Work Text:
Yoshiki regrets it. Above all else, he regrets it.
He didn't think it through, didn't think any of this through, Hikaru being as spontaneous and as convincing as he is, and that's exactly what landed Yoshiki in this terrible predicament now.
In hindsight, he should have refused. Should have denied, put up a greater fight because it's not like Hikaru could force him into doing this, but it's too late for that now.
It's simply too late.
Hikaru's sitting criss-crossed in front of him, a pair of blunt kitchen scissors grasped in hand. He's smiling—Hikaru is often smiling. Yoshiki has witnessed that same smile countless times before, could imagine it perfectly even with his eyes closed down to the very detail of Hikaru's snagged tooth, but the frequency of it does little to prepare him for just how bright and warm Hikaru's smile really is.
It's so warm Yoshiki swears it burns brighter and hotter than a furnace; it's so warm Yoshiki swears it could melt steel and metal and even titanium down into a goopy, movable puddle. One smile and all his finer inhibitions get reduced to nothing, just like that.
And so Yoshiki agreed. He consented. How could he not, when Hikaru's smile burns with the heat of a thousand suns?
• • •
It's hot. The windows are closed, the curtains drawn open. Sunlight glares down from where they're perched on Yoshiki's bed—bright and warm on Yoshiki's face, bright and warm on Hikaru's too. It illuminates Hikaru's eyes, makes them appear paler than before, stark and mesmerizing in the way they've always been but even more pronounced, now.
Sometimes looking into them is like staring directly into the sun. No, that's not quite right. Yoshiki thinks staring at the sun would hurt less.
Those eyes of Hikaru's shine like strobe lights. They shutter open; they shutter closed. Every time Hikaru opens them, it feels as if Yoshiki's being scrutinized under the brilliance of a million lights. His very being gets irradiated by Hikaru's stare. All the ugliest parts of Yoshiki get illuminated fully, brought to light, and there's nowhere for him to hide.
If Hikaru looks too close, will he see? Will he see the feelings he's shoved deep down, someplace no one should ever see?
It’s a dilemma. To be seen, to want to be seen. Hikaru’s seeing him, looking straight at him, and yet Yoshiki thinks it might have been better if he had refused. It’s excruciating, in ways. This closeness: the way Hikaru’s eyes never leave him, the way his fingers sometimes brush against his forehead, the sides of his face. It's excruciating.
Hikaru leans in. Shifts and tilts his head so he can view Yoshiki under the inky curtain of his bangs, and when Hikaru lifts his hair away from his forehead, Yoshiki has to squeeze his eyes shut. Don't look, don't see. Can Hikaru hear his thundering heartbeat? Can he feel the pulse of his heart? Hikaru's fingers are no longer on his face. Still, Yoshiki feels the lingering heat of them.
"Yoshiki? Ya nervous? I'm not gonna nick ya, promise."
Yoshiki glances up and sees the sun. Hikaru's all smiles, shiny teeth and eyes that crinkle like the waning moon. He's snipping the scissors rapidly as if to illustrate his undeniable mastery of them. Yeah yeah, very impressive. The smile that lands on Yoshiki's face comes naturally. “Hard to trust ya when your fingers are shaking so much.”
“What? They’re not!”
The tension instantly melts away. Hikaru causes it; Hikaru dissolves it.
A long, exaggerated sigh leaves Hikaru as he leans back on his arms. The mattress creaks with the shift in body weight. He stares at an indistinct spot on the bed as he says: "Okay, I'm nervous. Just a little, though."
Yoshiki tilts his head. "Why?"
"Don't wanna mess this up."
"It's just hair, y'know. It'll grow back."
Hikaru stares somewhere far off into the distance. Yoshiki wonders where he's looking, what he's thinking. "Still," Hikaru says. "If it turns out bad, you'll forgive me, won'tcha?"
"Nope. I'll hate ya forever."
"Hey!"
