’s stomach is - easier. Nuzzling into his sweater, right over the front pocket and putting his hands on his partner’s hips to steady himself as he breathes in the smell of apple, cotton - and cat. Definitely cat.
He starts behind Toshinori, warm against his back, gathering up one long section he must have missed and starting to trim, a soft ‘snick’ noise every time the arms close and cut through a piece of damaged hair. Shouta combs the hair over his ear, holding up the blond strand to gauge its length. And when he speaks, it’s in calm and measured tones.
“I like your appearance, you know. You ought to know.”
“Um, what?”
Hair keeps falling in tufts to the ground, and he glances down at the pile building up, picking a lock off his lap to hold it absently, to brush his fingertip over the little bundle. Shouta doesn’t seem to think elaborating all that necessary, so he concentrates on the feeling of the younger man stroking his hair and tracing his fingers over the top of his ear and down behind to guide the scissors, tidying the rough edges of his hairline; trying not to think about the warm brush of Shouta’s knuckles over his cheekbone.
“The important things...you have them. Lovely hands. A kind face. You’ve a smile that’s genuine, and it’s so dizzying at times.” His tone is calm, like he’s discussing the weather or the decor around them; but his fingers comb through Toshinori’s hair slower than is entirely necessary. “A beautiful body around a soft heart.”
He doesn’t know how to reply, what to do or say other than sit stock-still and flushed on the chair as Shouta cuts his hair, tidies the mess he’s made into something salvageable. The bangs go next - intact on the right, ruined on the left - and he can feel Shouta’s moment of hesitation - and then resolve, as he closes the shears through the length in his hand. The thick section drops to his lap, and he brushes it off carelessly, watching the blonde mess pile just a little higher on the floor. It tickles where the cut strands fall over his face, wrinkling his nose to try to dislodge them before Shouta reaches around to wipe the offending hair off with one of the large towels from the rail.
A few remnants stick to his heated face, and Shouta circles back around to stand in front of him. A soft stroke along his face through the barrier of the towel has his throat seizing, eyes burning damp. Another, along his opposite cheek, and Shouta bundles the towel in the crook of his arm to cup Toshinori’s jaw, thumb brushing the edge of his lips.
“There,” he murmurs.
“Shouta -”
“I like your eyes. And how tall you are when you stand upright. It’s the confidence that makes you handsome, when you find it.”
“O-oh.” The word slips out and he flushes at how stunned and idiotic he sounds, twisting his hands on his lap. He’s almost afraid to look away from those dark eyes, to risk breaking this tender and strange moment as Shouta concentrates on the last few touches to the front; rearranging the old parting of his bangs.
He’s not angry anymore, he realises.
Shouta stays quiet, giving him a kind reprieve from the vague discomfort of being told about his supposed qualities. It prods at something small and weak inside him. Makes him swallow strangely against an emotion he can’t quite identify, rising up and lodging in his throat.
“Done.” Shouta steps away, setting the shears down with a soft clink.
“Ah - thank you, Shouta I appreciate it.” Helping me. Your words. Both. Everything.
Shouta ruffles the top gently. It feels nice, Shouta touching him like that without the barrier or excuse of the scissors and comb.
“You look different. It kind of suits you.”
His head feels light, and he strokes the short back of it, feeling the cropped hair tickle his fingertips when he sweeps them against the growth. He runs his hand through it, shaking free a few more loose blonde strands. There is still some length in the top, not like the military cut he had half-expected Shouta to give him. Even sides, neat all the way around. Of course, there are very few things that Shouta doesn’t have at least some level of skill at, he’s decided over the last few weeks of their closer relationship.
“Will you let me wash it? The short hairs can be really itchy on your skin, after they’re cut.”
“Mm - if that’s okay? I don’t want to bother you -” He freezes halfway through his sentence, the realization dawning on him. How are they meant to...
“Of course. I’m happy to.”
“Um, Shouta?” His stuttering cough betrays his internal panic. “How were you thinking about doing this?”
“You in the bath. I’ll stand behind you and use the attachment.” He frowns. “That’s okay, right?”
“I - I won’t have clothes on, though.”
