Archive of Our Own ^beta

"You're letting it grow out, aren't you."

It is not a question, but Osamu treats it like one.

"Don't be dramatic," he says. "I missed one recoloring. That's it."

Atsumu lingers in the bathroom doorway as Osamu washes his face and hands, but doesn't complain about how long Osamu is taking, which is how Osamu knows something's wrong.

Finally, as he dries his hands, he glares at Atsumu in the mirror and says, "So what if I am?"

Atsumu scowls and says, "Good. The color's awful on you." He turns and leaves, like he never needed to use the bathroom in the first place.

Osamu watches him go, then looks at himself in the mirror again. He runs a hand through his hair, noting how the color is fading, how his roots are more evident. On the day he was scheduled to see his colorist, he told himself that he was feeling sick, and couldn't go. It wasn't a total lie.

He didn't notice until Atsumu pointed it out that, yes, he isn't planning on dying it again.

It bothers him that Atsumu knew before he did.

--

They don't talk about it again until three weeks later, after Osamu has missed his second recoloring. Atsumu's hair is newly bleached, and as he lays in bed, he plays with it, as if he can feel the color in his fingers.

Osamu hasn't made a noise in at least an hour, but Atsumu knows he isn't asleep. He figures Osamu knows he isn't asleep, either.

It's late; their mom is probably asleep. As such, when Atsumu breaks the silence, he does so in a whisper. "Do you think I should stop?"

Osamu doesn't ask for clarification, nor does he answer.

After a long enough pause, Atsumu leans down, holding onto the railing for balance as he hangs his head over the bed to see into the bottom bunk.

Osamu is curled up, his blanket kicked to the side. He's facing the wall, so all Atsumu can see of his head is his faded gray hair. He's not asleep, but not willing to have a conversation, either.

With a frown, Atsumu pulls himself back into his bed, and tosses and turns for ages before finally drifting into a sleep as uneasy as his brother's.

--

The second time Atsumu asks the question is during the pride parade. The two of them are watching a young girl with bright blue hair push her way through the crowd. They're separated by the rest of their group (Kita, Aran, and Suna), but Osamu knows that Atsumu's eyes, like his own, are drawn to the blue hair.

Atsumu has to duck between their friends to make his way to Osamu's side. Osamu looks to Suna, trying to avoid what he knows is coming, but Suna is wrapped up in deciding which pin to take.

There is no way he can pretend to not hear Atsumu say to him, in a soft voice meant for only his ears, "Should I stop?"

He sighs, and looks at Atsumu, who stares at him, unusually willing to listen to his response. He doesn't know how to explain to Atsumu that whether he stops dying his hair should be none of Osamu's concern, because Osamu's decision to stop dying his own has nothing to do with Atsumu. (Or at least, it doesn't have to do with Atsumu in the way Atsumu thinks it does.)

His only response is: "Have you shown Aran the flag stand yet?"

--

Atsumu asks again, for what he tells himself is the final time, while Osamu is making dinner.

It's an underhanded trick; he knows Osamu can't dodge the conversation because he needs to stay in the kitchen to tend to his food.

Osamu's trying out a new recipe (Atsumu hasn't asked what it is; he likes to be surprised by whatever Osamu puts in front of him), and between tasks, as he thinks, he keeps tugging on the hair right above his neck. A nervous tick that Atsumu is very familiar with, but it's different now, when the dull gray is hard to distinguish from the natural black hair.

"Samu, should I stop dying my hair?"

Osamu doesn't look at him, pretending to be wrapped up in his work.

Atsumu rests his chin in his hands, and doesn't repeat the question. Osamu heard him.

A few minutes later, Osamu gives him a straight-forward answer for the first time. "Nah," he says. "It's a bother."

Somehow, Atsumu knew he would say that. It wouldn't have been hard for Osamu to tell him to stop; it's only difficult to tell him to continue alone.

--

The worst part of cleaning up their bedroom, in preparation for moving out, is taking down the glow in the dark stars on the ceiling. Osamu would like to pretend that it's for some silly reason, like how they have to jump up and down like fools to reach the stars, but he can't ignore the almost physical pain he feels with every star they take down. It feels like yesterday that the two of them put these up, giggling and bickering the whole time.

