Work Text:
The sharp snip of scissors sounds louder than it should, even when poised so close to his ears. Insistent pulling on his scalp strains, and then slackens all at once, and finally his other hand trails the remnants of his actions to sit in front of him.
It’s strange. The tangle of loose hair in his hand feels heavy despite weighing no more than a few pounds. On closer inspection, Shota notices the gnarled edges - messy and split from months of neglect. Usually Hizashi would never allow it to get to such a tarnished state, but haircuts were on the backburner of their minds when there was a war to not only plan, but see through to its conclusion.
Some of the damage was presumably accrued during the fight. Explosions and shrapnel saturating the air likely tore at the already ragged ends. And does watching the desecrated corpse of your childhood friend whither away for a second time affect the health of your hair?
Probably.
Faintly, Shota’s ears register the front door of his home opening and closing with a noticeably lacking degree of care.
“I’m home Sho.”
Called out with a weary strain, and Shota can feel the fatigue in the wavering tone. Hizashi has been tired - which is no surprise.
The exuberant vivacity of Present Mic used to be present even behind closed doors. Faculty in the teacher’s lounge weren’t spared the shrilling noises of excitement or lilting jabs that the blond chirped out between lessons, and nor was Shota in the comfort of their home.
But now?
Well, the following clean up from the fallout of a war, as well as clawing to regain some sense of normalcy for the past six months is enough to exhaust anyone. Even Present Mic. And even Hizashi Yamada. Who might not quite buzz with the same level of spirit as his persona, but still always found the energy to murmur out at least a warm greeting in the comfort of his home.
The dullness sounds foreign in his voice, and it has the odd effect of making Shota freeze in his current position - staring back at himself in the mirror with scissors in one hand, and a decent chunk of his hair in another. Like a child caught doing something they shouldn’t.
Which is ridiculous. It’s his hair, he’ll do as he pleases regardless of his husband’s preference. He doesn’t care about his hair.
But still, he blinks frozen at his reflected image.
It lasts all the way up until the creak of the bathroom door twitches Shota’s ears. It’s followed by a gasp. Surprisingly light and airy considering who it’s from. Hizashi’s green eyes blink rapidly in the reflected image of the doorway, and Shota still feels rooted in place like he’s waiting for the other’s assessment.
A pause as Hizashi drinks in the sight of his husband’s head, then a breath. The weight of the exhale dips the blond's spiked point. Just a few short paces forward sees him taking the scissors from Shota’s hand with a gentle tenderness that speaks of a cautious nature. Like Shota will resist.
But he doesn’t. It’s always been easy to bend and curve into Hizashi’s energy, his direction, but now it’s done so with an obedient haziness that feels like it’s clouding his head with cotton.
A click of Hizashi’s tongue breaks through the fog.
“We have proper hairdressing scissors, y’know. You don’t have to go and use the kitchen ones.”
A remarkably subdued response to what Shota expected.
Tension in his chest caves and allows him to release the breath he hadn’t known he’d been holding onto. Maybe he’d been more nervous than he thought for his husband’s approval. Or, absence of disapproval, anyway. Hizashi loves Shota’s hair. Loves the routine of nurturing it. For all he grumbles about Shota’s lack of maintenance for the unruly locks, he knows Hizashi enjoys being the one to preen him. To wash the grime and sweat of a difficult day away and thread fingers through his strands.
It’s as therapeutic for Hizashi as it is for Shota. Which is nice for Hizashi, even when Shota himself doesn’t care about his hair.
“Wait there,” Hizashi instructs, grabbing the loose wad of hair from the other’s hand before pausing, just for a second, to look at the piece of his husband now untethered.
There’s a tightness held behind orange tinted glasses as he squints down. A ghost of a scowl threatens to wrinkle around his mouth but it dips below the padded area of his directional speaker before he leaves the room, and Shota is left staring at his reflection.
It’s bizarre. His hair hasn’t been this short since middle school when he’d made the decision to grow it out. Or well, not consciously. It’s just that the barber was such an overwhelming and irritating affair. Strangers pulling and touching at his scalp, littering itching loose hairs down his collar and spraying noxious products that clung to his nose for hours. Shota hated the barber, and so when he finally turned thirteen was when his parents decided they could no longer be bothered with the fight to make him go.
So he didn’t.
Hizashi is the only person in the last fifteen years who has touched his hair, and only because he managed the impossible task of making a haircut pleasant.
Well… he was the only person until today. With the scissors and hair now confiscated from him, all the evidence left of his decision sits solely in his reflection.
