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“Your hair’s looking a little shaggy again, Serizawa.”
It’s simply a statement—an accurate one, at that. Not an accusation. Reigen isn’t being critical, just observant. But Serizawa begins to sweat nervously anyways, because he knows the question that always follows. More and more and more lately, he finds himself dreading it.
“Would you like me to give you a quick trim?”
When he doesn’t get an answer right away the blond quickly tacks on his usual reasoning. There’s no clients scheduled for the rest of the afternoon. It’s been a slow day for walk-ins and calls and it’s unlikely they’ll have any interruptions. He has the supplies here already, might as well make use of them. And Serizawa knows his boss is right, knows there’s no reason why not. So why does he feel anxiety fizzing just below his skin, threatening to explode out of him like a shaken bottle of soda? It’s a simple question. Why can’t you answer a simple question? He can end all this crackling tension, this pressure building up and threatening to burst, if he just does what’s expected of him. If he just says yes, if he just follows orders— wait, that’s not right, is it? It’s not an order, it’s a question. A simple question. That means he has a choice, right? Why does it feel like he doesn’t have a choice?
“Serizawa?”
His head snaps up from intently staring at his lap, and he swallows. “Sorry, Reigen-san.”
“Are you okay?” Reigen frowns and Serizawa just knows he’s making this so difficult, hates himself for taking the simplest of interactions and turning it into another headache his boss has to ease away.
“Y-yes. Yeah. Cut my hair for me.” There you go. See how easy that was?
Reigen is a whiteboard, a hand to his face quickly erasing whatever hesitation is written there. Serizawa is the “fragile” stamp on a package and Reigen is always cautious, his maneuvers delicate. Reigen grins, claps his hands once, and stands up with exaggerated enthusiasm. Serizawa is glass, his surface all scratches and knicks no matter how careful Reigen is, no matter what painstaking effort he takes to clean and polish. His shaky mouth lets out a breath and he wipes sweaty palms on clean-pressed pants. His guilt is a white hot pressure. He is melting. But it’s easier to let himself be handled, kept. It’s like slipping into his favorite sweatpants, like accepting birthday gifts from his mother, like spending an entire Sunday in the dark, curtains drawn to match his face.
Reigen digs through his drawers, shuffling items around and pulling out only what is needed. The hair clippers, a comb, a towel, some sort of hair product that Serizawa never quite understood the purpose of other than that it smells really nice. He gestures to the esper, beckons him over to the bathroom as he maneuvers his desk chair into the cramped space to lean it against the sink. Serizawa—his hair, really—is the last object Reigen needs. Reigen needs him, that’s why he says yes. Serizawa has to say yes because Reigen needs him to, because he might be let down if he said no. He doesn’t want to know what his boss looks like when he’s disappointed in him. So Serizawa stands up and slowly makes his way to where Reigen is waiting for him. He’s done this so many times already. It’s so simple. Sit down, lean back, close your eyes. The water runs gently. Reigen turns on the clippers. He just has to let it happen, doesn’t even have to think about how he wants it. Reigen will do what he thinks looks best. Reigen always knows best, just like his mother, just like—He sits up abruptly, startling Reigen so bad that he drops the clippers on the ground.
“Shit.” Reigen swipes them back up and readjusts his sleeves, now rolled up past his elbows. “Serizawa!”
It’s not a scolding. It’s more an exclamation of surprise than anything, a reflex in response to being caught off-guard. Reigen doesn’t like to be caught off-guard, and Serizawa likes to be predictable—a perfect compliment to his boss in every way. But there’s resistance pushing up from somewhere deep within him. Thermal pressure, building up and out.
“Serizawa, what’s bothering you? You seem really anxious. Did... did I do something? If I did, you can tell me.” He gestures wildly, the clippers a blur in his hand. “I mean it, you can tell me. I won't punish you or anything!” He attempts a laugh. “Oh god, I mean, of course not. I don't even know why I said that.”
Serizawa runs a hand through his unruly curls and it makes no sense, it’s so much more complicated now, but he feels enchanted, pulled to somewhere unfamiliar, so he does the incalculable. “Reigen-san… I… I don’t want you to cut my hair.” Shaky, unpracticed.
“Oh. Well that’s fine, perfectly fine of course!” He coughs and looks away, pulling at his collar. Serizawa feels panic rise in his chest. He’s disappointing Reigen. He’s letting him down, somehow.
“It’s not you!” He’s desperate for the right words, digging deep. “I just—this is too easy.”
“You don’t have to explain yourself to make me feel better, Serizawa. I'm an adult, I can handle the truth.” He sounds a touch quieter now, more detached, and Serizawa wishes for once he wasn’t so attuned to the slightest of atmospheric shifts. He forges on anyways, despite the pit in his stomach and the nagging voice in his head. Just apologize . Say nevermind, you didn’t mean to freak out. Lay your head back. Let it happen.
“I'm scared,” he blurts out. “I'm scared I’m not really changing at all.”
“You are.” Said with finality, like everything else.
“I can’t say no. I don’t know how.” He’s the same man he was under the president. If not bending, breaking. He cries in the office chair. Shattered, stupid. Reigen turns the faucet off, sets aside the clippers.
