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My hair is too long.
Something about it bothers Hunter.
He didn’t always mind it—sometimes, it was fine. But then it would rub against his face, or tickle the back of his neck, and he would want to rip it off his scalp. Uncle says that it suits him, though. So he tells himself that it isn’t so bad—it’s not that long. It barely even reaches his shoulders. It’s fine. It’s fine. Stop being a baby.
The feeling still persists. It doesn’t matter if he pulls it back with hair clips, puts it in a ponytail or a bun—it itches and it’s too long . Late at night, it sometimes feels as though something is in it, running through the strands and scratching at his head. The sensation makes him want to throw up. Don’t make a mess. Swallow it down.
Eventually, he simply can’t stand it anymore.
Hunter is getting ready for the day, and when he meets his gaze in the reflection of the mirror, something inside of him twists up into knots. All wrong.
He wasn’t really thinking about what he was doing, feeling untethered from himself. He grabs the razor and shaves down the underside, then cuts away at the rest with clippers. Distantly, he feels a bit of pain along the sides where he’d shaved. When he finally finishes, he’s breathing heavily and trembling. Clumps of hair cover the floor— clean it up, idiot. If anyone sees you made a mess, you’ll get in trouble. He’s going to be late for training, but—well, maybe if he hurries—
He wasn’t late.
For the first time, Hunter feels light. Moving seems so much easier, despite the aches and exhaustion.
“Good work today, scout,” the General tells him, patting him roughly on the back.
His broad smile is hidden by his mask.
When Uncle summons him to his quarters later that day, Hunter hurries, not wanting to make him upset. He was still high on good work today, scout and how much better he felt to worry about what Uncle might need, however. Who knew cutting your hair could lift so much weight off of you? Sure, his hair was pretty thick, but it hadn’t been… that long.
He gently knocks on the door, and it opens immediately. He carefully steps into the room, looking for his uncle. He finds the man sitting at his desk, facing away from him.
“You needed me, sir?”
“No. I simply wanted to see you,” Uncle replies. His mask is off and on his desk. Upon seeing this, Hunter steps further into the room, pulling his hood down and mask off as he hears the door creak shut behind him. “I heard you performed excellently during training today.”
He smiles. “Thank you.”
Uncle turns around to face him, his mouth open as if to say something, but he freezes. Hunter feels his heart lurch, smile fading. Something flickers in his uncle’s gaze. In a matter of moments, he’s across the room, towering over his nephew, one hand reaching out towards him. Hunter simply stares up at him, trying to keep from shaking, uncertain about what he’d done wrong. He had only spoken six words. He hadn’t moved back or tried to leave. What did I do? He does his best to keep from flinching as Uncle’s hand comes towards him, keeping eye contact despite the rising urge to look away.
When Uncle Belos’ hand settles in his hair, carding his fingers through it, he tenses up. Despite the gentle touch, it feels like fire on his scalp.
“Did you do this?” Uncle asks after a moment.
“Yes,” he answers hesitantly.
“Why?”
Why? Why did he? He doesn’t know. He doesn’t even remember doing it. Had he done that today? Or yesterday? The memory is a fleeting thing, just out of his reach. He swallows the lump forming in his throat as he tries to think of a response.
“It was…bothering me. During training,” he responds after a bit of thinking. Uncle Belos frowns slightly at his belated response.
“Next time, inform me of that before doing anything about it yourself,” Uncle says. His fingers run along the shaved parts of Hunter’s hair, pausing for a moment, before digging in. Pain ricochets through him, and he jolts. Uncle Belos tsks, shaking his head slightly. “You don’t know how to cut hair properly, much less shave.”
“Yes, Uncle,” Hunter replies. He bites the inside of his cheek. Stupid. Can’t do anything on your own. Should’ve asked him from the beginning. What were you thinking? Well, that’s obvious—you weren’t. What is wrong with you?
Uncle smiles at him, letting his hand drop to his side. “Good. How about we fix it, hmm?”
He sits down at the desk while Uncle gets a razor and clippers. He stares down at the wood grain. Slowly, he feels himself drifting again, becoming untethered from his body. Once Uncle comes back, he immediately gets to work shaving and cutting. There’s a distant stinging feeling, burning on his scalp, but it fades as he grows more distant.
When Hunter finally comes back to himself, he’s in his room. It’s dark and the door is shut and he’s alone. His face and the sides of his head sting.
He leans back against the door and feels a dampness running down his face. Reaching up, he touches his cheek, his glove coming away wet. He sniffles. Why am I crying? He tries to remember what happened, but it’s all hazy. The last thing he can recall clearly is sitting at his uncle’s desk. Waiting for…his hair to get cut. That’s right.
He reaches up, touching his hair. He belatedly realizes that he won’t be able to feel it properly without taking his gloves off. Slowly, he peels them off his hands, then shakily tosses them onto his bed. Running his fingers through his hair, he ignores the pinpricks of pain that shoot through him. The sides are shaved down to a soft buzz, the texture against his fingers making his lips twitch into a small smile. The top is thick, like his hair was before it was cut. It’s thinned a bit, though, and feels rougher on his hands.
