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He didn’t mean to do it. Its never intentional. Or—well—its intentional and he’s aware he’s doing it while he’s doing it but he’s not fully paying attention to the way his fingers glide across his eyebrows. Grab. Pull. Rub the roots of the small, stiff hairs against his lower lip. Rinse. Wash. Repeat.
Denki leans back on his pillow, shifting his phone in his hand.
Glide. Grab. Pull.
“Fuck,”
About a dozen short hairs sit between his left forefinger and thumb, little white bulbs at the base of each hair staring up at him accusingly.
He sighs again. It would be a waste to not just—
Whatever. Denki sinks further into his bed as the small pricks run along his lip.
His therapist told him that it might be a soothing mechanism. The trich itself, yeah, but mainly the way he drags the little hairs on his skin. He doesn’t consciously see it as calming he just—does it. He didn’t learn it from anyone. Heck, he barely remembers starting the picking at the start of high school, where his eyebrows and eyelashes just became thinner and thinner until he was scrambling for drug store makeup to cover it up.
Trichotillomania. Ha.
There’s not a lot of research on it. He’s skimmed through some of it. It’s considered by some to be related to pyromania or kleptomania—an impulsive urge, a mania. But, it doesn’t make much sense to him to compare a disorder that can’t help but set fires to one that rips hair from their own flesh.
It makes more sense that there are different causes, different reasons for why it happens. For some, it’s more linked to a compulsion, more linked to OCD. He doesn’t have OCD so he wouldn’t know much about that. Maybe he sort of gets the intrusive thoughts and urges to pull and pull and pull.
For Kaminari Denki, it’s the ADHD. Or, he thinks it is anyway. It’s impulsive. He doesn’t have to do it. He doesn’t feel that the world would crumble around him if he didn’t pull. In fact, the world falls apart more when he does. He half notices it. And even when he does it doesn’t stop him from repeating the action again. And. Again.
Yet, it’s still called trichotillomania.
But.
Well.
He guesses it doesn’t matter where it comes from. It doesn’t change the nearly smooth texture he now feels as he rubs his finger over his eyebrow.
Fuck. Fuck.
Denki climbs out of bed, socked feet dragging against the carpeted floor over to the mirror on his door.
It’s bad.
It’s really bad.
He hasn’t been this bad in a while. His eyeliner is smudged from laying down and the majority of eyebrow makeup he had applied has been rubbed away by his grabby fucking hands. And behind the wiped away makeup is—well—not much really. Just a few sparse hairs holding on for dear life, mourning their fallen friends.
Denki mourns them too.
Why can’t he just—why can’t—
He places his head in his hands.
Breathe in.
Breath out.
He had to leave in half an hour for 3-A movie night. He doesn’t have time to lose it.
Denki moves to grab his makeup bag from tucked away in his nightstand. A small black bag he carries with him everywhere. Class. Training camps. He just brought it back home with him today because he needed to pick up more of his anti-anxiety medication—
Oh no.
Oh god no.
His hand moves frantically through his drawer. His backpack. His closet.
It’s not here.
The bag. The only barrier between himself and everyone in class 3-A learning about his trich. The only thing stopping them from learning how weird and disgusting and—
He can’t panic. He doesn’t have time to panic.
It’s alright. Everything is going to be okay, he tells himself. Pushing back the wave of panic that threatens to embrace him.
He knows he doesn’t have any makeup for his eyebrows in his extra makeup bag and he can’t go all the way home to get his bag. He couldn’t ask either of his parents to drop it off for him. They’re too far away and he would just be an inconvenience to them.
Mina might have makeup for him to use. Sure, she has darker eyebrows, but he would be okay going a bit darker for a night. Or even better if she has lighter eyeshadow for him to use, he could always figure something out.
Denki: Yo! Do u have any brow/eye makeup I can borrow? Like brown, black or blonde?
He sat on the edge of his bed, foot tapping against the floor. Mina was normally a really fast texter so—
His phone buzzed.
Pinkie: Oof I do not wear makeup like AT ALL dude
Pinkie: but lemme check one sec
He sat. Waiting. He would take anything at this point.
Pinkie: yeh sorry
Pinkie: all I got is mascara and that green eyeshadow
Pinkie: WHY do I have green eyeshadow? No clue wtf
Pinkie: I can ask one of the girls if they have any if u want?
Shit.
Denki: That’s ok! Just wonderin
Denki: Thanks tho!!
He puts his phone down on his bed, ignoring the buzz with Mina’s reply.
Everything is okay. He would be okay. He just had to ask someone else. The problem is that not many people know about his trich what if they think he’s weird or look at him with that look? The one where they act like they’re accepting and that they don’t care, but their eyebrows shift slightly downward, lips pursed, in confusion—in judgement.
But Shinsou knew. Hitoshi. He’d never seen Denki without makeup and never nearly as bad as his lack of hair looks now, but he knew. He knew because Denki trusts him. Because he and Denki have had countless nights where Shinsou can’t fall asleep because of insomnia and Denki can’t fall asleep because his brain won’t stop churning. So many late nights on the common area couch, chamomile tea and hoodies and quiet talking until Denki’s head inevitably lilts to the side with exhaustion and sleep.
Shinsou knew and wouldn’t judge him. He might have makeup? He started using concealer for his eyebags starting last year. Denki doesn’t completely get why, Denki thinks the dark under eyes is endearing. Loves the way the corners of his eyes crinkle with the hint of a laugh whenever Denki makes a dumb joke. Loves that way his eyebrow arches when he—
Oh, right.
