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He simply can’t put it off any longer, Five thinks, as he glares resolutely at his reflection in the grimy green-tinged mirror. The sun is already slipping low in the sky, orange light bleeding languorously in through the window and casting a glow across his face. He is in the fifth bathroom on the third floor of the Umbrella Academy mansion, and he is holding a pair of sewing scissors.
He needs a haircut.
Number Five pulls on his power as easily as one might flex a muscle. He plucks an equation from thin air and summons blue lightning around his body, and then, when he emerges, he is in Vanya’s room.
She makes a startled noise, the book she was holding slipping from her grasp and onto the floor. He picks it up and puts it back on the bed.
“Vanya,” he says, waiting until she has finished miming a heart attack. She’s still not used to him being back, yet – the easy way she once took his abrupt appearances and disappearances in stride seems to have been somewhat lost over the two years he was gone, something he resents. Now she gets a terrible fright whenever he spacial jumps around her – all of the Academy kids do, really, but it hurts the most with Vanya. Hopefully things will go back to normal soon. He taps a foot, suddenly anxious, although she is now smiling. “I need you to cut my hair.”
His best friend (they haven’t chosen a label for their relationship; he’s fond of significant other, but if he had to guess, he thinks Vanya would like the more standard boyfriend and girlfriend) blinks up at him, perplexed. “Cut your hair?”
“Yes,” he stresses. She pulls a face.
“I… can’t do that?”
“Is that a question?”
“Five. I can’t do that! I’ve never cut anyone’s hair before.”
“That doesn’t matter,” he says, moving the book – Watership Down – so he can sit next to her, and hoping he doesn’t sound like he’s whining. “I just want it short again. I hate it like this.” He grimaces to show his point, fingering the chin-length strands with distaste. Their knees are touching, and he shouldn’t be distracted by it, but.
“Can’t you ask Grace?” She is examining him again, and he doesn’t like what she must be seeing. She gives him these looks, sometimes, like she thinks he might fall apart. It’s only been two weeks since Five arrived back home from the apocalypse. Two weeks isn’t a long time. Sometimes he wakes up too hot and thinks he’s back there, with the fires, and that this was all another fever dream. Sometimes a teammate will look at him and he will see their corpse, dusty and rotting, and he will be unable to breathe.
Vanya understands the most. The two of them know loneliness better than the others do, but Five sometimes feels like he is drowning in the enormity of the weight that’s been put on his shoulders. No one, he thinks, has ever been as lonely in all the world as he has been; he was the only person alive on the planet for two years. Maybe he still is.
Her face is soft and sad, and her fingertips touch his knee.
“No,” he mutters, looking away. “It has to be you.”
“Um,” Vanya says, and then she stops.
He chews the inside of his mouth, and thrusts the scissors at Vanya, handle facing towards her. “Here.”
She flings her hands up, palms out, eyes wide. “Hey, Five, no. I seriously can’t cut your hair. What if I make it look awful?”
“I don’t care,” he says decisively.
Vanya looks at the scissors nervously. “What’s wrong with the way it is now? I like it,” she says, voice getting softer.
“Well,” he says, less decisively, faltering. If Vanya likes it… but, no. He hates whenever he has to disagree with her, because everyone else already invalidates her opinion so often, but… “I just want it back to how it used to be. That’s all. It’s just hair. And you have steady hands.”
“Mom has steadier hands,” Vanya argues. “And look at me, do I exactly look like an expert on hair cutting?” She gestures to her own hair, which is so long that it almost reaches her hips. She has a point, but the truth is – Five won’t let anyone else do it. He doesn’t trust Reginald’s android and he certainly wouldn’t let any of the other children in this house anywhere near him with a sharp object. He’s already made up his mind.
“Can’t you just do it?” He asks stubbornly, and she is not moved. “It doesn’t have to be good.”
Vanya shakes her head, eyeing the scissors with distrust. “I don’t know…”
Silence falls over them.
Ugh.
“…Please?” He asks, finally, not looking up at her, not wanting to see her expression.
She lets out an audible sigh.
He glances up at her.
“Fine,” Vanya says, already sounding like she regrets it. The pleading worked. “I’ll do my best.”
He lets a smile show on his face, dimpling at her. She rolls her eyes. He knows she has a weakness for his dimples – she let it slip a few days ago and he has no qualms about using the knowledge to his advantage. “Awesome. Thanks.”
“You won’t be thanking me when I make you look like a clown,” she mutters, and stands. “Let’s go into the bathroom.”
“Can’t we use your mirror?” He says, but lets her take his hand and pull him to stand.
“I don’t want your hair all over my floor,” she says, sounding disgusted. Okay, a little harsh.