Atsumu's hair is still bright blond, and Osamu's hair is still half gray.

As he throws another little star into the box, Osamu asks, "Why did we think we'd need so many?"

"Don't ask me," Atsumu says. "You're the one who was afraid of the dark." A blatant lie. "At least it's thematic. Sun, moon, stars."

Osamu turns to stare at him, but he doesn't elaborate- he's too busy pretending to be too busy focusing on the stars.

"Not very thematic anymore," Osamu points out. Atsumu still doesn't look at him. He rolls his eyes and turns away. "It's a rotten metaphor anyway. The moon only shines when it's lit up by the sun."

This time, Atsumu does look at him, but he takes down another star, and doesn't return his gaze.

--

By the end of summer, Osamu's hair is almost completely black, save for the tips. Every time he looks in the mirror, he frowns, and tugs at the hair, bothered by the gray still peeking out. Almost gone, now. Atsumu has suggested, several times, that he just dye his hair his natural black color, then he won't even notice as it's growing out. Osamu hasn't bothered to entertain the idea.

On the walk back to their house from Suna's going away party (which they both got through with minimal crying), Osamu keeps pulling on his hair, trying to bring it down in front of his eyes so he can see (presumably) whether the tips are still gray. (They always are.)

"Stop that," Atsumu snaps, blaming the harshness in his tone on the fresh pain in his chest, knowing that he won't see Suna again for months.

With a huff, Osamu flicks the hair away from his face. The tension doesn't leave his shoulders, though.

"I'm probably going to regret this," Osamu says. "No one will recognize me when my hair's black again."

Atsumu grits his teeth, and it takes him a few seconds to force out the words, "Like hell you're going to regret it."

Ever since Osamu made the comment about the sun and the moon, Atsumu understands why he's letting it grow out, why he has to let it grow out. As much as Atsumu hates it, hates the reason and the result, God help him if he lets Osamu back out of it now.

Osamu sighs and runs his hand through his hair as if to pull on it again, then thinks better of it and lets it go.

--

Osamu has been preparing himself for this for months, years, his whole life even, and it's not long enough. He isn't sure any amount of time would be enough.

He takes Atsumu with him to the hairdresser, because he's been taking Atsumu with him everywhere for the past few weeks. There's an unspoken agreement between them that they're going to stay as close to each other as possible, for as long as they can.

He's more tense than he thought he would be as the hairdresser brings the razor to his neck, starting the hair there and around his ears. He swallows hard, and tries to take a deep breath. She's quiet, and he appreciates that. He's not sure he'd be able to handle it if she tries to maintain a conversation with him right now.

As the hairdresser takes out scissors, he glances at Atsumu, sitting right beside him. Atsumu is on his phone, and doesn't look up.

The first snip makes him flinch. He wants this, of course he does, but he didn't know it'd be so hard to let go. For the past few months, he's barely recognized himself in the mirror, with so little gray in his hair. Will he recognize himself at all when the gray is gone?

Bit by bit, the gray in his hair starts to vanish. When the hairdresser is on the opposite side of him as Atsumu, he gives into the urge to reach for his brother's hand. Atsumu still doesn't look up, but squeezes his hand in silent reassurance.

Then it's done. The hairdresser presents him with a mirror, and he stares at his reflection for long enough that she asks if she messed up.

After he pays, he turns to find Atsumu staring at him with his head tilted. Osamu missed the moment Atsumu saw it for the first time, and he isn't sure whether he's relieved or disappointed by that.

He takes Atsumu's hand again and they walk out together, abnormally quiet.

At the bus stop, while they wait, Osamu finally gathers the courage to ask, "How does it look?"

Atsumu is still watching him with a somewhat confused look, and Osamu is struck by an even more horrifying thought than the idea that he won't recognize himself- what if Atsumu doesn't recognize him?

"Well," Atsumu says, and pauses. He squints, assessing Osamu, this new Osamu, the Osamu who will be going off to culinary school without Atsumu, without any plans to continue what he's been doing for the past ten or so years of his life. "It looks like you," Atsumu says.

Osamu knew it did, he knew it as soon as he saw it in the mirror; but it still makes his knees weak with relief to hear it from Atsumu.