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Hyoma hates looking into the mirror.
Hyoma hates a lot of things, but god, he hates looking in the mirror. He hates what this mirror had seen, remembering how he would once admire his new soccer uniform in this mirror, how he would once apply makeup and feel attractive in this mirror, how he would sit and brush his hair, braiding it with his tongue sticking out the corner of his mouth in this mirror. The mirror was a cruel reminder of who Hyoma Chigiri once was, what he could have been if he wasn’t such a screw-up-- yeah, a screw-up, that’s all he is now-- and the mirror is there every morning when he wakes up, forcing him to stare at what he’s become. The mirror had high expectations for him, and his reflection disappointed it.
Every morning starts off the same, nowadays; his eyes flutter open, staring at the pale, off white wallpaper on his ceiling. With a groan, he lifts his head, blocking the sunlight that peeks from the crack of the curtain, beaming into his bloodshot eyes. He used to love mornings, once upon a time. Back when he had a routine, a future to look forward to. He still remembers what he used to do; get up, slip on his football socks, brush his teeth, grab an apple from the food bowl and head to morning practice. Hyoma almost scoffs at his middle school self as he turns under his sheets, his cascade of crimson hair spreading over the two pillows as his eyes slowly adjust to the room. Small beams of sunlight bounce onto his white bed sheets, illuminating the dim room with a soft glow, allowing him to make out the various clothes scattered aimlessly around, some of which haven’t been washed in weeks, packets of fast food cartons piling up on the desk, replacing the spot where his school textbooks used to be. There’s a faint thrum of bass in the kitchen that Hyoma picks up through his sheets, over the sound of something sizzling on the stove. That means--
“ Kuni .” He croaks out, clearing his throat from his morning voice. He says his name again, and sure enough, footsteps begin to near his room.
“You’re up,” the voice says, before the head of Rensuke Kunigami peeks around the doorframe.
Hyoma hates Rensuke Kunigami.
He was a weed in Hyoma’s garden of roses-- ‘ I’d argue that it’s the opposite way round ’, he can already hear Kunigami saying-- nevertheless, he was a pain in his ass. Too sweet, too soft, too selfless. His actions, however nice, continued to strike a nerve (and trust him when he says he’s extremely vocal about it), but for whatever reason, Kunigami just won’t let him go. They weren’t close at all-- Hyoma only knows him from one of his classes at college-- and ever since Hyoma stopped showing up to class, the boy was there at his service. It started with a couple of knocks at his door;
‘I bought you spare sheets!’
‘Prof told us to catch up on these chapters.’
‘Hey, if you’re not gonna turn up to class, I have the lectures filmed on my phone!’
But it all changed when Kunigami visited again and saw Hyoma passed out in front of his door from drinking a little too much-- and ever since, the dude just won’t leave him alone. Hyoma doesn’t like the treatment, doesn’t like the fact that he’s supposed to like the treatment. He cooks for him, cleans for him, buys his groceries in exchange for absolutely nothing.
He doesn’t know why. Hyoma isn’t anything special.
“I made eggs and bacon.”
“I know. You make eggs and bacon every day.”
“Yes, but-- I made it.”
Hyoma groans, covering his face with the duvet. “You came too early. I’m not awake yet, go away.”
Kunigami’s soft footsteps are in time with the wild thudding of his heartbeat as he nears the bed.
“You sound awake to me, Sleeping Beauty ,” he replies with a chuckle, gently lifting the duvet off of his face, making Hyoma reluctantly lock eyes with him. Kunigami’s eyes were like two golden mirrors, bright amber reflexes reminding him of a small flame in the dim light of his room. If he looks hard enough, Hyoma can make out the faint silhouette of his own reflection in the orange glow.
He looks away.
“Well, Sleeping Beauty--” Hyoma rolls his eyes at that-- “Breakfast is ready. You feel like eating at the dinner table?”
“Not really.”
“Fine with me. I’ll get a plate, you can eat in bed. Are you gonna put on a shirt?”