Yoshiki neglects to tell him that he couldn't, in fact, hate Hikaru ever. But it's not like he has to verbalize it. He's sure Hikaru already knows.
"Ya know what? That's fine, ain't no problem. I'm good at this anyway," Hikaru says, proudly. There's that playful look to his eyes that Yoshiki's all too fond of, the cheerful edge to his voice that resounds crisp and clear. Hikaru seems to bounce around with plentiful light and energy. Full, full—always full. Yoshiki wonders how so much light could be contained within a single person.
"Since when have you ever cut anyone's hair?"
"...I'm just a natural at this?"
Yoshiki stares at Hikaru. It's easier, this time, to look at him. He can almost pretend like he isn't in love. Can almost pretend that all of his feelings for his best friend are appropriate and normal, that they're the kind of feelings that friends normally have towards their friends.
Almost.
"Relax Yoshiki, just trust me!" Hikaru's hand lands on Yoshiki's knee. It's supposed to be a reassuring gesture, probably, except it fails to do exactly that.
Has it always been this hot?
"Close yer eyes an' count to... one hundred? I'll be done by then. It'll be easy!"
Yoshiki can feel the warmth of the sun on his knees. It pales in comparison to the burn of Hikaru's fingers. "Why do I have to close my eyes? Are ya gonna chop all my hair off?"
"No? I'd never do that."
He gives Hikaru an unconvinced look. Underneath the mask, beneath the pallid indifference of his skin, his heart flutters in his chest.
"Yoshikiii..." Hikaru drags the last syllable of his name out in a whiny drawl. "We've been friends for this long and ya still don't trust me? I'd never do ya dirty!"
Hikaru's lips quiver dramatically as if he could burst into tears at any given moment. Feigning heartbreak. He's hic hic sobbing as a stream of nonexistent tears wet his very-dry cheeks, face scrunched up in an ugly contortion of flesh. A whole performance, conducted specially for him.
It's goofy. It's stupid. It's undoubtedly Hikaru, and it's undoubtedly endearing.
Hikaru immediately bursts into a smile. Yoshiki imagines sunflowers blooming in the peak of July.
"‘kay," he says, acquiescing. "You don't hafta close yer eyes if you don't wanna." Hikaru finally removes his hand from Yoshiki's leg. His fingers slide off in a gentle caress and sparks jolt through Yoshiki's spine. "Ya ready?"
Yoshiki isn't, but he convinces himself that he is. After all, it's just a haircut. He can do this, survive this, make it through this—why couldn't he?
He can, he can, he can.
He can't.
It’s unbearable. All Yoshiki can think about is that it’s unbearable.
It's the intimacy of it, the closeness, the nervousness coiling in the pit of his stomach at how close Hikaru sits, the sensation of Hikaru's bare knees brushing against his every time one of them so much as breathes. Hikaru’s expression is tight and his eyebrows are knitted like he’s concentrating, focused intently—focused solely on Yoshiki and nothing else. That gaze of his is pinpoint. Intense. Yoshiki looks everywhere else; simmers under the overwhelming burn of Hikaru's stare.
Strands of his hair are held loosely between Hikaru's fingers, handled with care. There's a plastic bag situated in his lap to catch fallen hairs and it rustles as Hikaru adjusts himself.
One hundred seconds. He just has to survive one hundred seconds.
99,
Snip.
98,
Snip.
97,
Snip.
It's just a haircut. All it is is a stupid haircut. Hikaru's cutting his hair for him because he's a good friend and Yoshiki should be grateful. Should be normal. His fingers are bone-cold from anxiety and he wipes his clammy hands against the sides of his shorts.
95,
Snip.
93,
Snip.
Incidentally, Yoshiki meets Hikaru's eyes. He immediately regrets it. Hikaru smiles at him with the kind of warmth that thaws hoarfrost, like the return of the sun after a long winter's night as it kisses the frozen earth. A promise of better things to come.
