Musashi had forgotten how much easier everything is with Hiruma.
Life was harder, before. He thought it was just the burden of adulthood, the weight of responsibility and regrets to be shouldered in place of all the things he was giving up, school and football and dreams, dozens of half-formed hopes that he let slip through his fingers deliberately to shatter apart before they were even complete. It was easier to believe that, it was the only thing that kept him in that hospital room while he watched Hiruma and Kurita go through the motions, when he could see the space left open for him, when every play was like an ode begging him to return. He accepted his responsibilities, and he turned his back on the gap still waiting for him, and if every game he watched ended with his palms and fingernails bloody from the tension in his fists, that was bearable, at least. Even that was easier than the constant construction work at the club, the casual closeness of Hiruma when Musashi couldn't let himself touch, couldn't let himself talk about anything but the most innocuous of subjects for fear of losing his grasp on all his control. It was agony, to see the almost-hidden shadow in Hiruma's eyes up-close while lacking the ability to fix it, to know that one word, one breath could bring the light back to the other's motions. Musashi wondered sometimes if avoidance would have been better, if cutting himself off completely wouldn't have been better for the both of them. But every time the excuse of more unneeded construction came in it tasted like a plea, and Musashi's self-denial didn't extend far enough to refuse Hiruma this one thing.
He had thought it would be that way forever, thought his life was stretching out in front of him with this constant burden over his shoulders, only dared to hope that pure resignation would make it easier once Hiruma and Kurita graduated, once the possibility was as dead as his hopes. When the weight evaporated as if it was never there it had taken him a long moment to believe, wasted minutes reaching desperately for the regular burden before he could let himself watch shattered pieces reform themselves into a last frantic hope.
It was easier than it should have been. There was no surprise, not from the person who mattered most, not so much as a word of shock and nothing but a single wide-eyed breath of relief across Hiruma's face. The space left for him even fits who he is now, rather than who he used to be, and Hiruma never says anything about those eighteen months. As far as Musashi can tell, for Hiruma those months barely merit a mention, at least not aloud. After the first day Hiruma doesn't acknowledge it openly, doesn't so much as let his eyes linger on Musashi to indicate any sense of something regained. But when they're alone Musashi can feel it, can pick it out of the tension in Hiruma's wrist and the barely-too-long touch of fingers against his skin whenever the blond has an excuse for contact.
That's easy too, though. What would be awkward with someone else, what should be awkward by any logical standard, is just a comfort, a lingering almost-promise more clear than words and less prone to misunderstanding. The invitation is there, perpetually open as it has been all this time, and when Musashi knocks on Hiruma's door the blond doesn't even look surprised to see him when he pulls it open.
"Hey." He blows a pink bubble, catches it on his tongue as it snaps apart. "What do you want?"
It's not a rejection. Hiruma's moving away from the door, leaving it open in implicit invitation, and Musashi accepts, still feeling the prickle of disbelieving adrenaline that he can, that he can let his guard down enough to take up the other's offer.
"I'm going to cut my hair," Musashi announces as he toes his shoes off, pushes the door shut behind him. Hiruma turns back in the hallway, slouches against the wall, but he doesn't say anything, doesn't look particularly shocked by the declaration, so Musashi follows him down the hallway, idly pushing his hands into his pockets as he approaches.
"What are you going to do?" Hiruma asks. He's not blinking; in the dim of the hallway his eyes look endless, his lashes catching the dark so they're lining his eyes in black. Musashi stops a little too close, just inside the periphery of Hiruma's personal space, but the blond doesn't move away; he just slouches a little further, lets his hip slide out into a little more of a curve. Musashi is looking down at that when Hiruma lets another bubble pop against his lips.
"Shave the sides," he says without looking up. Hiruma hums in acknowledgment of his words. "Probably cut the middle a little shorter."
"You want a mohawk?" Hiruma asks, and then he's moving, unfolding from the wall and stepping even closer, reaching out to push his slender fingers through the other boy's hair and shove it back from his face. Musashi blinks but doesn't move away; Hiruma's fingers are scraping against his scalp, trailing pleasant tingling sensation in their wake, and they're close enough that Hiruma could kiss him as easily as he could blow another bubble. "Trying to recapture your lost youth, old man?"
Musashi smiles, the expression startled out of him, and Hiruma's eyes drop from his, slide over the curve of his mouth so slowly Musashi can feel expectant heat rising under his lips in response. He has to swallow before he can shape his mouth around the words, "Something like that."
He doesn't put into words the break the haircut will make with his deliberately put-on maturity, the symbol of the action as much as the end result. He doesn't need to. Hiruma's eyelashes flutter to say he understands, and then the blond is moving forward, pushing past Musashi so for just a breath they're pressed together, Hiruma's shoulder digging into Musashi's chest and Musashi's arm catching on Hiruma's waist. Then he's past, moving down the hallway, and Musashi is taking a breath and following without being told.
Hiruma doesn't ask for clarification, doesn't ask why Musashi is there. He just knows, or assumes, or guesses correctly, so when the other boy comes through the doorway Hiruma is digging through the space under the sink, shoving aside mundane things like toothpaste and shampoo and more alarming shapes that strongly resemble grenades until he reemerges with an electric razor in hand.