Shouta presses the back of his knuckles to his mouth, but the edges of his incredulous grin stay visible. “I’d be more concerned if you did.”
Fair.
He breathes in, pushes it out. “Okay. Okay. Do you mind if I get in, ah, alone?”
“No problem.” Shouta gathers his tools into his hands, rolling them up in the little canvas case. “I’m going to get you something to drink, okay? And use my soap.” A smile, wide and toothy and gentle. “It bubbles up a lot.”
He’s so good to him.
*
“Are you … decent?”
He flushes and sinks down a little further into the water, praying that the admittedly thick layer of foam over the top of the surface will stay opaque enough to hide his body.
“Y-yeah.” His voice cracks, but he takes comfort in the fact that he could blame his flush on the heat of the water.
“I’m coming in,” Shouta calls through the door before he cracks it open, and Toshinori stares resolutely at the bubbles over his knees while Shouta pads over the tiles to stand behind him, silent like the cats he loves with endearing intensity. “Tell me if you’re uncomfortable.” Short, but there’s a gentle kindness in his voice.
Shouta leans him back, pouring water over his head with the little attached hose from the faucet. He can feel the cut hairs left interspersed through it come loose already, washing away with the stream.
A bottle, clicking open with the smell of apples. And then Shouta touches his wet hair directly, rubbing circles with his fingertips, and he reminds himself to breathe. Four in, seven hold, eight exhale. The gentle scrubbing is wonderful, and he feels like he’s dissolving into the warm water one piece at a time. The suds pop quietly as Shouta’s fingers make tiny circles on his scalp, working through the tangles of hair that he hadn’t been able to wash thoroughly in so long.
Another, longer scar runs rough under Shouta’s fingertips, and he slows his gentle scrubbing to separate his hair; smooths the pad of his thumb over the stitched line like he could wipe it off.
“A - building edge,” he murmurs. “Stained my bronze age costume, under the black. Soaked through.”
His fingers fan out slowly through the wet hair, slick with shampoo. Exploring, searching silently and slowly in the way that indicates Shouta asking permission; giving him ample time to object. Time to answer the unspoken questions, too, dazed and almost dreamlike in his speech.
A small, round dent in the parietal bone.
“Pellet quirk. Did you know your cerebrospinal fluid is sweet?”
A surface scar, right under where one of his tall bangs would have stood.
“Claws. She - kidnapping case - tried to grab hold of my hair to stop me chasing her accomplice.”
Shouta runs his blunt nails back along the sections where his bangs would have been. That weight’s gone, he thinks idly. Doesn’t feel like it while his hair is wet - but he keeps expecting Shouta’s hands to continue through it rather than stopping short. “Lucky she didn't lop off those bunny ears. Or are they victory signs?”
He nods in agreement, leaning back into Shouta’s hands just a little. Better blood than a broken image. The water laps against the sides of the bath, his chest, his knees in warm soft lines, and he moves his hands down from their death grip on the edges of the bath; spreads his fingers to lie on top of the water.
More scars, and more, tiny and varied and vying for space on his head. Shouta hasn’t even seen much of his body, he thinks, and stifles the inappropriate urge to fill the silence with snorting laughter.
Then there’s a sweet-smelling cream being worked through his hair, smoothed along each strand and massaged into the short sides. He crinkles his forehead in question; and never even has to speak the question aloud. To have someone read him this well is - strange.
“Conditioner,” Shouta tells him. “You should use it more.”
Familiar, grounding - addictive.
He drifts, in that fuzzy space where water laps at the skin left unsubmerged and Shouta’s breath is just audible above him, strong hands curled over his shoulders and two thumbs rubbing into the space just under his skull; gentle, tingling circles.
“You okay, Toshinori?”
He tries to answer, fails, and hums his approval instead.
“Wow.” Shouta sounds amused, but not mocking. Just...fond. “You’re easy to knock out.”
The water is so warm around him, and Shouta’s gentle hands on his shoulders and hairline are soothing, dipping his hands into the water to reach below Toshinori’s neck.
“‘S been - long time.”
“Hm?” he murmurs from behind his head, voice lilting up in a question.
“C-can’t wash my hair easily. Sore on my side.” It takes a concentrated effort to slur the words out, but Shouta understands him well enough.
