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Shōta tried to remain still, fighting the primal urge to flinch whenever the scnik scnik of the scissors was too close or too loud for his liking.
He knew he wasn't actually in any danger, and had watched Hizashi cut hair many times, but the difference between watching and participating was unfathomable. He trusted Hizashi with his life, with his heart, but he couldn't help the sheer pooling dread at the scissor blades so close to his face. His paranoia(?) wasn't helped as Zashi practically skipped around to trim his right side a little more, the blond humming quietly as he disappeared from view into Shōta’s blind side.
Oh, if the villains could see him now; the fearsome Eraserhead, reduced to a nervous wreck because he needed a haircut.
Or worse, if someone from the old Hell Class saw him like this.
Shōta closed his eyes and took a calming breath, trying not to pour all his focus on the cold metal shearing away his locks, but failing miserably.
None of this would've happened if he hadn't decided to catch a claw with his head while on patrol. Not only did he get a solid concussion from spinning into a wall, but he lost a decent amount of length on one side of his head. Once the idiot assailant was cuffed and handed to the police, the EMT cut another section away, saying the matting of blood and hair was concerning, to get a better look at his wound.
When he'd finally been cleaned and cleared and had stumbled through the apartment door, definitely not swaying, Hizashi had dropped a mug at the sight of his new do. And in his fuzzy-brained state, Shōta had agreed to let his husband attempt to tidy him up.
Hizashi knew intimately how Shōta felt about things being in his face or touching his hair; knew about the lingering scars on his psyche from years of hero work and the fear from all the way back to being pinned by the nomu at the USJ. His husband had been the one to hold him after he'd woken up wrapped in bandages, his eyes covered and his doped up mind telling him he'd lost his sight. And when he had actually lost his eye, he was there when the nightmares of pale hands gouging out his quirk and his ability to help woke them both.
So Hizashi knew to be careful. To take it slow and try to make sure Shōta knew where he was at all times. He hummed as he went, working just a little of his quirk in in the hope it would help keep Shōta grounded.
It was when the flat of the shears touched his ear that he finally gave in to the urge and flinched away — hard enough for Hizashi to whip his hands back and out of Shōta's space like he was afraid he'd be burnt. Or smacked, if Shōta's involuntary flailing while he stood up was anything to go by. With a shiver, Shōta paced the length of the kitchen, wringing his wrists as he tried to calm himself down. As he moved across the room, Hizashi slid over to the bench and put the hairdressing tools away in their little black case, hoping to ease Shōta's nerves by having them out of sight.
“Shō. Shō, baby, I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to frighten you. Just breathe, Kitten. Deep breaths. You can do it.”
The quiet words his husband spoke fell on deaf ears, blood pounding too loud for him to make out more than a murmur of sound. He knew Hizashi wanted to reach for him, wanted to pull him in tight and kiss the threatening tears away, but his blond held back for both of their safety. Devastatingly, Hizashi had learnt not to push the hard way.
Somewhere in the back of his mind he knew his panic was dumb. That it was illogical. But trauma was illogical. It didn't care about whether it was inconvenient or stupid. Trauma just wanted to consume, until the only option was to lash out at the shadows pressing in.
So Shōta paced and kept his hands close to his chest, unwilling to risk hurting his love. And Hizashi stood and spoke, patiently waiting for the crack in the panic that would let him swoop in and provide comfort.
With the crack came the breaking of the dam, and Shōta found himself sinking to the floor as Hizashi wrapped him in a tight hug. Tears escaped from his good eye and were quickly soaked by the garish t-shirt his husband wore as he pressed his face into the comforting warmth. Shōta let himself sob quietly into the fabric, half an ear listening to — but not absorbing — the soothing words being spoken to him.
They stayed there, wrapped their little bubble of them, until Shōta's shuddering breaths slowed. The fog in his mind began to slowly dissipate with the receding panic, and Shōta became aware of the tickles of his husband's breath on his newly bared neck. It felt kind of nice. Focussing in on the new sensation and finally hearing what was being rambled at him, Shōta let himself be grounded by Hizashi’s presence.
“...—Toshi told me he’s never seen so many All Might posters in his life, and I had to remind him that he knew what he was signing up for when he decided to move in with Midoriya. You’d think he would be used to the fanboying by now, after six years of dating, but I guess he never really thought about it in terms of them living together. Like, he knew they would both bring things to furnish the apartment with, but Hitoshi’s always been such a minimalist and Midoriya is… well Midoriya. It does sound like he managed to convince him not to put posters up in the bedroom though, so at least he wont have Yagi’s face watching him sleep or—”
“Zashi.” Shōta’s voice was quiet. Tiny. Barely audible to his own ears.