He didn’t do a… bad job, per se. Though, maybe pulling it back and hewing at the point just below his grip wasn’t the best decision. His bangs sit at around the same length as before, where the back is a lot more scarce. Lopsided.
A heavy sigh pushes from his lungs. He probably should have just waited for Hizashi.
As if summoned, the blond steps through the doorway again. Plain scissors have been swapped for his hairdressing pair, and he holds a water spray bottle in the other. Directional speaker, headphones, orange glasses, and his leather jacket have been shed in the interim, and he’s currently existing in his half state of Present Mic and Hizashi, with his hair still gelled to its signature point.
In way of a verbal direction, Hizashi simply uses his foot to scrape the shower stool closer to the other and Shota takes a seat, following his husband’s silent instruction easily. They’ve known each other long enough now that they move easily in answer to inaudible requests.
“Just gonna neaten it up for you.”
Shota nods, he assumed as much.
“Or…” Hizashi trails off, but Shota can’t quite find the energy to turn his head to prompt the rest from the other.
So he waits, and is finally rewarded with the question.
“Did you want it shorter?”
Shota blinks at the sink, no longer able to see into the mirror. Does he want it shorter? He isn’t quite sure what he wants or even if he cares all too much. So for now, for the sake of simplicity, he shakes his head.
“Just tidied up, please.”
He doesn’t care about his hair.
Hizashi does as asked, but it takes a few sprays of water before he tries initiating his habitual chatter. It comes at a delay, a noticeable one. Usually, the one sided conversation is well under way before Shota can even sit on the stool.
“Eri’s been keeping up with her music.”
Hair finally damp enough, Hizashi reaches for the comb on the sink to run through Shota’s hair. The fact it doesn’t pull at his scalp for as long as it did just last night feels jarring, and stilts his reply for a moment.
“She’s been enjoying the lessons from you and Jiro,” Shota finally manages, trying to direct his mind to the more pleasant image of Eri with her guitar. “Talks about them all the time.”
Hizashi hums - the most pleased he’s sounded since arriving back home.
“She’s very determined. I think she likes having something to do with her hands. Plus,” the blond snickers, light and warm. “She’s always asking when she can play for Mr. Deku.”
As much as Shota wants to groan, he can’t quite manage the noise. Eri’s obsession with Midoriya is understandable considering the nature of her rescue - how involved the boy was in pulling her from her literal and mental prison. But Shota plans to keep a close eye on it. The flash of Eri’s sawn and gnarled horn flares in his mind and he has to remind himself that the circumstances were extenuating. That she wouldn’t be compelled to do it again. That Midoriya himself would see to it that she did no such thing.
That Shota couldn’t stop her.
Even with no response, Hizashi continues on.
“We’ll need to think about getting her another one soon. I think she’s just about ready for a three quarter size.”
Shota gives a distant agreeable noise, enough to let Hizashi know that he’s still here, in this room, but also that his participation is going to be capped. Maybe an acknowledgement here or there, but they both know how this works best. Shota pulls silence to the air, and Hizashi fills it. It’s how it’s always been
Well, maybe not always. He has to admit, it was more of an annoyance at the start. Falling into a friendship with someone who simply doesn’t possess the ability to fraternise with silence was nothing but a distraction. Especially when all Shota initially planned to do was keep his head down and study. He didn’t have a flashy quirk, or enhanced muscles. If he was going to graduate; the grating noise of jabbering certainly didn’t seem conducive to that goal.
But annoyance became acceptance, which rolled into fondness, and eventually Shota found himself lulled by the drone of chattering that Hizashi provided. And here he is, fifteen years later and the blond is still providing him with his comforting background noise.
Or, he was.
The snip of scissors is currently the only thing bouncing off the tiles of the bathroom wall. How comical it would be to tell a fifteen year old Shota that the sound of Hizashi not speaking now sets him on edge.
“What’s wrong?” Shota asks, because Hizashi is only quiet when his brain is bulging with something that overrides his natural inclination to talk.
The question pulls a titter from the blond, but it sounds hollow.
“With me?"
Shota hums an affirmative noise. Who else would he be talking to?
Hizashi huffs, tired. Even without looking, he can sense the blond’s form sagging behind him as the density of the air thickens. It makes Shota wish he could claw back the content tone humming from his husband just a few moments ago.
After another pause, he gets his answer.
“Mm, just dealing with some big changes. It’s hard.”