“I don’t want to upset anyone, don’t want to cause problems.” Serizawa chokes on every word. He wipes his face with the back of his hand, can’t seem to get the tears to stop. “My whole life, I've caused problems for others. I don't want to cause problems for you, too.” A quick glance to the left and then the right. Thankfully, nothing is floating and there are no (new) cracks in the wall. Physical damages? Minimal. He looks at his boss standing above him. Other damages? Well...
“Who says you cause problems for me?” Reigen folds the towel neatly over his arm, places a hand nonchalantly on his hip. “You solve so many problems for me—spirit problems, money problems—shit I’m sorry, it sounds awful when I say it like that, doesn’t it?” Serizawa doesn’t think it sounds awful at all. In fact, he feels an embarrassing twinge of pride in his chest to hear from his boss in such a straightforward manner that he’s contributing something positive. He shoves that aside for later analysis, presses on.
“I just want to be useful. I don't want to be a pain. But I think… in my efforts not to be an inconvenience, I'm relying on others more than ever?” Inquiring. Seeking approval even now, when he’s attempting to do the opposite. Longing for care. He swallows. “I’m relying on you more than ever, Reigen-san, for lots of things. And that… worries me.”
The esper flinches as Reigen clasps a hand firmly on his shoulder. “That’s fine, Serizawa. I like to feel useful, too!” He laughs, then brings a hand to his mouth, regretting it. “ Sorry! That was inappropriate. It’s not about how I feel, haha!” His fingers make no move to retreat from Serizawa’s shoulder.
“I’m truly sorry, Reigen-san, but I just feel I should start doing things like this on my own. I can't let myself stay the same anymore.” Fingers fitted tightly together in his lap. Frowning. “I hope you can understand.” Reigen’s expression is threaded, complex. But he composes himself, as always, with impressive speed. The show must go on, of course, despite whatever might be going on behind the scenes.
“Of course, Serizawa. And there’s no need to apologize. It’s good to forge your own path. I don't want to smother you.” He finally removes his hand from the esper’s shoulder and cards it through his blond hair, making it stick up in odd places. “Thank you for telling me.” It’s his customer service voice, Serizawa notes, but the effort is there.
“Thank you, Reigen-san.”
“Just Reigen is fine.”
That startles him a bit, but he does his best to roll with the shift in dynamics. Embrace change. Chase change. “Okay. Reigen, then”
That evening, Serizawa stops at a store on his way home to pick up some hair clippers of his own. He spends an embarrassingly long time watching how-to videos on Mobtube, making careful mental notations of all of it, foregoing dinner and homework. Finally, he feels brave enough to actually face the mirror and put the knowledge to practice. To say he is nervous is an understatement. What if he lost control here, the clippers going flying? He could hurt someone, he could— But no . There’s no else here. It’s just him, and he’s safe. His aura burns down and he decides that he can do this.
It takes him three times as long to get it to a reasonable length as it would have taken Reigen to trim it for him. The end result is a little bit rough, but it’s his hands that did the work. He stares at himself in the mirror from all angles, running a hand through the finished product. He allows himself a small congratulatory smile. For once, he feels pride in what he sees instead of shame.
The next morning, Serizawa takes his umbrella with him on his morning commute. He leaves it at home more often than not these days, which is something else he’s proud of. But sometimes, when he anticipates an event of particular stress, he just feels better with it there. It’s like wearing a lifejacket on a boat, just in case it were to capsize. Nothing wrong with preparing for the worst, Reigen had told him when he first brought it to the office, clutching it like a lifeline. The esper would love nothing more than for this small grooming breakthrough to be enough to cure him of all his ugly flaws, but realistically he knows it’s going to be a lengthy journey to truly reach that place.
Right now he’s a little bit terrified that Reigen will hate it and demand a re-do, though he hasn’t to this day ever given Serizawa any instruction the esper would describe as demanding . All of Serizawa’s demands these days are self-imposed. Reigen is not the president, far from it. But when you spend three years under the judging eyes of someone who wants to shape and mold you to his image, you feel hollow when left to your own devices. Used up, valueless. He’s made it this far though, standing just outside the office door against all odds. He takes a deep breath and enters to see Reigen in his usual position, slouched over and neck craning as he types away furiously.
“Oi, Serizawa, good morning!”
“Good morning Reigen, would you like some tea?”
“Yes, thank you.”
"Of course."
“Your hair looks good,” Reigen notes as he accepts the mug from Serizawa’s hand. “A little longer on the top?”
“Ah, yes. Not intentionally, though.” He looks away from Reigen’s gaze, stares down into his own mug. Praying, pleading. Don’t look through me.
“No, no, it looks good like that! You were right to do it yourself.”
“Oh. Well thank you.” He still feels very shy, very seen , but not seen through. A foreign feeling fills him up, warm and comforting like the tea he just poured. There’s a certain pleasure in being seen by Reigen in this way, for something he did for himself, by himself.
“Not that you need my approval, of course.” The blond waves his hands as if to push away clumsy words with more pristine, practiced ones.
“I know it probably doesn’t seem like much to someone like you, but it means a lot to me that you let me do this.”
“You can always say no to me! Everyone else already does.”
Serizawa sees Reigen’s warm, unpracticed smile because the man’s attempt to cover it with his hand is unsuccessful. The esper lets out a relieved laugh, a praise to the little victories in his not-so-new life.