Title: A Hair's Width from Death
Summary: Kurama tries to go in for a haircut, but Karasu wants to chop off more than just hair. [Crack featuring hairdresser!Karasu and beleagueredandhorrified!Kurama]
A/N: Original concept by my pal dreamingsilver. This fic arises from our shared love of Kurama's hair. Check her out, she's awesome! Also, "botany camp" joke from maggiedreadful on tumblr.
Kurama stood in front of the glass doors of Imperio Salon; his reflection looked back at him, his hair stretching all the way down to the curve of his back, his bangs a crimson curtain for green eyes. He was 'quite a mess,' his mother had told him when he'd returned home from his months at "botany camp," otherwise known in Kurama's mind as The Dark Tournament. She'd handed him his auntie's card and told him to give her some business.
'It couldn't hurt,' Kurama thought as he pushed the doors open and stepped into the lobby. A glittering chandelier threw speckles of light across the floor, and a murmuring fountain trickled over smooth stones. Kurama handed the receptionist the card, but she said, "Saya called in sick today. Would you like to get a haircut with her substitute?"
"That's fine, thank you," said Kurama. He wasn't here for a fashion treatment. Anyone would do.
"Right this way." The receptionist led him to a small room; a plush chair sat in front of a multi-paneled mirror, and spotless shelves boasted every tool of the trade. The receptionist welcomed Kurama to sit while his hairdresser finished lunch. Kurama leaned back, leafing through a glossy magazine while thinking about how much faster this would have been if he'd just let Hiei go at it with his katana…
…when he felt long, cold fingers trailing through his hair.
Kurama jerked, but a prickle of demonic aura, dangerous and cold, on his nape forced him to heel. Any sudden movement and his head would roll. Kurama looked into the mirror and saw Karasu standing beside the chair, one hand on Kurama, the other wielding a shining pair of scissors.
"Welcome," said Karasu, "to Imperio Salon. Here, we aim to give you the most satisfying experience—" he snipped the air in front of Kurama's eyes "—you will ever have." He whipped a salon cape over Kurama's body and fastened it behind the neck. The garment glowed with a sorcerous light, and suddenly it felt as heavy as chainmail. Kurama writhed but found that, no matter how he struggled, he could not rise from the chair. He was trapped.
Karasu ran his fingers through the length of Kurama's hair. "What would you like me to do with this lovely mop?"
"What did you do with my aunt?" said Kurama. He wrestled down the urge to twitch as nails drifted across his scalp.
"That was your aunt?" said Karasu. "My condolences…"
Kurama had never been close with Aunt Saya, but his mother would surely cry. He glared furiously. "How are you alive?"
"I am much harder to kill than you think. It took me a few days to heal my punctured heart, but soon I was headed back to Tokyo, where I knew you and your split ends would be in need." He spun Kurama's chair around and tipped it back, allowing Kurama's head to rest on a soft sponge pillow at a sink's edge. The fox heard running water, and soon his hair was soaking in a warm rinse.
"Coconut? Lemon? Lavender?" asked Karasu, holding up a colorful set of shampoo bottles. Kurama merely continued to glare. "Lavender it is."
Karasu rubbed a soapy dollop between his hands, then leisurely massaged his way across Kurama's scalp. Kurama locked his face into a stony mask, but the embarrassment and horror was beaming out of his eyes. He would have shut them, but then it would have looked like he was enjoying the feel of Karasu's fingers kneading and stroking his scalp, turning his head into a wet, bubbly mass.
After the shampoo came conditioner, and once that had been lathered and rinsed away, Karasu toweled the hair and set it to the brush. "It's like a small garden in here," he said has he weeded plants out of the damp locks. He slashed a blossom into slivers as it tried to spit poison in his face. He tossed the remnants of Kurama's plants into the trash can, which he set on fire for good measure. Kurama's face twisted as if he had been force-fed something a lemon, peels and all.
Karasu toweled away the last of the water, leaving Kurama's hair a tad fluffy. He raised his scissors.
"What do you want?" said Kurama.
"That's a silly question. Isn't it obvious?" Karasu sawed that air with the blades. "I want to cut you—" he snipped some hair "—inch by inch—" snip snip "—little by little—" snip snap "—until you are nothing more."
Karasu's fingers were replaced with a comb. It wasn't any better; the comb seemed like an extension of Karasu himself, like he was trailing his teeth over Kurama, poised to take a bite. Karasu would comb the length of the tresses and then shear the split ends with a shiver of delight. With his mask and black longcoat, he could have been an escapee from a mental institution. Or perhaps he actually was, for he stroked Kurama's hair and said, "Can you hear them screaming? It's just wonderful."
Once all of Kurama's split ends had been sheared, Karasu wiped the scissors on the cape, cleaning away hair as if cleaning knives of blood. Then he resumed with the brush, sweeping the upper layers of hair into a twist and chipping it to the top of Kurama's head. Then he began to cut in earnest. Long tufts of hair fell to the floor, piling en masse. Karasu filled the silence with a low mumbling. At first, Kurama thought he was simply muttering to himself, but fine fox ears caught a snipped of the words:
I once did meet this fine young lad
His teeth were good but his shave was bad
I took him to my barber shop
Thrust my buzzer in his eyes and squeezed to make them pop!
