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Snip, snip, snip.
The sound of metal sliding against metal is strangely comforting, even though Tooru’d originally been very wary of letting his husband within arm’s length of his hair with a pair of sharp scissors.
He’d enlisted Hajime’s help after dinner. After the remnants of boxed curry and convenience store sake had been washed down the sink and he’d sat at their island, tossing an orange from hand to hand, mindlessly complaining about how long his fringe had grown. How it was always flopping into his eyes, costing him precious seconds during practice, and how he just didn’t have time to stop by the salon and get it fixed.
“I could cut it for you,” Hajime had said from his side of the kitchen. He was crouched over a box of nectarines his mother had mailed them earlier that week, carefully examining each piece for blemishes.
“Really?” Tooru had asked, voice thick with apprehension. Hajime had voiced his dislike for Tooru’s meticulous hair routines on many occasions throughout the years.
“Why not? I do mine all the time — how hard could it be to do yours?”
Those were fighting words if Tooru had ever heard any, but it wasn’t like he was in any position to be a chooser. The last time he’d try to cut his own hair had been back in high school and his astigmatism had graciously supplied him asymmetrical micro bangs that he’d spent weeks pinning back, much to the delight of Makki and Mattsun.
And so here they were — crowded into their tiny bathroom with no room left for air, let alone two athletic men; Tooru settled on the counter, Hajime in between his legs.
Snip, snip, snip.
Tooru wants to laugh at how concentrated Hajime looks. The way his tongue is caught between his teeth, brows furrowed in utmost focus.
They’d propped a tablet up on the toilet’s tank, a YouTube video muted and slowed to half speed to demonstrate (in unnecessary detail) the steps needed to cut a perfect side fringe.
“Sit still before I shave it all off,” Hajime threatens, swearing under his breath when he trims slightly above where he wants to. He steps back and swipes at his forehead with his wrist before rewinding the video and Tooru chooses to overlook his blunder under the guise of willful ignorance.
He ends up relaxing, heels pressed into the curve of Hajime’s calves as he drags his eyes over the other’s face with a hum.
Snip, snip, snip.
Time has done its due diligence for Hajime. Gone is the childhood roundness, the pre-pubescent acne, the hands too big for the rest of his body. In its place remain perfect proportions, a chiseled jaw, and butter smooth skin that Hajime somehow manages to maintain despite his horrid 3-in-1 wash and singular bar of Daiso face soap.
There are a few short whiskers peppering his upper lip, the consequence of going a couple days without shaving, and Tooru has half a mind to bring it up before remembering how nice they feel on the insides of his thighs. How much his future self will hate his quips.
He stays quiet out of self-preservation.
The apples of Hajime’s cheeks are slightly flushed from their proximity and his hair is starting to fall, the morning pomade he’d used to slick it up fighting for its life. It was a styling technique he’d learned back in college, from an overly helpful female friend who had introduced him to product, and he has yet to deviate from it.
Snip, snip, snip.
Tooru had thrown a performative fit when the other had shown up on video chat with perfectly coiffed hair. Whined and complained about how he’d been telling Iwa-chan to do the same thing for years, but of course it had taken a cute girl to convince him to make the change. And Hajime had smiled indulgently at him. Let him go on and on and on before slyly slipping in the fact that said friend had a girlfriend and was more a menace than a possible prospect.
Tooru still hates how quickly he’d backtracked after that; how predictable he’s always been.
Snip, snip, snip.
His eyes drag over the length of Hajime’s face. Along his jaw, over his sharp nose, that wide forehead he’s always teased the other about, the same one his grandmother had told Hajime would one day bring him good fortune, before finally settling on his eyes.
Those eyes. Oh, those eyes.
They’ve always been Tooru’s favorite thing about Hajime.
Deep forest green that remind him of somewhere far, far away, another life. A fantasy land tucked into a mossy forest filled with mischief and magic, just like those stories his sister would read them when they were children, tucked side by side into Tooru’s tiny bed. A place where everything was warm and good and so, so safe.
