Chapter Text
Healing was hard.
Ashe discovered this nice little tidbit as he stared at the mirror in the wee hours of the morning, scissors digging into his palm.
But this would be good for him! A new step. A change.
So why was he shaking so hard?
Ashe grunted in frustration, slamming the scissors down, letting it hit the porcelain, and ran his hands through his hair. It stopped much too soon, his fingers meeting open air.
Teal locks, so meticulously interweaved, lay limp on the ground. A mangled limb tied with a bow around its wrist.
Ashe tried not to look at it.
Instead, he focused on how light his head felt. Like he’d filled it with helium, severing the weight that held him down. Although, maybe that weight was a good thing. He didn’t want to float away now.
In. His breathing was too loud in the empty bathroom. Out.
His reflection grimaced.
He really was getting better. He talked about them (his family) all the time. Claire made him do a—as she called it—“detox” session and basically just let him blab about all the memories he had for three hours. Claire was a very good listener.
He was attempting therapy with an actual professional, even though it was a forty-five minute drive away.
He brought up Lilia in casual conversation. He even mentioned Richard once (if he felt guilty for completely cutting contact after running away, he didn’t show it (he did)) and it felt a little bit like a victory. One that sat bitter on his tongue, but a victory nonetheless.
So.
He stared at the hacked off ends of his pretty teal hair, no longer a river tied neatly over his shoulder, but jagged and rough. Clumsy. It swung just along his jaw. Lopsided, one side much too long for the other.
Look, freaking out and chopping off hair was, like, a rite of passage or something. This wasn’t bad. This wasn’t a step back.
Gritty strands littered the tile floor, fluorescent light humming above him. A million flies watching with their kaleidoscope eyes.
Dammit. He’d created a mess. He should—he should clean this up (he should fix his hair).
There was a soft creak behind him and he knew it was too late.
“Ashe?” Wilardo padded into the doorway, rubbing his eyes. “It’s two in the morning.”
Fuck. “I know.” Too high. His pitch was much too high.
Sweat beaded and rolled down his neck, wobbling with the force of his racing pulse. He was a grown adult, grown adults got haircuts all the time, but something about having Wilardo see him like this was debilitating. He just wanted to be normal. Okay. He didn’t want his boyfriend to have to keep fucking babying him. Finding the broken scattered mess that he was again and again.
But, like he’d said, too late.
Ashe rose his head to meet Wil’s gaze through the mirror. His boyfriend froze, eyebrows lifting minutely as he took in the scene. Calm and considering. He was always good at that, at not panicking Ashe even more than he already was.
“Your hair.” Wilardo pointed out the obvious.
“Yep.” Ashe made sure to pop the ‘p’ and ignored the slow hydraulic press crushing his lungs. He gripped the sink with one hand and dusted blue hair off his black turtleneck with the other. It shone like blood against a white carpet.
He swallowed, beating him to the next line. “It’s awful, isn’t it?” A little chuckle.
Wil tilted his head. “It’s not so bad.”
“It’s the worse bob in all of history.” Ashe argued and Wilardo finally snickered, walking fully into the space. He reached up with short calloused fingers and gently carded through the ragged strands, knuckles brushing hot against his skin. Ashe almost melted, trembling slowing.
“It’s really not that bad.” Wil repeated. “Needed a change?” He spoke like he understood, like he knew from experience.
Ashe nodded. “I haven’t cut my hair since my family…,” died. That word never got easier. He could never quite get past the hitch it caused in his throat, snagging like a fishing hook. “For a while, I didn’t want the change. To acknowledge anything was different but.”
But it was time. He could grieve, his therapist had said, but he shouldn’t let it limit his life.
He didn’t really want to explain the hysteric panic he’d woken up in, a horrible terrible itch jolting his muscles to move, move, move. The mad scramble to the bathroom, grabbing the nearest crafting scissors and hacking and hacking until he no longer looked like that stupid boy with a little ponytail and a blue ribbon. The realization of what he’d done was a cold splash of water down his spine. But what’s done is done.
He hadn’t had short hair in forever. It was almost…freeing.
Still. He tilted his head and watched the choppy locks sway.
Wilardo placed a chaste kiss along his jaw. “Claire can clean it up. She cuts my hair sometimes.”
“Okay.”
Okay.
--
“Do you think it was weird to keep it?”
Wilardo shrugged as they walked. “Not like it’ll go bad. If it makes you feel better, than it’s not weird at all.”
The ‘it’ in question was the severed braid. Almost two and a half feet of plaited teal hair sealed with a bow.
It was just dead hair. But as Ashe had reached to throw it away, he’d thought ‘the end of this braid grew when Lilia was alive’ and had promptly shoved it in the nearest bathroom drawer. Was it strange to keep? Maybe. But his heart settled comfortably knowing that piece of history was still with him.
“When did you get so good at comforting people?” Ashe nudged his boyfriend, arriving in front of Claire’s apartment. The next morning, of course. They weren’t crazy enough to wake her up at 3 am. Wil’s ears burned and he (lightly) shoved him back.
It was Noel who responded to Ashe’s enthusiastic knocking (“You’re going to wake the neighbors.” “But it’s fun.”) but his greeting choked and died in his throat as he opened the door.
“Ashe!” His best friend blinked and Ashe gave him a sharp grin. “You—your—,”
“Yes, it’s us!”
“Your hair,” Noel blurted.
“A mishap with some scissors,” Wil explained, monotone.
“Very intentional,” Ashe contradicted. Noel just looked between them before sighing and swinging the door open further. They both gave him a shoulder clap for the invitation.