Yoshiki closes his eyes. Better to not see at all. Better to not be seen at all. He should've just agreed earlier.
91,
Snip.
90,
Snip.
Hikaru tucks a strand of hair behind Yoshiki's ear and Yoshiki nearly shivers. His ears and cheeks burn; he imagines they must be as red as ripened tomatoes. Squeeze the fruit a little and all its guts will come spilling out, revealing secrets best left unknown. The fear of it twists at Yoshiki's stomach.
He doesn't want Hikaru to know. Hikaru doesn't need to know.
When he opens his eyes, he comes face-to-face with Hikaru again. There's a softness to Hikaru's eyes that wasn't quite there before, warm and residual like the lazy afterglow of the sunset.
Yoshiki finds himself staring. He can't help it. There's something odd about Hikaru's gaze, something magnetic about it. Hikaru has always been bright in a way that hurts. This time, that light of his is warm. Comforting. It seems to shine on him like a beacon, as if he's the only one to exist under Hikaru's spotlight.
Hikaru snips the scissors and hisses in pain.
"Hikaru!"
There's blood pooling on the tip of Hikaru's finger, dripping onto his knees, dripping onto Yoshiki's.
“Ah sorry, I got blood on yer—”
“Who cares 'bout that?!"
Yoshiki shoots up from the bed, yelling at Hikaru to stay put as he runs out of the room. The plastic bag falls to the floor; hairs get strewn about carelessly. He returns with a first-aid kit in hand, scrambling back onto the bed as he throws the kit open and hurriedly pulls the needed supplies out.
Gauze gets wrapped around Hikaru's finger first. He winces as Yoshiki presses it against the site of his injury, and Yoshiki mirrors his pained expression. It feels as if he was the one who got injured instead. It's stupid, this whole thing. He agreed to a haircut because he's stupid and now Hikaru's hurt because of him. Stupid, stupid, stupid!
Blood soaks through the gauze and Yoshiki must be doing a terrible job of concealing his panic because Hikaru jumps to reassure him. Saying it's just a small cut, or telling him not to worry, or saying he's all right, just fine.
He's the one who got hurt and here he is trying to console Yoshiki. But that's Hikaru for you; that's just how Hikaru is: terrible and wonderful and lovable in all of the worst ways.
Yoshiki takes a deep breath. "Does it hurt?"
“A little? Wanna kiss it better?” The smile that spreads on Hikaru's face is infectious. Cheshire grin, cheshire eyes. Mirth and mirth and mirth.
So he's fine, then. “No.”
“What?! But Yoshiki, it hurts, it hurts! Yoshiki, ‘m gonna die!” He makes a pitiful face. Scrunches up his nose and groans as if he's in agonizing pain. Worry dips into the lines of Yoshiki's face again and Hikaru immediately lightens up, those bright, bright eyes of his rivaling sunshine.
If Yoshiki were braver, if he were bolder, maybe he would have. Brought his trembling fingers towards Hikaru's own, wrapping his hands around them and bringing them to his lips to seal with a kiss, soft enough to be mistaken for a murmured whisper.
“Yoshiki? Yoshiki, ya there?”
He’s staring at Hikaru. He’s staring at ‘Hikaru.’ Hikaru's face, Hikaru's voice, Hikaru's mannerisms. He’s staring at them; taking them in, watching Hikaru's face move as ‘Hikaru’ speaks.
“Hikaru,” Yoshiki says.
“You okay? You look like you’ve just seen a ghost! Yer usually pale, though.” ‘Hikaru's’ fingers brush against Yoshiki’s bangs. Still, still, Yoshiki’s heart skips a beat.
‘Hikaru’ continues, “So? Are ya gonna let me cut your hair?”
Yoshiki's made a mistake once before. He's made a mistake twice. He doesn't want to repeat it a third time. “...Yeah. Sure.”
Clumsily, as if holding a pair of scissors for the first time in his life, Yoshiki watches as ‘Hikaru’ masters them in real time.