Hyoma glances at himself through a tangle of red hair, realising he had gone to sleep in only boxers. He had probably threw up on himself after drinking, or passed out in his bed after his shower-- hmm, most likely the former, he thinks to himself, registering a faint thrum of pain in the centre of his forehead. He groans in response, and it makes Kunigami give a sigh (god, how he hates it when Kunigami sighs like that, in that patronizing tone,) before he asks if Hyoma had been drinking the night before. Hyoma shrugs at that, earning another disappointed sigh.
“You’re unbelievable. Just sit up at the very least, you can eat and take a shower.” Kunigami tentatively sniffs at him, and Hyoma swats at his face with a hand. “Hmm, you smell decent at least. In the meantime, let me do your hair, okay?”
Hyoma blinks at that, opening his mouth to protest, but with a flurry of orange, the boy had already hopped over the piles of clothes littering the floor, disappearing around the corner again. He sighs, releasing a slow groan as he sits up in bed, feeling the satisfying crack of his back as he stretches, lifting his arms over his head. It was about time he did it , he thinks to himself, his daily reminder of what a failure he is .
Directly in front of Hyoma is his mirror, one of the first things he even moved into this apartment. It’s worn, a little scratched up from being shoved into boxes, moving from house to house, changing positions in his apartment. Hyoma tried to smash it once. Didn’t work, obviously. Hyoma tried to throw it away too, but Kunigami retrieved it rather easily. He turns his head from side to side, up and down, watching his tangle of unruly hair shift from shoulder to shoulder. He barely notices when Kunigami places a plate in his lap, scooting him a little forward so that he can kneel precariously on the edge of the bed, comb in hand.
“You and that mirror, huh?” Kunigami’s voice snaps Hyoma out of his trance-like state, looking down at the steaming plate of eggs and bacon in his lap. “You really stare at it a lot for someone who’s always trying to get rid of it. Should I call you Snow White instead?”
Hyoma stabs at his eggs with his fork. “It’s not even Snow White with the mirror. It’s the evil queen.”
Kunigami hums at that, beginning to section his hair. “You’re not evil, though.” He’s meticulous as he starts to slowly untangle his knots, careful to not tug too hard. “As much as you think you’re evil, you’re not.”
Hyoma stuffs a mouthful of food into his cheeks, chewing quietly, ignoring Kunigami’s statement on how he’s not evil. He furrows his brows a little; of course he’s not evil. But he’s not exactly good either. Would a good person respond to affection the way Hyoma does? Would a good person look after himself the way Hyoma does? Would a good person look in the mirror and loathe everything they see the same way Hyoma does? He chuckles a little at that-- huh. Every single question he asked there was just answered with a glaring ‘no’.
“What am I then?” He asks suddenly. Kunigami makes a little surprised noise, and when Hyoma looks in the mirror, his eyebrows are arched, mouth making a silent ‘oh?’ at him.
“You don’t usually answer my ramblings like that…” He replies, and Hyoma stops chewing. Because Kunigami was right, Hyoma usually doesn’t answer to his ramblings (at all), nevermind continuing the conversation. He usually tunes them out, waits until he finishes and sleeps for the remainder of the day. So why, why did he answer today?
“Just--” He closes his eyes, trying to stop himself from getting irritated (that’s also new), “just answer the question! What am I? If not evil?”
The question makes Kunigami smile, and Hyoma hates the sight of it in the mirror. “I’m not quite sure what you are, to be honest. I barely know anything about you. All I know is that you’re… you’re not evil.”
He stuffs more food into his mouth. Hyoma wasn’t sure what kind of response he was expecting from Kunigami-- this was Kunigami he was talking about, the one without a bad bone in his body-- but it was still odd to hear such a sweet thing, even if was out of the mouth of someone like Rensuke Kunigami. He ponders on it while he finishes the rest of the food, feeling the comb in his hair finally come to a still.
“Finished!” Kunigami exclaims, and Hyoma watches in the mirror as he sets the comb down on the desk, beginning to get off the bed. He’s not sure what overcomes him, but Hyoma grabs his wrist, nearly toppling the plate in his lap, tugging him back down. Kunigami’s knee practically collides into his thigh, but it doesn’t matter to Hyoma as he stares up at him, stares into the flames of his eyes, lip slightly quivering as he asks:
“A braid. Put a braid in my hair.”