When he was little, he’d often compared them to gemstones. Proudly informed Hajime that they resembled the thick green emerald on his mother’s wedding choker. His mother-in-law’s favorite earrings. And then later, his sister’s engagement ring. Big and bright and so, so enticing to a younger Tooru who’d always had a penchant for beautiful things.
But now, right now?
They remind him of the ocean. Deep and vast. Full of mysteries that he continues to uncover, even after thirty-one years of unwavering, unbroken trust.
He bites his lip as he surreptitiously drops his chin. Ducks just enough so he can make out the other’s eyes peeking under those long lashes.
Hajime’s always had a talent for honing in on whatever task he has at hand. Volleyball, school, helping his mother in the kitchen, walking their cousins to practice. Every task was given laser sharp focus, his utmost undivided attention, especially when it came to Tooru.
Perhaps that’s what had made them such a formidable pair in high school.
Those eyes know him better than he knows himself. Have seen Tooru through all his ups and downs. His highs and lows. Gently crinkled at the edges in joy, despair. Worry and lust. Sweet and gentle. Harsh and strong. Filled with envy and possessiveness. Passion and desire. For his husband; for his Tooru.
Tooru would be content to drown in them for all of eternity.
“What?” Hajime asks quietly as he sets the scissors down to comb out the remaining hair. Sprays it with a little water and holds it up to level.
Snip, snip, snip.
“You’re so handsome,” Tooru says, the words tumbling from his mouth before he can help them.
Hajime pauses as though he misheard. Takes a few comical seconds to collect himself before he looks up, brows raised, forehead stitched.
God, his eyes are so fucking beautiful. And so is he.
“And you’re saying this right now because?”
“Can’t I compliment my husband without a reason?” Tooru complains, hands coming up to rest on Hajime’s biceps. He wants to laugh at how the other immediately leans into the touch. Sets down the shears without a second thought and grips the edges of the counter tight as he huddles Tooru back against the mirror.
Tooru raises his own heels in response. Widens his legs to make room for the other and tugs him in closer to his own body.
Down go the scissors, a loud clatter sharp against the linoleum floor as Hajime oofs. Loses his balance for just a second, before his hands are readjusting against the speckled quartz on either side of Tooru’s hips.
Tooru’s hands are on his shoulders, dragging up the sides of his neck, around the back of his nape, and then down his chest. Up and down and all over. Touch fiery hot burning devotion.
“You’re handsome. So, so handsome,” he whispers, leaning in close enough to feel Hajime’s breath on his lips. He can smell the remnants of the sake, cheap and strong and nostalgic enough to remind him of the time they’d raided Hajime’s grandfather’s liquor fridge when they were fourteen. Swiped the lot and a pack of cigarettes before heading to the park behind their high school to smoke and drink and experience a lot more firsts.
Hajime’s turned a beautiful shade of red, the blush spreading from his cheeks down the length of his throat and Tooru so, so wants to curve his mouth over it.
So he does.
Presses his lips to the other’s Adam’s apple, fingers still curled over his broad shoulders as he drags them sloppily up along the edge of his jaw.
“T-Tooru,” Hajime huffs, white-knuckling the edge of the counter as he tries to keep his balance. “We’re not done. Your hair — your bangs.”
Tooru can feel the steady thrum of his pulse hastening under his mouth and it takes everything in him to pull away. Crane his neck to examine his reflection in the mirror, one hand steady against Hajime’s firm chest as he runs the other through his still damp hair. Ruffles the edges before studying the fall.
Hajime’s done a decent job. He doesn’t resemble an unkempt poodle anymore, which is better than where they had started, and he’ll be able to schedule an appointment by the time it grows back.
For now, he has other ways he’d like to spend his Friday night. And he’s positive it won’t take much convincing on the other’s behalf.
So he turns back. Gives Hajime that indecent once over he knows will relay his every last thought before allowing the other to lift him from his perch, step into their room, and pull him deep deep under the ocean blue with reveries and love and an unvoiced promise for so much more.