Eyebrows.
Breath in.
Breathe out.
Shinsou.
He stands, unsteady.
Step. Step. Grab the door handle. Open it. Check either side to make sure no one else is there. Walk two doors down. Turn to face Shinsou’s dorm room. Raise fist.
Knock, Knock, Knock.
Wait. One second. Two seconds. Three seconds. Four—Denki hears faint footsteps from the other side of the door.
The door opens, Shinsou stands on the other side, purple hair standing up as always. He doesn’t have concealer on this time.
“Hey, Kami,” He holds the door open and steps back, hinting at Denki to enter, “Everything good?”
Denki rubs his palm with his thumb and steps into the room. He looks up at Shinsou once before looking back down at the floor.
“Um, my, uh, trich got really bad for some reason and do you, do you, uh,” Denki gulps.
And then—it’s nothing and everything all at once.
He can’t think, can’t perceive anything but the panic—the fear. He barely registers his hands shaking or the way his knees seemingly give out from underneath him.
Knees hit the ground. Breathing in deeply, wheezing in his breathes. It’s as if Denki can’t take in enough air. He distantly grasped that he was, in fact, hyperventilating.
Denki’s trapped in his own kneeling body, hands balled tight in the fabric of his sweatpants.
There’s a soft touch to his knee.
He’s still breathing heavy, gasping for air. He still feels the sense of overwhelming panic, but the touch is a tether, a distraction.
Shinsou starts to rub his thumb back and forth. Gradually shifting his fingers up to graze against Denki’s grasping fingers.
Denki takes Shinsou’s hand in his own. It’s grounding, the physical contact. Neither lets go. Not as Denki’s gasping shifts to sobs. Not as he shakes and globby tears fall down his face.
A hand puts pressure on his shoulder, tugging him forward. He hears a soft “C’mere,” before Denki collapses once again, this time into strong arms and the scent of lavender.
He breaks again, hiccups and sobs escaping from Denki’s lips.
Denki hears soft hushing coming from above him as Shinsou begins to rock him back and forth against his chest. A hand winds in his hair, stroking through blonde locks and scratching against the nape of his neck. It’s soothing.
His cries die down to pathetic whimpers.
Shaky breath in.
Shaky breath out.
An ear against Shinsou’s heart, focusing on the steady rhythm.
Shinsou still holds him close, squeezes him tighter, strokes his finger’s down Denki’s back and back up to his shoulders.
He feels pressure against the crown of his head.
They sit there, Denki’s mind now blank from exhaustion. He can feel tears still drying underneath his eyes, snot collecting underneath his nose. Denki presses further against Shinsou’s chest and releases a heavy sigh.
“Hey,” Shinsou whispers, “Denks, let’s get you off the floor and get you some water okay?”
Denki just nods, tightening his grip against Shinsou’s shirt rather than releasing it. Shinsou doesn’t seem to mind. He readjusts Denki in his arms so that he can pick him up and place him gently on Shinsou’s bed. Denki hears rustling before he feels Shinsou’s comforter wrap around him.
Shinsou goes to pull away. Denki only holds on tighter.
“Hey, it’s ok,” His deep voice assures, “I’ll be right back. I’m just going to grab you some water.”
He releases Shinsou and draws the covers closer around his body.
Time passes, but Denki doesn’t notice it does. Doesn’t register anything but exhausted and worn out before a cup is placed in his hands.
Denki drinks as Shinsou comes back to wrap his arm around him in the blanket. Forces down the entire glass while staring blankly at the floor.
“Movie night—” Denki chokes out, voice cracking in the process.
Shinsou gently grabs the now empty cup from his hands and sets in on the floor besides the bed.
“You’re under no obligation to go if you don’t feel up to it. They’ll get over it.”
“But—” Denki sniffed, “I already promised and we’re—we’re all supposed to go and—”
Shinsou angles Denki’s face towards his, silencing him, “If you really want to go, we can go. But if you want to go for any other reason besides for yourself right now, I think you should skip for tonight.”
He says it with such care, such sincerity. Denki finally looks into purple eyes, soft with concern.
There was never really any choice.
“Okay.”
Denki feels lips press against his forehead and he melts. No more obligations. No one else to see his puffy eyes and bare eyebrows. Nothing but this moment and Shinsou’s arms wrapping around him again and the smell of lavender detergent on Shinsou’s hoodie.
His body is pulled as Shinsou drags them both up, up until Denki’s head is cradled atop Shinsou’s chest, blanket over both of them, hands resuming their path up and down his back and around his shoulder and down his arm.
Denki lets out another tired sigh as Shinsou brushes his hair out of his face. He looks up.
Shinsou smiles softly.
“Hey beautiful, are you feeling better?”
He quickly buries his head back in Shinsou’s chest, trying to ignore the fact that his entire face is growing red for a very different reason than crying.
Denki nods his head, still embarrassed.
The chest below jostles for a moment, reverberating with the sound of Shinsou’s chuckle. Denki can’t help but hold back a smile.
Shinsou’s fingers return to his hair and Denki feels himself being slowly lulled into rest. He reaches over his shoulder to wear Shinsou’s other hand rests, interlacing their fingers together over his chest.
“Night, Toshi,” Denki hears himself mumble, halfway to sleep.
Breath in.
Breath out.
“Goodnight, Denks.”