There’s a flutter of blonde eyelashes, and Kunigami’s brows furrow. “A braid? I-I don’t know how to braid--”
“I used to have a braid in my hair.” Hyoma interrupts, his eyes widening as he tries to process what he’s even saying anymore. His voice keeps spilling out of his throat, as if it was a broken pipe that keeps flowing and flowing, after years and years of keeping quiet. “Every morning, I’d sit in front of the mirror-- yes, that mirror-- and I would put a braid in my hair. I-It was because I used to play soccer, and the hair would get in my face even if i put it in a ponytail a-and-- putting it in a tight bun made my scalp hurt!... so…” Stammering, he trails off, looking down at his sheets, at Kunigami’s knee pressed against the side of his thigh. He could barely register the small throbbing of the impact on his skin as he leans his head against his arm.
Kunigami is silent for a while, probably still flustered from his sudden outburst; Hyoma is thankful for the silence, taking the time to slow his breathing, adrenaline rushing through his entire body. It’s the first time he’s opened up to anyone, anyone but his own reflection in the mirror, in a very long time.
“I’ll do it,” Kunigami finally murmurs, and Hyoma’s eyes widen, looking back up at Kunigami, up at Kunigami’s kind, soft eyes. Kunigami’s two amber mirrors. He can see himself in them, the faint tint of his tamed, scarlet hair, sees how the reflection doesn’t look disappointed. Hyoma’s reflection looks… hopeful.
It was an odd thing to see.
Hyoma looks away.
He shuffles a little forward, silently, giving Kunigami some space behind him. Kunigami takes the cue, settling cross-legged. In the mirror, Hyoma realises how broad the male really is only when he sits down, feeling the bed tip slightly under his weight. It makes him lean slightly back as he watches his fingers stumble hesitantly around his scalp, unsure of where to start.
“Put it over this shoulder,” Hyoma huffs as he taps the side of his neck with a finger, making eye contact with him in the mirror, “right here. It’s where I used to have it… and then, you have to split it into three parts.”
Kunigami nods, and it reminds Hyoma a little of a golden retriever. He even has the hair to match, he realises, fighting back a small smile. There’s a small breeze that barely escapes the crack of the window, opening the curtains a little wider. Hyoma welcomes it, feeling it barely brush his cheek, as gentle as Kunigami’s fingers in his hair.
“So,” Kunigami starts awkwardly, and it makes Hyoma tense up slightly. “You used to play soccer?” They make eye contact in the mirror.
Hyoma nods at him. “Played striker. Was real good at it too…” He fiddles with the sheets in his lap, wringing it in his fingers. “I was pretty well known in middle school. Got into some newspapers.”
“Big shot, huh?” Kunigami laughs, holding the three parts of hair between his fingers. Hyoma inspects them in the mirror; they’re slightly calloused, rough, yet gentle between the strands of his hair. Glancing down at his own fingers, Hyoma realises just how different the two were. His own fingers were pale, thin, blushed pink-blue at the tips, compared to the thick, warm-toned, slightly chapped fingers of Kunigami’s hands. They awkwardly shift through his hair, and in the mirror, Hyoma can see the corners of his lips tugged into a half-moon smile.
“What now?” says the half-moon shyly, and Hyoma nearly smiles back.
“Now,” he points to his hair in the mirror, making a criss-cross motion with his finger, almost as if he was a conductor, “you have to overlay the left and right sections over the middle one.” Kunigami listens, following the orders carefully, coordinating the bundles of hair through his awkward fingers. Hyoma could tell he was struggling a little, and had the urge to snatch the hair out of his hands and do it himself, but he waited patiently, continuing to fiddle with the sheets in his lap.
There was a part of him that knew that he would have to answer the question eventually, and he didn’t want to be the one to receive it. So he just said it outright, not bothering to wait for the male to open his mouth.
“I stopped playing soccer because I tore my ACL.”
Hyoma could tell instantly that he read the other’s mind from the widening of his kind eyes, the little rise of his blonde brows. Kunigami opens his mouth, but no sound comes out, instead furrowing his brow, putting his hands down, looking at Hyoma in the mirror.
“...What happened?”