“Wanna jump there?” He asks, taunting, and she narrows her eyes, but doesn’t let go of his hand.
“If you want me to throw up on you, then sure, try it, Number Five.”
They walk to the bathroom.
…
“Oh, no,” Vanya says ten minutes later, looking stricken. “What have I done?”
“Stop being dramatic,” he advises, trying not to sound too amused by her panicked expression. It’s just hair. He hasn’t seen it, but, he’s sure it’s fine. It’ll grow back, anyway.
“Five,” she says, and he hums. “Why did you ask me to do this. I can’t – ugh!”
“Seven, calm down,” he says, and she decides to do the exact opposite.
“Oh man,” she wails, waving the scissors around precariously. “It looks so bad! So! Bad! Five!”
“Vanya.” It can’t look that bad.
“I’m getting Grace to fix it!”
“No, you’re not!” He says.
She puts her hands on her hips. “Yes I am!”
“You are not!”
“I am too!” He snatches her wrist to stop her running.
“Do not,” he emphasises, “get Grace. You are doing fine.”
There is a pause in which she doesn’t make eye contact. “You haven’t looked at it yet,” she says, sounding dangerously close to tears, her lip wobbling. “I’m no good at this. I told you.”
He panics. “You’re the only person I trust,” he forces out, making her look at him. Maybe he seems frantic, because her eyes enlarge. “Please, please don’t get Grace. You can do it. You’ve got this.”
Vanya stares at him for a few seconds, and then shuts her eyes and takes a deep breath. Then she steels him with a serious gaze, which he loves. Much better than crying. “I’m not kidding. It will look horrendous.”
“I really do not give a shit,” he says honestly, and she smiles a bit. “I just hate this hair. It reminds me of – being there. And I thought it would be…” he trails off, and clears his throat. He doesn’t even know.
“Okay,” she whispers. Then, louder, “Okay. I can do it.”
He grins. “Fantastic.”
“You know, I’m the one who has to look at you all the time. Really, I’m the one suffering if you look bad.” Vanya shakes her head, and Five feels the intense urge to be sarcastic, so he is.
“Dear Diary. Today Number Seven, the love of my life, severely bruised my ego by implying her attraction to me could be shattered by something so impermanent as a bad haircut. I fear our relationship is on the rocks and may never recover.”
“You are such a drama queen,” Vanya says.
He continues on in a monotone voice, unperturbed, still pretending he is journaling. “Dear Diary. Today Number Seven hurt my feelings once again. I fear she may love me no longer. I will now move to Switzerland in shame--”
“Switzerland?”
“I like their chocolate.”
“Ah.” He has made her smile, so he is happy.
He leans forward. “I’m serious, Ven.” He is not. “If you fuck up my hair beyond repair will you not like me anymore? Will we have to go on a break until it grows out?”
Vanya leans back, and raises an unimpressed eyebrow. “Unfortunately, it’s impossible for me to not like you, jerk. How do you feel about a faux-hawk?”
…
The haircut she gives him isn’t a faux-hawk.
It’s almost like what he had when he was thirteen, except messier and closer to a teen’s hairstyle instead of like, a boy-scout’s. He now has a fringe again, but it’s no longer slicked back, so it falls in his eyes. The back is short, so he can feel air on his neck again, finally. Overall, it’s choppy, and uneven, and he loves it.
Vanya watches him apprehensively when he looks in the mirror, chewing on her lip in that intoxicating way she does. Does she do it on purpose? To distract him? No, maybe not everything is about him.
He gives her reflection a wide smile. It’s perfect. It’s exactly right. What he actually says is, “Reginald’s going to throw a fit,” but he knows she gets what he really means.
“Oh, yeah, he is,” she says, finally smiling, relieved.
“You did a good job,” he tells her, because no one tells Vanya that enough, he thinks.
As predicted, she flushes pink. “Oh. I’m glad you – like it.”
“Do you?” He asks, surprised by how much he cares about her answer. He wants Vanya to like it, too. He wants her to like him. And it’s just hair, but… he watches her reaction in the mirror closely.
“I think it’s very nice,” she says sweetly. “You look cute.” Five thinks he should be insulted – cute – but it’s Vanya, and a strange sensation – relief – tugs on his heart. He turns around away from the mirror to face her properly.
“Good.” He is still a bit unsure about kissing – about how to do it, and when, that is. He knows he likes it.
Vanya seems to understand what he wants, and a smile pulls at her lips; she takes his hand and leans in towards him, shyly, waiting to see if he will move back or change his mind. He doesn’t – he closes the distance between them straight away and rests his free hand on her waist, gently pulling her closer. Her mouth is cold against his – she has bad circulation.