That makes sense. The past few months have uprooted their schedules to an unrecognisable degree. There isn’t even any semblance of a timetable to cling to; only the assurance that each day will be completely different from the last depending on where they’re needed. Shota’s lesson plans are a mess and, try as he might, he knows Hizashi’s are as well. Where were they supposed to find time to ideate a module? Between construction field trips with their classes? Or in the five minute interim between showering and falling into bed at 3am? Nezu is understanding, at least, but that does nothing to consolate the sparse privacy granted to the couple.
Their time spent together has been fleeting, and the weariness of the whirlwind around them fills their shared moments with such a somnolence that it’s all they can do to drag their weathered bodies around one another before sleep claims them. It’s cruel; Shota has never deplored sleep so much. But night after night it steals the vanishing vision of his partner’s ragged form that still glows and curves in all the ways he’s come to love.
“My husband’s trying a new look,” Hizashi continues after… Shota doesn’t know how long. “Not sure how I feel about it.”
That makes Shota blink.
“You don’t like it?”
It feels easier to talk about this evening's immediate alteration as opposed to everything else that’s changed. Especially when it’s something so trivial, like his appearance. He doesn’t put much stock into his overall look beyond a press interview, or parental meetings - it doesn’t serve him to waste the energy.
…but he cares what Hizashi thinks.
“I think…” the blond trails off, clearly taking the time to choose his words carefully. “I think it makes me worry.”
“Is it that bad?”
The question makes Hizashi snicker, and immediately the growing pressure in the air dissipates.
“Not by the time I’m done with it.”
Shota snorts at the other’s confidence, but supposes it’s warranted. Even Nemuri had trusted Hizashi with her particular swooping and confusing cut. Luckily the blond doesn’t allow the silence to linger, lest Shota’s mind wander to even more friends long since lost.
“Did you just fancy a change? You know I’ll always cut it however you want.”
There’s a plea in the inquiry. A subtle appeal to explain what made his husband decide to go for such a dramatic alteration at his own hands.
But there isn’t anything to explain. There hadn’t been any underlying thoughts or desires to modify his hair in the afternoon leading up to it, or even the hour, or minute.
The day went as normal; 5am wake up for an early patrol in their neighbourhood. A few stragglers from a previous night of heavy drinking, but luckily no villains. When was the last time Shota had the luxury of enjoying a decent drink? Hair down.
7am showered at Heights Alliance dorms and changed into the fresh clothes left in his allocated room. They no longer resided at UA in the same way as before. Each teacher still has a space of their own, should they feel the need, but it’s no longer considered mandatory. And if Shota was going to be selfish about one thing after the war - it was getting to enjoy the comforts of his and his husband’s shared home. Hair tied in a top knot.
8:30am classes began. The morning was spent ferrying class 2A to yet another site in need of reconstruction. This time, a nursery. Bangs had fallen loose from the tie, and kept his damaged side hidden.
11:40am lunch - back at UA. The strain was giving him a headache, so he let his hair down again. Hizashi was busy, which was for the best as he’d have likely shrieked about its unruly state at that point. It’s not his fault the wind was rowdy.
12:30pm lessons began again. This time in the classroom, updates on crime rates and strategies intended to quell the unrest stubbornly kept aflame by untrusting citizens. Running his hands through the locks was met with some resistance. Perhaps he should have brushed it. He resigned to leaving it down for the rest of the day.
3:30pm classes finished, and 4:10pm he arrived home. Without even removing his capture weapon, he sat at the breakfast bar to stare down the screen of his digital pad in the hopes of a productive half hour of lesson planning. He’s hopeful to finally get an evening to enjoy as a couple.
Well, that was the intention.
Hizashi was busy seeing to Eri for his later afternoon shift accompanying her - it was the perfect time to get some nuisance admin out of the way in the silence of their flat.
But there was just… something pulling at his skin. An irritated hand through his hair reminded him of the matting at the back, and the sensation spiked something like fury in his gut. All he needed to do was concentrate. That’s the least these kids deserve after the hell they went through; a half decent lesson plan to guide them through the crumbling remnants of society that they’ve been charged with helping to restructure.
He needed to focus.
Huffing, he recoiled back in his chair and the straightening of his spine popped his vertebrae. Yet another annoying sensation to clutch under his skin. As was the mop of his bangs that fell down to completely obscure the vision of his tablet, and when he went to push it out of the way, it stubbornly fell right back into place.
If he were a patient man, he would have taken a step back. Counted to ten, breathed, taken note of his surroundings - everything he guides his students through when they’re dealing with the trauma induced meltdowns in the aftermath of the war. But he’d done that. He’d done it most every day for the past six months, and it’d solved nothing.