Kunigami’s tone was cautious, as if he was treading on eggshells. It was already enough that Hyoma had even elaborated this far-- it was nice that Kunigami didn’t want to ruin that. For either of them. Hyoma releases a small hum at that question, before shrugging.
“How all injuries happen. Pushed myself too hard and boom. Well… I guess ‘snap’. Heh.”
“Surely it healed? You’re walking fine.” Kunigami starts, before giving a little snort. “Well, you walk fine when you’re not in bed 24/7.”
Hyoma rolls his eyes at that. “Well… sure it healed. But I guess I just… I don’t know.”
He trails off. It’s the part of the conversation that Hyoma really doesn’t want to continue, if he was being honest with himself. He’s not exactly sure why he stopped soccer in the first place. The healing process was a little lengthy, but he did heal eventually-- he was given the all clear from the doctors too. But there was something in him that was too ashamed to face the field again. The field was alive to Hyoma, the grass singing his name as he sprinted, the wind aiding his stride, the sun beaming its blessings onto his skin. When his injury came, it was almost as if he had… he had let the field down. His body betrayed him. And every time he looked in the mirror, the mirror that showcased every skin cell and hair follicle, everything in his body stared back at Hyoma in disgust. Hyoma looks into the very same mirror now, and his reflection gives him that same disappointed look it does every day, reminding him what he already knew.
He had let himself down, plain and simple.
How was he supposed to go back to the very thing he ruined for himself with a clear conscience?
Kunigami must have registered this change in him, because he begins to concentrate on braiding his hair, doing exactly as Hyoma had said, overlaying left and right, left and right, continuing down the length of his hair.
“You were planning on having a career in soccer?” He asks, making Hyoma release a snide chuckle.
“Of course. I had-- have-- nothing else going from me. I wasn’t allowed to participate in qualifiers, so I never got to go to nationals.”
“But you’re in college, doing comparative literature.” Kunigami states matter-of-factly, and the tone of the statement irritates him. “So am I! Remember? We’re in the same class. Speaking of which…”
Here we go again.
“Kuni, I’m not going back to class.” Hyoma narrows his eyes, starting to feel his temper begin to bubble in his chest. His cheeks are already getting heated, but he’s forcing himself to keep it down. “I already told you. As soon as I can be bothered to send an email to that professor, I’m dropping out.”
“But why?!” Kunigami exclaims, throwing his hands into the air in exasperation. The braid that was nearly done over his shoulder unwinds, twirling into lazy curls. Hyoma watches them dance in the breeze as Kunigami throws a fit behind him.
“Chigiri, I’ve read your starter thesis. The beginning drafts of your essays that you submitted earlier this year. You have potential to be the best in our whole class! You do! I’m not saying that just for the sake of it!” Kunigami’s voice is passionate, with a tinge of hurt, and Hyoma hates the sound of it. They have this conversation almost every day, his attempt to get Hyoma’s life back on track, and it confuses the hell out of him; the two barely know each other, yet Kunigami speaks to him with such vigour and force it’s as if they’ve known each other for years. The worst part of it is that he knows the exact things to say. Either Hyoma is just that easy to read or Kunigami knows his reactions like the back of his hand-- which explains why he isn’t surprised at all when Hyoma stares at Kunigami with spite in his eyes.
“You make it sound so easy, Kunigami,” he spits, “as if I can just waltz back into class with no repercussions.”
“ Of course there will be repercussions, what do you expect--”
“More reason for me to not go back! I’m better off dropping the whole class altogether! The sooner you realise that, Kunigami, the better. I’m not going back, plain and simple--”
“Will you spend the rest of your life taking the easy way out, Hyoma Chigiri?” Kunigami suddenly thunders, and it makes Hyoma tear his eyes away from the mirror and over his shoulder, where he watches the roaring flames in his eyes get hotter and hotter. Hyoma goes a little numb at the statement. What’s this sudden outburst? Where’s the kind and loving Kuni? Why are you shouting at me, Kuni?
Ah. Could it be that I let you down too?
He can feel his shoulders shake a little as Kunigami continues, his voice refusing to raise itself yet somehow ringing louder and louder in Hyoma’s ears. “It just sounds like you are afraid, Chi. What are you afraid of?”