"Knees," he orders as he reaches to plug the device in, flicks it on briefly to ensure it works. Musashi obeys without asking why, and when Hiruma steps in behind him and drags his free hand through Musashi's hair to pull it back the advantage of height makes his reasoning clear.
There's no hesitation at all. Musashi didn't expect any, not from Hiruma, but he still tenses at the sound of the razor close to his ear as the blond turns it on. The fingers against his hair draw into a steadying fist, Hiruma's voice comes loud over the razor: "Don't move," and then there's a smooth drag of metal cool against Musashi's scalp. There's a shift of weight, a sudden lightness as a handful of hair falls free to the floor, and Musashi blinks at their joint reflection. He can see the pale skin of his scalp in the stripe where Hiruma has run the razor, can see another path forming in the wake of the blond's movements, but he can see Hiruma's focus too, the warmth in his eyes left unguarded as he devotes his attention to what he's doing.
Musashi has to shut his eyes, then. He can't stand to see Hiruma looking like that, looking at him like that with the other boy's long fingers pulling gentle pressure against his scalp; there's too much reaction under his skin, heat and tears and relief and pain all mixed up until he can't tell what he's feeling anymore, only that it is too much, that he's not ready, yet, to hold all that inside himself at once yet. It's hard enough just to stand the adrenaline-laced sensation of Hiruma's fingers working through his hair, the heat of Hiruma's body close against his shoulders as the blond slides the razor close against Musashi's scalp. There's a comfort to the contact, the usual pleasure overlaid with the satisfaction of focused attention, the careful slide of fingers against newly-short hair to confirm the length. After a minute Hiruma's fingers push Musashi's head to the other side, he loops the cord of the razor behind the other boy's shoulders, and Musashi lets the buzz drown out his thoughts so there's nothing to consider but the rippling wash of sensation from his hair falling free, from the pull at what remains and the slide of fingertips against unfamiliar skin revealed by the razor's glide.
Musashi doesn't open his eyes again until Hiruma pulls his hand away, until the tug at the stripe of hair left becomes more deliberate. When he refocuses on his reflection Hiruma is pulling up locks of his hair, cutting it shorter in haphazard chunks before letting them fall back over Musashi's head. By the time he's worked his way down to the nape of the other boy's neck Musashi can see the shape of what Hiruma's doing, the curve of his hair shifting from longer in the front to shorter in the back so it will form a deliberately choppy arc when spiked up. He doesn't comment, waits until Hiruma has worked through it twice, ruffled his fingers through what remains and gone through once more; then he turns the razor off, punctuates with the pop of a bubble. Musashi didn't even realize he had stopped his habitual action during the haircut.
Musashi reaches up, drags his hand over the short-cropped stubble against his scalp, the longer strands in the middle. "Thanks." When he looks up from his own reflection Hiruma is watching him in the mirror, his mouth covered by another half-formed bubble that hasn't popped yet. There's a breath of hesitation; then the pink snaps, Hiruma licks the gum off his mouth, and he's grinning in silent response while Musashi's eyes catch on the reflection of the moisture on his lips.
"You're a fucking mess," the blond observes, kicking at Musashi's leg with more gentleness than he usually shows, which means it's a painful impact but not enough to bruise. He's turning away as Musashi gets to his feet, starting to move towards the door as the other boy brushes a few loose strands off his shoulders. "You should take a shower."
"Hiruma." Musashi is reaching before he can think, grabbing at the other's shoulder. Hiruma freezes at the touch of Musashi's fingers, his shoulder drawing tight with anticipation under the thin fabric of his t-shirt. When Musashi pulls he doesn't resist, even though the force isn't much, and as he turns around he's not blowing another bubble, Musashi can see the unusual softness in the line of his lips as easily as he can see the shadows in his eyes.
"Thanks," he says again, careful and slowly, and he can see Hiruma's eyes narrow in a flinch of understanding before he leans in to press his lips against the blond's. Hiruma tastes like sugar, tastes like gunsmoke and bubblegum and all the nostalgic bittersweet of those eighteen unacknowledged months. There's a huff of air, almost surprise if Musashi believed Hiruma is surprised by this development at all; then fingers close against his shirt, push him away by an inch so he can hear Hiruma catch a sharp inhale.
"You need a shower," Hiruma says, but then he's coming back in, there's the sharp catch of teeth at Musashi's lip and the sticky taste of gum again, and Musashi is trying to lean in to meet him as the blond draws back again.
"So do you," he grates. It's true, Hiruma's shirt is showing as much evidence of Musashi's haircut as the other boy's, but more importantly there's the faintest hint of pink staining the blond's cheeks, a suggestion of distinction in the darkness in his eyes, and when Musashi leans back in for more Hiruma's opening his mouth in expectation, pushing in to meet him so their tongues are catching together, quick and desperate and faster as they both regain past-tense habits.
"Are you just going to ignore me?" Hiruma asks when Musashi lets his mouth go in favor of moving to his jawline, tasting the salt-bitter of smoke caught there. His fingers are winding into newly short hair, dragging almost-hurt into Musashi's scalp, but the other boy doesn't speak, just hums and drags his teeth against skin to drag a laugh from the blond's throat.
It takes them a while to get to the shower, and longer still to leave it, but neither of them are tracking time anymore.