Urgency surged through Kurama like a bolt of electricity. He looked into the mirror, scanning the room for anything he could use to escape this nightmare. He spotted combs, blow dryers, styling spray, clips, a potted plant… a plant! A tray of ivy, its leaves like strings of dark green stars, grew beneath a slightly ajar window. The window was located opposite of Kurama's chair, in Karasu's blindspot.
Kurama turned his attention back to his demon of a hairdresser. "So, how fast does your hair …grow?" Behind them, the ivy slithered an inch down the wall.
"It doesn't grow any longer than this," Karasu said with a shake of his head. His hair rippled like a river of black ink.
"You sure it won't …grow… any longer?"
Karasu paused. His gaze burned into Kurama, scouring him for signs of trickery. The fox could almost hear his own pulse pounding in the silence. He held fast to his mask of calm; one slip and he would die in a green, ghastly explosion, the little bits of him splattering all over the room. He tried not to stiffen as Karasu leaned close, so close that the fox could see the flecks of scarlet in his black eyes. The scissors drifted between them, the jaws opening, pointed tips aimed at Kurama's eyes…
Snip—a millimeter of red lashes fluttered onto the cape. "Now they'll grow even more luscious," Karasu explained. He resumed an appropriate distance and continued trimming.
Kurama let out a breath he hadn't known he'd been holding in. His pulse was still jumping like a rabbit's. "I want to know your secret. How do you get your hair to grow so nice and slithery? I mean silky."
Karasu could have purred. "Why, I kill people, of course."
Kurama almost forgot to respond. "…Oh! …I see."
Karasu's cheeks flushed with pride. "I soak it in the blood of my victims. First, I give them a trim. It's like a thank you gift before I—" Karasu pressed the open scissors into Kurama's throat "—let it flow. Demon blood is full of enriching minerals."
"Ah, blood baths. I thought you would've been a little more creative," Kurama said. "That idea is growing old." The ivy slithered across the floor.
"So what if it's old? It's old because it's proven." Karasu lifted Kurama's chin with the scissors, then slid the steel along his jawline. "Besides, think about how well groomed you'll be for your funeral."
After a tad more trimming, Kurama's hair returned to its original length and no longer resembled a scarlet wedding veil. Karasu brushed it down one more time, marveling at his masterpiece. His eyes glowed. He was practically shaking. "I believe we've reached the most exciting part," he said. He spun the chair, letting Kurama's head fall once more into the sink.
Kurama didn't bother to hide it anymore. "GROW!" he shouted.
The ivy sprang for the two demons, speeding towards the clasp of Kurama's cape. Karasu was stunned—but only for a moment. He snatched the ivy, yanking it away from the chair. The vines exploded into tiny fresh-smelling bits.
Karasu chuckled with relief. "Well, that was close—"
And Hiei smashed through the window, katana swinging. Shards of glass rained down on them, but Kurama paid no mind, yelling, "Growgrowgrow!" The vines sprung anew from the roots; they leapt into action, streaking towards him, winding around and unbuckling the clasp. Karasu—black and murderous—leapt towards Kurama, scissors flashing, steel jaws open and flying for his jugular. Kurama yanked himself out of the chair. The blades were against his throat, cold as death, but Kurama was twisting, falling, slipping away like the sneaky vulpine he was known as. The blades closed on the tip of his sidelock with a clean snip, nothing more.
Kurama hit the floor and rolled, the cape falling off his body and into the mess of shorn hair. Hiei almost ran to his side, but he could see that his friend was unhurt. They turned their attention on Karasu, their faces dark with killing intent.
Karasu was unintimidated. However, he could not hope to take on the two of them. Chin high, he said, "My work here is done."
With a flourish, he threw a flurry bombs at the wall. Kurama and Hiei shielded their eyes from the explosion, heat and debris raking their clothes and skin. When the light had faded, they saw a huge hole in the wall and Karasu flying away, his coat and arms fanning out like the wings of a great vulture.
Kurama heaved a great breath of relief, then began picking his way through the rubble. "Hiei, how did you know?"
"I smelled his foul aura coming from your part of town," said the smaller demon. Kurama surmised that Karasu's penchant for fire had been his undoing; the smoke must have gone out the open window when he first set fire to Kurama's plants.
"Seems like I got here in the nick of time," Hiei continued. He turned towards Kurama. "…Whoa."
Kurama stood in the light of the hole, hair shimmering in the sun. A breeze swept past, and his hair tossed and rippled like a thick, silky wave. It glowed with such color, such scarletness, that all the world's sunsets and roses and stop signs and fire trucks would be ashamed to consider themselves red. To hell with models and their floofy curls. To hell with rock stars and their frosted flat-tops, their gel-slicked spikes. This—this—was hair.
"What?" said Kurama.
"Nothing," said Hiei, shying away and putting his hands in front of him like a shield. "Just, whoa…"