Hyoma’s skin roars back his answers: “ loss ,” “ disappointment ,” “ failure ”-- every word burns at his fingertips, itching its way through his throat, sitting patiently on his tongue for him to spit out, but it doesn’t come. Hyoma stays silent, shaking a little, as Kunigami shows him the strands of hair clenched in his fist, bouncing angrily in his fingers as he continues:
“I don’t know how to braid hair, Chi! I don’t! But I sat down behind you and I listened to you and I was nearly there and boom--” he releases his hand, letting the hair collide against the side of Hyoma’s face, “I let go of the braid. It immediately untangled. In a blink of an eye, all my hard work-- gone. And I know this is a bad metaphor for an injury-- god, I’m trying here, Chi-- but- essentially what I’m trying to say is that I’m not going to give up.”
Hyoma’s eyes widen at that. God, what the hell is this idiot spouting?
“Maybe I’m just stubborn, maybe that’s the way I’ve been raised, I don’t know! But I’m not going to give up.” Kunigami jabs a finger into Hyoma’s chest, over his heart. “I’m gonna sit here and I’m gonna stay here until I braid your hair. Because I’m at rock bottom right now. What do I have left to lose?”
“...You don’t have anything to lose,” Hyoma stammers, a little speechless at Kunigami’s outburst, “But that’s not the point! The point is you might screw up again! And then what, Kuni?”
“Then I start again,” Kunigami replies sternly, flopping back against the bedrest. Hyoma stares at him, a little gobsmacked. What was that supposed to be about? Some sort of lecture to get him to sort his life out? He turns around, wordlessly, letting Kunigami pick up the strands of his hair as he stares at his lap, cheeks flushing from a mixture of self-loathing and embarrassment. Kunigami really didn’t deserve to be dealing with someone like him, he thought to himself a little sadly, but to be fair, he didn’t ask for it. Hyoma continues to push Kunigami away like this and every time, Kunigami refuses. Perhaps he is just that stubborn. But why? Why Hyoma? Of all the screw-ups and lowlifes of the earth, why him? The questions echo through his mind as he watches the corners of Kunigami’s mouth tug up in a smile in the mirror,
“Right. Where were we, Sleeping Beauty?”
“God, I hate that nickname.” Hyoma replies.
“It suits you, though. What else am I supposed to call you? I guess Ariel, since your hair’s red, but her personality doesn’t really suit you.”
Hyoma doesn’t answer that, simply observing Kunigami as he passes strand across strand, finger to finger, meticulously weaving his hair into the beginnings of a braid. His eyebrows are stitched together in concentration, pink tongue peeking out between his pale lips as he works, and Hyoma can’t tear his eyes away from him.
“Y’know, I can just do it myself. You don’t need to do this,” Hyoma eventually mutters. Kunigami shrugs it off, throwing him a little smirk in the mirror.
“I wanna do it, though,” is all he says. Hyoma continues to stare at him in the mirror, and Kunigami must have sensed it, because he makes eye contact with him, smirk morphing into a sad smile.
“You’re asking why, aren’t you?” Kunigami asks, somewhat sadly.
He read his mind completely.
Kunigami hums a little, beginning to reach the ends of his hair. “I remember when I saw you for the first time in our class. I remember it so vividly. I don’t think I’ll ever forget it, to be honest.” The half-moon appears on his face again. “You had this… this energy. I couldn’t quite place it. We sat next to each other, y’know? Two metres apart but… I could feel your passion from a mile away.”
Hyoma remembers it too, how excited he was when he moved into his new apartment, how he had ignited a little fire in himself. It was the first time since middle school that he felt excited. He didn’t love literature as much as he loved soccer, but god, at least he didn’t hate it-- at least, he didn’t hate it then, he should say. He hates literature now, hates the romantic way the words twist and tumble on paper, hates how it almost takes him out of the bitter world he experiences on a day-to-day basis, before dropping him exactly where he started. But he used to love it. It was a good break for his brain, a way for it to slow down after a match, to pass time on the coach to and from practice. He guesses that’s the problem with him after all-- everything he loves, everything he wishes to do all ties back to the snap in his knee. Everything ties back to the aching numbness that followed his excruciating pain. The one chance he had at a fresh start was slipping away like strands of hair in his fingers.