Tears still trickling down his face, Hunter slowly pushes off of the door, moving towards his bed. His legs ache and his chest feels compressed, like something is trying to squeeze the air out of his lungs. Nothing too out of the ordinary.
As he shambles, he catches sight of himself in the reflection of his window. He stares.
He looks so…different. Almost like a different person.
There’s a cowlick poking out from the top of his hair, near the front. It was there when his hair was longer, as well, just less noticeable. He reaches up, pulling on it gently. It feels just as rough as the rest of the hair up there, but it somehow seems silkier. He lets go of it, and slowly climbs onto his bed, ignoring the way his eyes seem to glow in his reflection.
Hunter lies in the dark, hiccuping softly and sniffling. He’ll have to wash up tomorrow, just in case. No one needs to know he’s been crying.
Why am I crying? What’s wrong with me? Nothing happened. Uncle just cut my hair. I wanted it to be cut. So why am I upset? Stupid. Just being a pathetic baby over nothing. Like always.
The sun is rising by the time his mind has calmed enough for him to sleep.
— — —
My hair is too long.
Something about it bothers Hunter.
He didn’t always mind it—sometimes, it was fine. It wasn’t long enough to even touch his face, really, save for the cowlick he’s never quite been able to tame. It had grown a bit since they’d all first arrived in the human realm, but it wasn’t anything a simple trim couldn’t solve. He hadn’t thought too much of it for the most part. But their first night there, he had looked in the mirror and felt like vomiting. Don’t make a mess.
They all sort of avoid the mirror he’s noticed. Especially Luz. He’s been meaning to ask her about it, but whenever he tries, he can’t find the words.
The thing is, Hunter can’t even meet his own eyes. Most of the time, he physically can’t make himself look. It’s like some invisible force is holding his head down, keeping him staring at the sink and counter. Something in the back of his mind tells him that, if he looks, he won’t see himself. So he doesn’t look.
They had gone to the park. They had to go eventually. There was no avoiding it.
As soon as the front door opens, Hunter hurries inside, making his way to the bathroom. Voices call after him, but he can’t make out the words, the world around him growing hazy, static in his ears. He feels himself drifting away from his body. He views his body shut and lock the door as soon as he’s in. And then he looks directly at the mirror.
It looks like him. Sort of. Not quite. Something isn’t right. Something inside of him twists up into knots. Wrong. Wrong. Wrong. Wrong. All wrong.
He doesn’t think. He watches his hands fumble for the razor and clippers, watches as he starts shaving and cutting, watches as clumps of hair fall to the floor. Distantly, he feels a faint stinging sensation sometime during the process. The moments all blur together, becoming one singular instant: Hunter cutting his hair . Like a photograph. Hunter before. Hunter in the middle. Hunter after . Snapshots in time, taken by his mind’s eye and framed, the singular seconds ticking by replaced by a sole moment.
It’s a bit strange to think about. So he decides he won’t anymore. He’s not really sure why he was thinking about it in the first place.
There’s knocking on the door and a hairy disaster on the floor. Clean it up, dumb fuck. You’ll get in trouble if you let anyone see you made a mess. He observes as his body inhales sharply, each breath following quick and uneven. His body kneels down, scooping up the clumps and strands of hair, then tossing them into the trash can by the vanity. What the hell is wrong with you? Did you forget how to clean? No wonder. You’ve been such a lazy piece of shit lately, of course you don’t even know how to do something so simple.
More knocking. Voices join the cacophony. He can feel his head pounding in time with his heart, beating violently against his ribcage. Heart. Stone. His body is shaking vigorously. He can feel it again, the sensations; they seem so foreign now. The doorknob is twisting and turning as whoever is on the other side tries to get it open. He’s slowly sinking back into his body, a scream rising in his throat that he swallows.
Compose yourself. It’s fine. You’re fine. What’s the matter with you? It was just a statue.
(There he goes again, untethered. He distantly wonders who severed the rope.)
Statue. Statue. Statue. Statue. Statue. Me. Not me. Not quite. Not real. Fake. Lies. Truth. Statue. Statue statue statue statue statue statue—
It’s dark. That’s the first thing Hunter registers. The second is that he has no idea where he is. The third is that he’s pretty sure he’s alone.
There’s a soft chirp from somewhere in the room. Not alone, then. He tries to look around without moving his head—he isn’t sure he can right now—but he can’t see anything. He squints, trying to see if he can make anything out, before he realizes that he’s underneath something. The gentle weight isn’t distressing him—in fact, it’s kind of comforting, if he’s being honest. But he’d like to figure out where he is. He tries to move his arm, but it barely responds. Great.
After a little bit, he finally manages to get his arm up. It aches as he moves it, but he grits his teeth and bares through it, using it to press against whatever it is he’s underneath. It immediately moves, revealing itself to only be a soft blanket. He blinks slowly, realizing that he’s lying on his bed in the room Gus and him have been sharing.
Gentle light creeps in through the window. Flapjack is perched on the windowsill. He stares at them, breathing slowly. He tries to clear his throat, letting out a meek sound.
