Work Text:
John lies awake in the bed. time hasn't really got a meaning anymore but something in the air reminds him of the early morning, maybe it is the silence that surrounds him, disturbed only by the soft breaths of Martin sleeping next to him. John looks at his partner and a pain hits him in the stomach, he feels bad about how he wasn't able to communicate with him since the apocalypse came, what was it? a week ago? a month? time hasn't really got a meaning anymore. He thinks how lucky he is to have Martin here with him. After John summoned the fears he completely broke down, and Martin took care of him, and carried him tenderly to the bed in the other room. John isn't sure how Martin spends his time, he only knows that sometimes he is with him in the bed and sometimes he is not, sometimes he hugs him and whispers soft messages of recurrence in his ear, he doesn't know how to respond but he hopes Martin knows how much he loves him for trying to help, even though nothing really does. Johns mind is foggy, he can't really remember what has he done since the summoning, he drifts back and forth, always in a state of not quite awake and not quite asleep, sometimes he wakes up short of breath, as if he just woke up from a nightmare, but he doesn't remember dreaming anything. Sometimes he cries or shakes or shouts, and Martin tries to calm him down, not really understanding that John isnt awake or aware enough to take in what happens. This was the first time since it all went wrong that John's mind has been at all clear. His body aches but not as terribly you would have expected for someone who hasn't left the bed in so long, he hasn't eaten or drunk anything for too long, he should have been severely dehydrated and malnourished at this point, but somehow he feels fine, maybe it is to do with his eye powers, maybe thats just how the world works now. John stands up and stretches, making a chain of knaking sounds throughout his body, he realises that he is sweaty and sticky, and he can really use a shower. He walks into the old bathroom and accidentally takes a short glimpse of himself in the dirty mirror, he didn't think he would look the best, but this was worse than what he expected. His eyes are sunken deep into their sockets, his cheekbones are sharp and stick out, scraggly facial hair covers his cheeks and chin and he finds traces of dried blood under his fingernails that he wasn't sure where it came from.
And then there was his hair; to be honest John was not the best at taking care of his hair, it got tangled and frizzy often and he didn't always find the time to wash it. But this was another level of neglect, parts of it matted together into huge knots that seemed impossible to untangle, other parts stook up, some sections lost all curliness while others frizzed up maniacally. John sighed, he didn't have the energy to think about it at the moment.
The shower, unsurprisingly, was freezing, at least it helped his blood circulation John thought, not that it really matters.
He got out and wrapped himself in a towel. He braced himself and looked in the mirror, he looked a bit better, nothing changed drastically, he used his razor that sat abandoned by the sink for weeks to shave his face.
Now it was time to tackle his hair.
John takes a deep breath and strokes a strand of his hair, for a moment he thinks maybe to try and salvage it but decides against it, something inside of him calls him to chop it all off.
John always had a strong connection to his hair. In the few baby pictures he had seen of himself he used to have a crown of thick dark curls for the first few years of his life. When he moved in with his grandma she always insisted on keeping it short and tidy, they would get into fights about it all the time. John dreaded going to the Barber, he hated the lack of control he had over his appearance and he hated the constant touch of the stranger cutting his hair stroking his scalp. After each haircut John would go to his room, cry tears of anger and promise himself that no one will touch his hair ever again. The promise never lasted though, because every few months his grandma would decide it was time for a haircut again, and no amount of crying or fussing or fighting would convince her otherwise.
John tried growing it out in secondary school, his grandma absolutely hated it, she would make fun of his thick and frizzy hair, calling it "a birds nest" or "a bush". John tried to resist but he got tired of this conflict, and there was so much fighting between them so he decided to give up on it. He bought himself a set of clippers and kept it buzzed so at least he could do it himself and avoid the torcher of going to get it done professionally.
The moment John left his grandma's house to go to college he stopped cutting it, he just let it grow and do its thing, it had a painfully awkward phase of weird growing out hair, but the moment the hair reached Johns shoulders he knew it was right for him. He still hated when over people touched it, he let Georgie braid it a couple of times but he would shout and screech if she pulled too hard.
By the time he got to the archivist position his hair was long and thick and reached the middle of his back, it had started to turn gray a few years back and now supported a white streak in the front.
He then decided he should get it cut to look more professional. He was so stressed going in for the haircut that he could barely speak to the hairdresser, and when she asked him what he wanted he only managed to say "short". He managed to hold his tears while watching the pile of soft curls fall onto the floor until he got home to his apartment, and then allowed himself to cry a little even though he felt stupid, still, his long hair was a simbol of his agancy, and to get it cut seemed in some way that he lost it.