“Ah.” Shouta rubs the knot in his trapezius, pressing in with his thumb in a way that somehow loosens out every fibre of the muscle into soft butter. “I’ll help you whenever you want, you know. If you want.”
“Mm,” he moans, too blissed out to care about the indecency of that sound. “Thank you.”
Shouta leaves him to drift, lifting over the small wooden stool for his shower quietly and sitting at his side. He looks at him, for the first time - and softens, blinking the water out of his eyelashes. Pink sweatpants and a black tank top are a nice look on Shouta. Comfortable, warm.
The same outfit he wore that night when he finished grading with him over dinner, excused himself in a fluster when he felt something building, some warm and new feeling that wanted him to lean in and touch Shouta’s lips. He’d left, stammering excuses. And thirty minutes later, he came right back and knocked on Shouta’s door with his heart pounding in his chest, an apology on his lips and his hands fisted around his courage -
He’s always been prone to regret, in his own life. But Shouta was the first to open the door and let the light flood out, to stand on his toes for him - pressing his mouth against his own. Letting him try again.
“Want to get out?”
“Um - not yet.” He leans forwards in the water, water running down off his back. “It’s still quite warm.”
Showing Shouta his knobbly spine, the part of his scar that curves around and wraps along his ribs. What’s a bit of exposure now, when those fingers have traced out every injury he’s hidden under bright hair? It’s still alarming, the idea of being naked in front of Shouta. But this, the way he flattens his warm palm and its calluses over the skin between his shoulder blades, with peppered scars and freckles and prominent bone - it’s a strange comfort that sits warm in his chest.
He hears Shouta stand and take a towel from the rack, unrolling it and coming to stand in behind him. It pats over his head, muffling his hearing as Shouta dries him off and wipes the water from his ears. “There we are.”
Here he is, he thinks, and looks across at the mirror. He’s about tall enough to see himself in it, and he lifts a dripping hand to touch along the neat edges. It’s - nice. He’s never looked like this before, and he turns on his knees in the bath to look at himself.
Gaunt cheeks flushed pink.
Dark eyes, blue circles. Wet lashes.
Brilliant blond hair, all of the dead ends and broken strands cut away. Few handholds, a tiny lick of damp hair curling at his temple, and so much weight lost from his battered scalp.
Shouta pats the base of his skull gently, returning again to the soft blonde behind his ears. “What’s your hair, to you?”
He could have missed the question in the cotton insulation of the towel over his ears, the query made in Shouta’s lowest register. He could choose to ignore it, if he wanted. Pretend it never happened. Pick the blonde hairs from the cracks in the grouting in front of the sink, on his knees, and tell himself that he’d never be driven to the point of hacking all of his hair off to spite something he doesn’t even have a name for.
His hair is -
It’s One for All. It’s anxiety and tugging and roots of hair coming out bloodied. It’s mats of sponsored hair gel and a handhold for partners and Nana’s hand ruffling it beside a river in the snow. Sunflower hair.
“I’m - tired of hiding behind it,” he decides. It’s not everything - but it’s a beginning. A good first step.
“You know, I think a stylist would have thought that explanation quite reasonable. Before committing a massacre on our bathroom floor, anyways.” His lips meet his temple, pressing soft. He can’t help himself from smiling at that, water swirling around his knees with Shouta’s plain creamy soap atop the warm surface.“Or maybe it’s wise. You never know what hair salon might rob your hair and attempt to make millions selling it on the internet.”
Shouta’s not a joke-y person by nature. But he tries, for him, and he can laugh sincerely at the naturally deadpan humor he has an honest flair for. Of sorts. Laughs so hard, in fact, that tears well up in his eyes and he reaches out for Shouta’s hand, pulling his wrist close with his own soapy fingers wrapped around it and pressing his forehead against that warmth; the pulse right under the skin.
“You’re so good to me,” he murmurs, swallowing down the lump. “I’m sorry. I don’t want to worry you.”
“You won’t.” Shouta leans in, cupping the back of his shorn head and pressing another kiss to the top of it, right over the old division of his bangs. “Just keep talking to me. I’ll be here.”
That sounds - manageable. Good. They're good.