A glint of something reflective passed over his eye, and he intended to glare at it as he brushed his disobedient strands aside again.
It was a pair of metallic scissors sat in the drying rack of their sink.
An obvious solution, really. His hair was getting in the way, so he’d cut it. After throwing off his capture weapon, he’d marched towards the sink to grab the scissors. Rather than completely throw decorum out of the window, he at least has the sense to carry himself to the bathroom before haphazardly pulling the strands back out of his face into a neat wad. Tightly packed to make the action of slicing through it easier. There must have only been around thirty seconds from ideation to execution, but finally, that final snip at last freed the tension pulling on his scalp.
“I just… wanted to get rid of it,” he finally murmurs. “It was pissing me off.”
A pause, another snip, and then.
“... the hair?”
It catches a noise of confusion in Shota’s throat. Of course he means the hair.
“Maybe…” Hizashi continues, tone meandering in a contemplative arch. “Maybe there’s something else? That you wanted to let go of?”
The lilt at the end feels guiding, like the blond is trying to lead Shota to something. But it doesn’t work. Because what else other than his hair could he possibly let go of? Another limb? His remaining eye? He leaves the question unanswered.
Hizashi sighs, but his hands continue their ministrations.
“You’ve barely taken a day off in the past six months, Sho.”
“Hah,” it pulls an involuntary guffaw from Shota. “And you have?”
The huffs sags Hizashi’s body again. “Yeah yeah, we’ve been busy, sure. Of course we have.”
Another exhale, and Shota waits for the ‘but’.
“But…”
Yep.
“It feels like… I don’t know. Like you’re just continuously pouring from an empty cup. You’re tired, Sho. You can’t keep going when you’ve got nothing left.”
It’s Shota’s turn to sigh. “I have to.”
Hizashi’s hand threading over his scalp feels like it’s intended to be more of a comfort rather than a practical pass through.
“I have to because…”
Shota grimaces, unsure where the words are coming from, but if they’re going to spill out to anyone - it might as well be his husband.
“Because if I don’t then what’s the point? I can’t do anything else - I’d just be- … useless.”
He doesn’t know why he says it, or how it’s relevant to the initial discussion of his hair - but the admission works its way out anyway.
That pauses the clipping of metal in Hizashi’s hand completely, and Shota feels reckless for allowing something so… emotional to spill from him. Emotions are fickle and burning and irrational. For the first time since his decision to cut his hair, he feels foolish. Reckless.
“What about you is useless?” There’s an underlying layer of frustration in Hizashi’s words, but Shota can tell he’s trying to train it to something more neutral.
“You know Ashido still flinches when she hears a deep voice?”
It feels like an irrelevant answer to the other’s question, and yet it’s the first thing his brain pulls from the slurry of his swirling thoughts.
Ashido, who - just a year ago - would stand a fair chance in a battle of blabbering against Present Mic himself. Who has always moved with grace that’s perfectly interlaced with a fierce determination. Who’s reflexes are on par with some of the finest students Shota has ever had the misfortune to teach.
Who now recoils, wide eyed and alarmed, if Shota raises his voice with a particular gravel.
“Shota.” Hizashi’s tone is teetering dangerously close to admonishing, and Shota doesn’t think he can take another scolding for his supposedly ‘misplaced’ accountability.
Because it isn’t misplaced. It’s on him.
“It was my plan. I placed the students where I did because it had the highest chance of a positive outcome.” His breath comes out steady, but his chest aches all the same.
“But I couldn’t stop them from getting hurt. From getting…” gritting his teeth, he wills the image of a bloodsoaked and lifeless Bakugou to fade from behind his eyelids.
It’s too much. Finally, in one dejected move, his head hangs forward out of Hizashi’s grasp.
It drags the tips of his hair to cover his face, and Shota supposes this length will do if it still serves the purpose of being a comforting curtain to hide behind. Not that he deserved to hide behind anything. Especially when the least he could do is stand unobscured while he attones for his failure as a mentor. As an adult. As their teacher.
He was useless to stop Bakugou from dying - quite literally - in front of his eyes. Useless to help Shirakumo in the end as he dissipated into one final inky wisp for the sake of his charge. Useless when Eri took it upon herself to sever her horn in the hopes of helping. Useless in every sense.
At best, he served as a conduit for Monoma’s role. Even his success of breaking through to Shirakumo doesn’t make the shadow of his failings any less daunting, despite how it served them in the final hour.
He was useless, and his hair was pissing him off. So it just made sense. Why keep something that serves no purpose? In fact; his hair was less than useless - it was downright impractical. Maybe more so when it indicated his quirk usage, but he doesn’t even have that now, does he? Not functionally, anyway.