During his time as archivist he didn't cut it again, he waited nervously for Elias to drop a hint that it was unprofessional until he would get it cut again, but that hint never came.
In the last few years his hair grew back again and now reached his back, right beneath his shoulder blades.
The truth was though he would never admit it, John really liked his hair, it was his physical attribute he liked the most about himself. The weight of it on his neck gave John a feeling of safety, and it gave him a feeling of individuality and agency.
He goes to the kitchen and reaches the old and rusty kitchen scissors and goes back to the bathroom. He harshly pulls a large chunk of hair and in an almost violent manner chops it off, he watches as most of the length falls into a pile on the sink. The hair left falls on his face and eyes and John runs his fingers across his scalp, to his surprise he comes across a few small wounds on his scalp, apparently he started to pick on his skin again lately, he hasn't done that since he was a teenager, but falled back into the habit in his time spent in agony in bed after the change, that explains the blood under the fingernails. John is relieved, at least he didn't harm Martin.
He gets into a rhythm of work, cutting section after section without stopping to think, every hair that falls to the ground gives him a rush signaling him to continue going.
Fifteen minutes later the floor, sink, countertop and john's chest and neck are covered in black and silver curls and john stops cutting. He looks at himself in the mirror and suddenly he realised what he had done. The hair is cropped very very short, like a buzzcut, but with only large and clumsy kitchen scissors in his hands john did a truly awful job, the hair is immensely uneven, with some wispy bits he didn't manage to cut correctly, some small bald spots and other parts that look almost like they have been chewed on for some reason.
John starts to feel warm drips on his cheeks and he starts to cry silently, begging every tear to stay in his eye, trying to choke the feeling.
"For fucks sake!" he wants to cry, "the world bloody ended, so many people are dead and suffering, and i'm crying because of a stupid haircut!" He shouts inside his head, not letting himself to shout it out loud.
At the exact moment Martin cries worried "John?!" His voice trembles a little "where are you?? Is everything ok?" John takes a big breath, bracing himself to face Martin.
" I'm in the bathroom Martin!" He shouts, hoping that his voice doesn't give away his mental state.
John hears Martin's footsteps coming in his direction and then a soft knock on the door and a gentle "can i come in?".
“sure” says John with a quiver, and the second Martin opens the door and walks in he loses control of himself and starts crying, the loud and snuffly kind that john hates. Martin is a bit shocked from this, but tries his best to hide it so it wouldn’t stress John out and wraps his big warm hands around John's fragile and bare body.
they stand like that for a while, in a tight hug, martin lets john whimper until he calms down slightly and disengages from the hug but still clenches martin's arm firmly. "If I knew that I have such a talented hairdresser as a boyfriend I wouldn't have let this situation get so out of hand" says martin with a smirk pointing at his hair that has grown wild and messy in the last few months. "Uhh.. oh.. I'm.." John starts mumbling startled but martin stops him "i'm only messing with you".
"So", Martin says with an exhale and a more serious manner. "Do you want to talk about this?"
"I'm not sure i can actually explain" answers John, tensing a bit. "I know im acting like a fucking thirteen year old after a bad breakup, its just that.. " "hey hey, no need to be harsh on yourself" martin replies softly. "...its just that i got so angry" john continues, "i got so angry about how stupid i am, and how i literally caused the end if the world with my fucking words and voice and..", he is stopped by Martin gently passing his hand on johns neck and cheek". "John, its not your fault, remember, it's Elias' fault, you were just used in this situation '' Martin reminds him in a soft voice.
"Not that it's any better!" Cries john, "ive been used like a fucking megaphone, and now everyone is suffering, everyone!" Exclaims John back at him, and bursts into another round of tears, this time silently into Martin's chest.
After a few minutes more standing there, in the cold and hair covered bathroom John suddenly sighs in relief and detaches himself from Martin. Martin catches a look on a strand of hair that John left too long and stands up in a ridiculous manner. Martin releases a small snort of laughter and tries to hide it in a cough, not too upset John, but to his surprise a mischievous smile creeps upon John's face, Martin lets out a giggle and he joins in.
They both laugh and embrace, happy to hear each other cheerful, at least for one moment. Martin strokes johns newly shorn head with his warm large hand, john flinches for a second at the alien sensation, but decides to give in and lets him pet him like a cat for a few moments, only then to burst into a short laugh about the absurdity of the situation, the world ended and he's got a terrible haircut, but martin is here with him and for a minute or two the whole thing seems a bit more bearable.