But Kunigami was still holding on strong to his braid.
“You amaze me, Hyoma Chigiri. I remember looking at you and just…” Kunigami smiles at him in the mirror. “I just really wanted to be your friend. Maybe-- Maybe that’s why I try so hard with you here. I just--” He looks away. “I just want to know you. I know you have that fire still in you, Chigiri.”
It’s just pity, Hyoma tells himself. He’s doing it out of pity. Why wouldn’t he? Hyoma’s nothing special ( but he just told you why you are special ), Hyoma is just a lowlife ( but he just told you that you’re more than that ), Hyoma is pathetic ( but he’s talking to you as if you’re made of gold ). Hyoma shuts his eyes, not sure why he’s feeling this soft glow in the pit of his stomach, a nostalgic feeling bubbling in his veins that he can’t quite place (that feeling when your coach tells you you worked hard today, that feeling when he comes home bearing a trophy in his arms, that feeling when he wrapped his arms around his teammates and screamed to the clouds above), so he musters up a little more courage and asks the question:
“Do you pity me?”
And like a shock of lightning in silver-lined clouds, he replies:
“No. I value you.”
Hyoma hears the words as he registers the winding braid pressed against the side of his scalp, gently draped over his bare shoulder. He tilts his head to the side, watching the saturated red strands shift over his skin in the sunlight, the flyaways blushing his skin a soft pink. The braid wasn’t perfect, by no means; there was a large lock of hair obscuring his right eye (he lazily lifts it away from his face with a finger, wanting to stare at the reflection a little more), and the braid had started to separate a little towards the middle-- but nevertheless, it was a braid. A braid that transported Hyoma to the early midsummer mornings where he would sit in front of this very mirror, soccer socks sliding down his ankles as he practiced the braid for the first time. Back then, Hyoma was valued.
The braid in his hair tells him that he still is.
Kunigami ties the end of the braid with a spare hairband. Hyoma can barely catch his breath.
“Well, Sleeping Beauty?” The boy now murmurs over his shoulder, grinning at him in the mirror. “I think that’s enough pampering for you, princess.” Hyoma can barely register the words as Kunigami lifts himself up from the bed, feeling the weight lift from the mattress behind him as a hand takes the empty plate in his lap.
There’s a silence in the air that Hyoma is uncomfortable with. Usually, Hyoma prefers the silence. He hated Kunigami’s useless chatter, the bad pop music he would play while cooking, the humming and the giggling and the laughter that would echo around the walls as Hyoma tried to sleep. But this silence was different (possibly because Hyoma, for the first time in a while, enjoyed Kunigami’s company), so he balls up the duvet sheets in his fingers, taking a deep breath.
“...Thank you,” he eventually stutters out, cursing his throat for being too quiet-- he clears it, still staring in the mirror, refusing to look at Kunigami’s face. He knows what it’ll look like, even without glancing at him-- a look of shock, with a tinge of glee. This is the first time Hyoma had thanked him for any of his efforts, mainly because Hyoma didn’t feel as if he actually owed him anything. But this? This reflection that stares back at him with bright eyes, flushed cheeks, something that wasn’t hate-- Hyoma wishes he could muster up the universe in his fingertips, just to repay him for this, for this shine in his eyes and the buzz in his lips. He couldn’t, though, so all he could do is say the three words.
“Thank you, Kuni.”
The silence was interrupted with a soft chuckle. It sounds like music to his ears.
“Of course, Chi. Anytime.”
Hyoma senses him begin to turn, but there’s hesitation. Kunigami had stopped in his tracks. There’s a cough, an awkward giggle, before Kunigami says:
“Y’know… If you want, tomorrow morning, I can put another braid in your hair.”
The curtain opens a little wider, sunlight splashing itself against his braid. There’s a soft breeze too, and Hyoma can almost smell the scent of dew from outside.
Hyoma turns away from the mirror and up at the boy, lips tugging up in a small smile.
“I’d love that, Kunigami Rensuke.”