Vanya smiles, letting him move in nearer to her, in a half-attempt at warming her up. He slides his arm around her waist, and the tip of her shoe bumps into his when she takes a small step closer.
Her hand, the one not holding his own, comes to rest on his cheek – she has a lovely habit of doing that. He thinks it’s a gentle way of telling him not to move, to stay, making sure he’s still there. (Even though her hands are always freezing. He would never tell her that, though. She might stop.)
The kiss is slow and soft, lazy. He could spend hours doing this – he would. Two years ago he thought he’d die without ever seeing her again – every second spent in her presence feels like a miracle, now. Every kiss – and they’d shared quite a few – leaves him nearly delirious, incoherent. He thinks she can tell. It’d be embarrassing, if it wasn’t Vanya.
He imagines, in a rare indulgence of fantasy, a future where he and Vanya spend entire afternoons like this, in content, domestic silence. No apocalypse, no mission alarm, no Reginald. Just cups of coffee for him, and tea for her, and violin practice, and equations, and Vanya.
Her hand moves to cup the back of his neck and Five shivers at the cold, listening with pleasure to the small, breathless, delightful sound she makes against his mouth when he runs his palm languidly up and down her back, fingers trailing from the delicate bones of her shoulder-blades down to the base of her spine.
She is the first to pull away, flustered and embarrassed and red, the image of perfection in the weak reddish radiance of the sunset cast in from the window. But her eyes sparkle amusedly at whatever picture of disaster he must be – he’s not much more composed than her, though he puts up a better front.
“Right,” she whispers, and swallows, and he can’t resist that – he swoops down and presses an open-mouthed kiss to her throat. She gasps. “Five.”
“I know,” he murmurs, but drags her closer, pressing their bodies together – she tends to need to sit down when he kisses her neck, she’s very sensitive, so his instinct is to hold her up – and carelessly kisses his way from her jaw to her collarbone, relishing the little gasps she makes, and the way she wobbles.
“Don’t leave any marks,” she says, clearly trying to sound strict and utterly failing.
He hums noncommittally.
She has to cover her own mouth when he lingers on the tender skin just under her ear, hungry, maybe a little demanding, marking the spot with – without leaving an actual mark, as much as he wants to. She exhales, and he kisses her there a little more firmly, and her pulse quickens under his mouth, and she swallows thickly again to keep from making a louder noise. God – he adores this. Making her like this.
One day, Five swears, he will leave bruises all along her neck, purple bite marks, brands. Who needs Umbrella tattoos? They belong to each other. And everyone will know.
By the time he decides he is finished, Vanya looks absolutely drunk, her knees weak – as always – and her eyes hazy. She says, “Five.”
“I know,” he says again, though he doesn’t apologise because he isn’t sorry. “I didn’t leave any. Not like anyone would be able to see it anyway.” He runs a hand through her curtain of long, dark hair, trying to calm his racing heart, and Vanya’s cheeks become impossibly pinker.
She leans around him, though their torsos are still pressed flush, to check her neck in the mirror, his word not enough. Fair. While she is distracted, he traces the shape of a V on her lower back with his index finger. V for Vanya. V for 5. Maybe he is a little possessive. Oh well. “It’s red.”
“You’re just blushing,” he dismisses, brushing his lips to her cheek. “Thanks for the haircut, love.” Oops. He didn’t mean to let that slip out.
She swats at him, laughing, flustered. Maybe because of the pet name. “Oh, you’re welcome, darling.” She’s obviously half-joking but it comes out like a purr, too serious, and suddenly he very much wants to kiss her again.
Five clears his throat. “I mean it,” he says. “Thanks.”
“It’s okay,” she giggles. “I’m happy.”
“Me too.”
Vanya blushes again, which makes him feel very triumphant, but eventually they leave the bathroom and go to hide in his room, and pass the time with study and violin until dinner.
Ben, one of the few Umbrella Academy members that Five is able to stand for prolonged periods of time, knocks on the door hesitantly, and Five looks to Vanya to see if she minds. She doesn’t, so they let him in, and he sits cross-legged on the carpet and reads a book silently while Vanya plays something by Vivaldi, and Five works on some equations.
“Oh,” Ben says suddenly, and Five glances at him. “Your hair.” He must have only just noticed; Ben has a tendency to look at the floor while he talks.
“What about it?” Five says, going back to his work.
“Did you do it?” His teammate asks, probably talking to Vanya.
“Yeah. Is it… bad?”
Ben hesitates. “No.”
Vanya’s laugh rings out. “You’re a bad liar, Six.”
Ben splutters, and Five smiles at his equations as Vanya giggles. He feels the air on his neck and ears and it finally feels like he can breathe properly. He’s glad to be home.