Ashe had always liked Noel and Claire’s apartment. It always smelled like vanilla and had those little glow-in-the-dark stars stuck to the ceiling, a teru teru bozu hanging in the window. Noel had a very extensive tea collection (he was excellent at brewing it and reigned supreme over the drinks at the café) and a fancy china tea set that he loved to break out for company. In seconds, the scent of herbal tea, something sweet and floral, flooded the air as he set out the kettle.
“Oh my gosh, Ashe!” Claire rounded the corner, dressed in a too-big shirt and long flannel pants. “Your hair’s so short!”
Ashe brushed the locks, the rough ends prickling his fingertips. “Tragic kitchen accident.”
“Bear attack.” Wil chimed, moving to help Noel set out mugs.
Claire blinked.
“Help me?” Ashe pleaded and, of course, she said yes.
Moments later, Ashe was set up in the kitchen, over the hardwood floor, with a towel thrown around his shoulders and shears too close to his face. Claire was careful, methodical, as she picked up pieces and clicked the scissors. Snip! Snip! Ashe tried not to tense at the weapon he couldn’t see.
She had an actual hair cutting kit, with real high quality shears, stating she did her own and Sirius’s whenever he needed a trim. Recently, about a year ago, Wilardo had noticed his was getting a little shaggy and asked for her help. Full time tattoo artist, part time hair dresser for her hopeless friends.
Her hands were cold but gentle as she combed through his hair (a distant memory of his mother pulling at his mind), so Ashe just shut his eyes and let the silence fill with snipping scissors and the low conversation from the adjoining room.
“Your hair’s so soft.” Claire finally commented after a solid half hour.
“Special conditioner.” Ashe explained. He had taken good care of his hair, doing his best to prevent breakage and tangles when it was long. He supposed he wouldn’t have to worry about that anymore.
“I got Wil using it too.” He continued. Imagine his initial shock when he’d first discovered that all his roommate used to wash his hair was a single bar of soap. Just…scrubbed it all over his head and called it good. Ashe was particularly proud of his ability to convince Wil to use actual shampoo and conditioner. “His hair felt like straw before.”
Claire laughed, light and airy.
“I can hear you talking shit.” Wilardo’s voice called from the living room, where he sat with Noel. Ashe stuck his tongue out even though he couldn’t see it.
“Well, we all appreciate your service.” Claire hummed, fingers brushing the shell of his ear and making him shiver. “Sorry, almost done.”
“I really do appreciate this, Miss Claire.” He hadn’t called her that since they first met, but the formality felt natural in the moment. “Who knew hair could be so complicated?”
“There is a reason I like to keep mine short, it’s super cute and it doesn’t get caught in anything.”
Ashe could relate to that, he’d accidentally slammed his braid in the car door more times than he could count.
With a final metallic snip, Claire ruffled his hair and stepped back. “There we go! Bob, begone!”
Getting all the dramatic fanfare it deserved, his friend ceremoniously handed him a mirror and planted her hands on her hips, proud of a job well done.
He hesitated, just for a moment, that sea of anxiety lapping at his chest, but Ashe forced himself to look. It was…well, it was short. The jagged edges were gone, smoothed over into soft curling locks. It framed his face nicely, dragging along his cheek bones and furling around his ears, ahoge still long as ever.
Ashe bit his lip and laughed.
Noel and Wilardo padded in from the living room, mugs empty with a ring of stained tea at the bottom. His best friend gave him an encouraging thumbs up and Wilardo approached, hands moving to brush through the short downy hair at the nape of his neck.
“Is it good?”
Wilardo gave him a lopsided grin. “It’s you. It’s great.” He whispered before, hand to the back of his head, dragging him in for a short kiss. Because, of course, no matter what his hair looked like, long or short, Wil would love it either way.
And Ashe found he quite liked it too. It was him, just different. A good different.
“Claire, I’ve got that book you wanted—,” An unexpected voice joined the party and they all turned to the doorway. Sirius stood, eyebrows high. “By god, your hair!”
Ashe waved. “Ran over by a train.”
“Those damn helicopter blades.” Wil sighed.
Sirius clearly didn’t know how to respond, floundering like a fish (mouth open, close, open, close, open—) until Noel came over with tea and took the book currently being strangled in his grip. They let him process while Ashe cleaned up the loose hair on the floor, figuring it was the least he could do for the impromptu haircut. Magma swelled in his lungs as he swept, oozing warm and goopy through his ribs like molten glass. He was forever grateful for his friends, for their unending kindness and willingness to help. He’d have to repay them somehow. Maybe bring over some fresh shortcake for Claire, that always was her favorite.
“I see.” Sirius finally registered, sitting on the couch, cup cradled in his hands. “Well. It looks…nice.” He looked mildly constipated but forced the words out anyway. Ashe appreciated the effort.
They were still navigating their new friendship after the whole Lime-Meet-Fist incident, not yet used to the compliments without the underlying jab. Their conversations of late were quite stilted, but they were figuring it out. They recently found that they shared a lot of favorite authors, so books were a safe topic. Unfortunately, hair was not books.
“Oh.” Ashe dumped the dustpan into the trash. “Thank you.”
…Awkward.
But that was progress.
Strange and new, difficult but not impossible. Striving for the future. Ashe caught himself more than once reaching to fiddle with a braid that did not exist, expecting a heavy weight over his shoulder that never came, but growing pains were necessary. An undeniable part of life.
Sirius slurped at his tea. “I’m thinking we tell Rouge he lost it in a bizarre rampaging tornado.”
Their grins curved sharp.
“Oh absolutely.”