But Hizashi immediately stopped speaking, leaning back to look Shōta over. He kept his hands down, just circling a light grip above Shōta’s elbows, even though Shōta could see in his eyes he wanted to hold him tighter and possibly never let him go.
“You back with me, Shō?”
“I uhm-” Shōta clears his throat, swallowing down the glug of his emotions. “I think so.”
“That's good.”
They sit in silence for a few minutes, just basking in the warmth of each other while Shōta pulls himself a little more together. Under the mortification of his little meltdown, Shōta feels the bone deep exhaustion that comes after a good cry.
Maybe he needed this. Honestly he probably did, still sticking to his guns about bottling up his emotions until they had no choice but to burst; but he could've done without it being triggered by something as mundane as a haircut.
“Any chance we can get off the floor, Shō? My knees don't appreciate the lino like they used to.”
Shōta looked down at their tangle of limbs, face flushing like a teen at how they were wrapped around one another. He thanked whatever gods were listening that Eri hadn't been home to witness any of this mess; hadn't seen her Dad breaking down and then ending up crying between his husband's legs.
“Yeah, Love. Let's get up.”
It was a slow process getting their feet, both feeling their age in the worst way as their joints creaked and groaned in protest. Even Shōta's prosthetic made unhappy noises as they peeled themselves off of the floor. Leaning on each other, much like they had for the last twenty-five years, they made it back up onto numb feet.
Still feeling a little delicate, Shōta scrubbed a sleeve against the stinging tear tracks from his face, knowing his uniform needed to be washed anyway. He noticed the damp patch on Hizashi's shoulder where he had been crying, and felt the need to apologise.
“I'm sorry Zashi.” A tiny bubble of frustration boiled up inside him at how pathetic he sounded, his voice so quiet and small in the quiet.
“Hm?”
“I said I'm sorry. For freaking out and crying on you. It-it's just hair; I shouldn't have reacted like that.”
Hizashi's hands slid up to Shōta's shoulders, not quite gripping him. His thumbs smoothed back and forth across fabric in a mindless gesture of comfort — the smallest, least space-invading way he could pour his love into the man he loved most.
“No no no, mister. You don't get to apologise for feeling things.” Hizashi's voice shifted to a more serious tone, and Shōta knew he was in for a speech.
“As much as you want everyone to believe otherwise, you're still a human, Shō. You still have feelings and emotions and trauma. Especially after the lives we've had. And like every other human out there, you hate being vulnerable. And that's fine.
But you need to remember that you aren't a machine. You still need to let yourself feel things, babe. Otherwise you'll end up like tonight and boil over. And yes, I know I should’ve left it and just tucked you into bed, that was my mistake, my vanity making you agree to a trim when I know how you feel about things, but I do feel like tonight would've happened sooner or later. And that's okay, Shō.
Sometimes you've gotta let it out. And I'm here for you.”
Hizashi's hands slide down his arms until they're holding hands and Shōta can feel the metal of the ring on his husband's finger.
“I'll always be here for you.”
Shōta closed his eyes, trying to will away more tears he didn’t have the energy for. Tonight had been too many emotions for him already. Hizashi seemed to notice his exhaustion.
“C'mon babe. I can clean this up in the morning. But right now I think we need to go to bed.”
The blond began to pull at him, tugging him away from the kitchen and it's forlorn piles of hair. Shōta let himself be pulled along, a small exasperated smile on his face as his husband lead them to the bedroom. He sat on the bed when Hizashi gently pushed him, and lifted his arms and legs when he was prompted to help Zashi get him out of his uniform.
His husband disappeared into the ensuite, and Shōta heard the clattering of cupboards and the water running, before returning with a warm flannel that he handed over. As Shōta carefully washed his face, gentle along the side that had been hit, Hizashi swapped to his pyjamas. When the flannel was returned to the bathroom Shōta got changed and removed his leg, briefly massaging at the stump before laying down, shimmying under the covers while he waited for Hizashi to spoon up behind him.
Again, he felt his husband's breath on his bare neck, and squashed the need to shiver at the sensation.
After a while of quiet, only the sounds of them breathing filling the silence, Shōta murmured into the darkness, “So how does it look?”
Hizashi made a confused noise.
“The hair. How does it look?”
“Oh. I think it's great.” Hizashi's reply was interrupted by a yawn, his voice thick and sleepy. “Reminds me of back at school, when we first met. Cute.”
“Cute?”
“Yup. Cute.” Shōta could hear the smile in his voice.
He shuffled closer to his husband, deciding he'd wait till his morning bedhead had settled in and he could ask again. That would be a conversation for tomorrow. For now, he only needed to let himself fall asleep in his husband's arms.