They’re immediately next to him, twittering about how worried they were. Never scare again! Never! Can’t take! they cry, gently pecking at his face.
Hunter tries to reply, but he can’t form any words. His entire face feels stiff, like it’s made of stone, and for a moment there’s the terrifying thought in his mind that—that—Flapjack warbles something, disrupting that train of thought. He simply stares at them, the edges of his vision a bit hazy.
I’m sorry , he wants to say. I didn’t mean to scare you. I’m not sure what happened. I can’t remember.
They let out a sad little sound, before they’re flying off, leaving him alone. Probably for the best, considering he can’t speak. He’ll probably have to sleep this off. When he wakes up, he’ll be back to normal, ready to do his chores.
He isn’t alone for long. Footsteps come thudding down the hall, accompanied by the flapping of wings. A voice gently calls, “Hunter?”
He tries to roll over, he really does. He sighs through his nose in defeat.
A face pops into view. Camila. There’s a frown on her face, her brows knit together. She looks about as exhausted as he feels. Your fault, you asshole. You’ve gone and made everyone all worried, like always.
“Ay, mijo. You gave us all a bit of a scare there. You alright?”
I guess. I’m just tired. What happened?
He expects her to get mad at him for not responding. All she does is sigh as she sits down on the edge of the bed, Flapjack perching on her shoulder.
“You know,” she starts, “if you wanted to cut your hair, you should’ve told me. You did pretty good, honestly…but you nicked yourself a bit. You have to be careful using a razor.”
He blinks up at her, a bit perplexed. When did I cut my hair? She smiles softly, slowly reaching out towards him. He couldn’t flinch if he tried.
Her hand gently runs through his hair. His scalp itches despite that. She must see something in his face shift—good to know he can still express things that way, at least—because she quickly pulls her hand back. Something in him unfurls.
“It’s a bit…messy, I’ll admit. Do you want me to see what I can do?” she asks after a moment.
Hunter blinks at her. Hopefully, she’ll take that as a yes.
Once Camila has him seated at the vanity (She had to carry him, because he couldn’t get his legs to function. It was a bit strange, being carried so carefully.), she tells him, “One moment, I have to get the razor and clippers.”
Flapjack flutters onto the desk, hopping about. He stares at his reflection in the mirror. His hair is choppy and uneven on top, but the sides don’t seem too bad. The longer he stares, the more some strange feeling curls in his chest. He looks like himself. Sort of. He watches as Flapjack flies up to his shoulder, perching there and rubbing against his cheek. Their feathers brush against his skin gently.
He thinks he remembers something like this. He would have only been a scout at the time. Back at the palace. Maybe…Gus’ age? He isn’t certain. The memory is fuzzy, like a picture that didn’t develop quite right. It’s faded and folded at the edges. He can almost see it in his mind’s eye.
Then, Camila walks back into the room, a pair of scissors and a razor in hand. She smiles at him in the mirror, and then gets to work. She carefully shaves the sides, evening out the spots he hadn’t given enough attention to. She cuts the top just as attentively, making sure it’s even. As Hunter watches her, his vision grows blurry. Something wet rolls down his cheek. He tries to reach up to touch it, but his limbs aren’t responding again.
Flapjack chirps softly, nudging his face. The blurry shape that is Camila seems to freeze, and then the chair is being turned and she’s in front of him, kneeling down. Her fingers gently wipe at his face, and he finally realizes what the dampness is: tears.
“I’m sorry—did I hurt you?” she asks, her brow furrowed.
No. You didn’t. That’s the problem.
He sniffles. That strange feeling is back, twisting around inside of him. She keeps staring at him, concern written all over her face, her eyes searching for some kind of answer. And something inside of him shatters.
Hunter can’t remember the last time he sobbed. Probably not since he was a kid, too small to understand the world or his purpose in it yet. Another faded memory, something he likely won’t ever be able to remember clearly. There’s a lot of moments in his life like that, now that he’s thinking about it. So many things he’s forgotten. He doesn’t even remember how he got half the scars that litter his body. That’s something people usually remember. Probably.
It starts with a small hiccup. And then he lets out some horrible wet, croaking noise, and he starts crying harder. It builds until it’s a torrential downpour. Flapjack starts twittering at him, but he can’t understand anything they’re saying.
“Can I hug you?” Camila’s voice cuts through the pitiful noise.
He just barely manages to get his neck to cooperate with him, allowing him to nod.
Then he’s kneeling on the ground with her, held close to her chest. She’s whispering something, her arms wrapped tightly around him, one hand against the nape of his neck, fingers barely touching his hair. Flapjack weasels their way into the embrace, curling up in the space between them. Hunter wishes he could clutch on to her, but his arms refuse to move, and he doesn’t have any energy left to try and force them to. He leans into her. No use in trying to stop it now. So he lets himself sob as Camila rubs his back in slow circles, still murmuring things he can’t understand. Flapjack twitters softly.
He falls asleep like that, tears still slipping down his face as Camila holds him, as though he’s something precious.