So why waste time lamenting on a quirkless man, who succeeded in traumatising a whole class, cutting the hair that he didn’t even care about?
His hair.
That grew ratty after just a day or two.
That needed styling in order to get out of his face.
That blew in his eyes and mouth on blustering days, and made Nemuri cackle at the inconvenience until the very same happened to her.
That Shirakumo would tug to rudely demand Shota’s attention when it was elsewhere.
That served as a training ground for Hizashi’s earlier hairdressing ventures.
That draped over his eyes and boldly told everyone in the vicinity that he was unmistakably unconscious, and not to be disturbed.
That Eri sometimes played with when settled in his lap, and in need of something to occupy her hands.
That shimmered and shone after his husband’s guiding hands treated it with products far more expensive than Shota deserved.
That tucked into his capture weapon and held the heat so nicely in the colder months.
That Hizashi braided and weaved flowers into on the morning of their wedding day - salmon and burgundy that matched their suits perfectly - because Shota couldn’t stand the idea of letting anyone else touch it.
That’s gone. Laying in a bin, most likely. Certainly not in any condition to be reattached to his head, which doesn’t matter anyway. Because he doesn’t. Care. About his hair.
Amid the litany of a growing list, Hizashi’s voice cuts through.
“You don’t have to punish yourself. You liked your hair long.”
And despite the catalogue of extended grievances Shota had with his previous length, he finds himself making an agreeable noise.
“Mm.”
Because he does care about his hair. Or- he did.
Maybe not in the sense of styling it, or using it to compliment his appearance. But it was warm, and soft when conditioned, and felt so nice with Hizashi running his hands through it. To cut it, or wash it, or style it, whatever the task, it meant that he had his husband’s undivided attention.
Again, Hizashi’s words ring out in a low breath.
“Please don’t punish yourself,” he repeats.
And again, Shota simply hums.
The clink of scissors on the porcelain sink draws his eye, and when he turns to Hizashi he can see a twitch in the other’s mouth - drawn to a thin line. It melts into a sigh, but when the blond looks down his eyes are as warm as ever.
“Well, at least you have a barber at your disposal. Go on, tell me what you think.”
A swell of anxiety crawls up his spine, and he’s suddenly hit with the thought that he doesn’t want to look. He saw the fallout of his hack job, sure, but this is the definitive form he’ll have to settle on. Well, maybe not definitive; Hizashi will always change it if asked. But he’d rather swallow the disagreeable thought of taking even more off and just get this over with.
Finally, he stands with a sudden movement. His face comes into view and…
So does his hair.
The front is still around the same as it was before, only the sides that previously framed his cheeks now sit at the same length. Turning his head, he can see it slowly feeds into the slightly longer back. It’s the most dramatic difference, and even the action of angling his neck feels lighter.
Definitely more orderly that the wisps that stuck out after his own attempt. Hizashi, as always, has done an excellent job. Well, Shota thinks he has, and maybe Shota isn’t the best person to assess hairstyles. But either way; he’s happy.
In all his peacocking, the faded form of his husband sitting in the reflection of the mirror went unnoticed. But now that their eyes meet, he sees nothing but tender concern.
It blooms a painful root of adoration in his chest.
“I did a pretty good job, huh?”
He did, so Shota turns around to place his hands on Hizashi’s waist and take a step closer. It’s definitely delusion fuelling the sensation of intensified heat gathered in the air surrounding his husband. Warm, like it’s making up for the lost insulation of his hair. Or maybe it’s the toasty press of the blond’s palms that hook around Shota’s neck.
Perhaps it’s not delusion at all though, with a glow seeming to pulse outward from the bright shine of his pinched eyes - cheeks somehow rounded despite his smile only pulling the slightest. It’s small, a grin saved for private moments that beams brighter than any that his persona flashes.
Just for Shota.
“You did,” he eventually answers the sought compliment, “Thanks.”
And at long last, after a gruelling day of patrols, and cleanup, and buses, and lessons, he finally gets to kiss Hizashi.
When he pulls back, it feels like the drowsiness pours into his shoulders. In the arms of his husband, the tension building from half a year of rebuilding society - and mentoring the generation charged with uplifting it - melts away.
“And… I’ll take some time. For myself.”
It seems like a decent compensation for fifteen years worth of haircuts.
Somehow, Hizashi’s eyes squint even further as his smile pushes wider.
“And for us,” the blond adds.
Shota’s smile mirrors his husband’s earlier one, small and delicate.
“And for us.”