The underground room was dark when Nezumi slipped in. The only light was the soft amber glow of the lantern lit for Shion's nighttime trips to the bathroom.

Nezumi stood by the door and shook the water off of his superfiber and jacket. The rain had begun to fall late in the afternoon and picked up as the evening crept on until the dirt paths of West Block were sludgy rivers of refuse and rocks. Luckily, Nezumi had a pair of sturdy rain-proof boots, and the superfiber doubled as a head cover, so he didn't have to suffer too much on the walk back, and he was saved from the indignity of arriving home looking like a drowned rat.

Guess it wouldn't have mattered anyway, though. Judging by the fetal lump on the bed, Shion was already fast asleep and therefore incapable of laughing at Nezumi's dishevelment.

The clock on the wall said it was twenty past ten. Nezumi wrinkled his nose. He hadn't thought the performance tonight would last that long.

It shouldn't have. They had had barely half the crowd they lured in on warmer, drier days. But the manager was a stickler; if he scheduled two hours of singing, reciting, and slapstick, then they were going to perform it all, whether there was one or one hundred persons in attendance.

Nezumi unzipped his jacket and prepared for bed as quietly as possible.

When he and Shion first started their cohabitation, Nezumi would come in late and move about without a second thought as to his roommate, and he had woken Shion almost every night. Shion never complained—probably because for the first few weeks he saw himself as an interloper, and therefore he had no right to tell Nezumi to change his habits. And truthfully, even if Shion had mentioned it, Nezumi wasn't sure he would have been all that accommodating.

At least not at first.

But Shion was apparently one of those people on whom poor sleep had an obvious effect. After a few mornings, Nezumi began to notice dark shadows beneath Shion's eyes, and he was even spacier than usual. It annoyed Nezumi. And then slowly he began to feel a little bit responsible, and then eventually very crappy.

So he tried to be quieter, and Shion slept better, and everything was better overall after that without a single conversation needed.

Now nights like these made Nezumi smile; he never felt more like his namesake than when he crept silently through the dim room as Shion slept.

Nezumi approached the bed. Shion slept on his side, nose and mouth half buried against the pillowcase, as though he would meld into it if he could. He looked exhausted, even asleep.

Shion always slept like the dead on the days he washed dogs for Inukashi. Nezumi knew it had nothing to do with how hard Inukashi worked him and everything to do with how stubborn and meticulous Shion was. Inukashi probably discouraged Shion from working as hard as he did, but Shion never listened.

Inukashi better move quickly on my job.

Nezumi had agonized over whether to bring Inukashi in on the problem of Safu and the Correctional Facility, but he realized he had no choice. He couldn't do the recon on his own, so a calculated risk had to be taken.

No risks had to be taken, he griped. I could have just burned the note and forgotten about it.

That's what Nezumi should have done. The person everyone thought he was—that he swore he was—would have done just that.

But the note burned a hole in his pocket and he couldn't make himself sit still.

Inukashi better do as he asked and keep their mouth shut. Nezumi's entire plan was resting on their shoulders and they didn't even know it. But he trusted that no one would do a faster, more thorough job than Inukashi. They were the best in their field—not that he'd ever give Inukashi the pleasure of hearing him admit it.

He did give them the pleasure of hearing him beg, however.

Nezumi's insides twisted at the memory. He never imagined he would beg for anything. He never imagined he would care enough about anything to find himself in such a weak and compromising position.

And yet the truth lay slumbering in his bed.

I'm going to die.

The feeling was consumptive and unshakeable now.

Nezumi shook his head. He had to stop thinking about his reasons, or else he might do something stupid. For now: sleep.

Shion had bundled himself tightly in the blankets, legs scrunched up beneath him. He was also situated smack in the middle of the bed. Unless Nezumi intended to sleep blanketless and balanced on the edge of the mattress, something needed to be done about the situation.

"Shion."

His voice sounded too loud for the still room. The mice raised their heads, but soon settled again in their pile on the armchair cushion. Shion, however, didn't stir.

Nezumi tried again, adding a light, two-fingered jab at Shion's shoulder for extra measure.

"Mm." Shion lifted his head off the pillow and squinted up at Nezumi. "Oh. Hey. Welcome back."

"You're hogging the bed. And the blankets."

Shion uttered a grunt that might have been apologetic surprise, or complete disinterest, but he relinquished half the blanket and squirmed back towards the wall. Nezumi climbed in beside him. The bed was warm from Shion's body heat, and despite every inclination against it, Nezumi found himself relaxing into its comfort.

Shion had apparently dropped off again, and so Nezumi allowed himself the small transgression of staring at his face in the dim light as he tried to figure out just how screwed he was.

As always, Nezumi was struck by the unabashed softness of Shion. He hid nothing of himself, not in wakefulness, and certainly not in sleep. West Block was no heaven and Nezumi no saint, and yet, Shion laid by his side night after night, peaceful and trusting as a lamb nestled in the midst of wolves.

The white hair didn't help the image much. Though white was usually reserved for the elderly and the dead, it made Shion look younger. Too young for the suffering he'd experienced, and yet he'd never complained. He never bewailed his poor fortune, or shook his fist at fate.

Shion welcomed the unknown with arms wide open and a laugh on his lips.

But how? How could he?

Life in No. 6 must have been without even the slightest hardship. No disease, no starvation, no cold, no undead. He had never experienced anything life-threatening. So when forced to contend with the arbitrary violence of West Block, Shion should have been reduced to a quivering mess. At the very least, he should have developed the paranoid, combative neuroticism that all other citizens of West Block had learned before they knew how to walk.

But no.

Shion still continued to be Shion as the months slipped by. Just as happy, just as straightforward, just as hungry for answers as he was when he was twelve and trying his hand at suturing a criminal's gunshot wound.

A natural in every sense of the word.

Shion was a survivor. That he was still sleeping at Nezumi's side, white-haired and scarred and unshakeable, testified this fact ten times over. Shion was living proof that kindness was not always weakness.

Despite his misfortunes, and despite the numerous attempts the world, and even Nezumi himself, had made at hardening his heart, Shion resisted cynicism. He would not change, because he believed the pain of discovery was more valuable than the security of complacency.

And while it frustrated Nezumi to watch Shion suffer through harsh truths again and again, he couldn't help but be staggered by his untarnished brilliance.

So, Nezumi thought, his throat tight as he stared at Shion's slightly parted lips, I'm thoroughly screwed. Fantastic.

Nezumi turned his face into the pillow and huffed. It smelled like soap—dog washing soap. Which was normally not a pleasant smell, but it was obviously Shion's, and so Nezumi wasn't sure how it made him feel anymore. There was a lot of that to go around lately: feeling and not knowing.

Shion chose that moment to reveal he wasn't sleeping after all.

"How was work?" he asked, not bothering to open his eyes. "You sang? Or recited?"

"Sang." Nezumi pursed his lips and stared at the few inches of mattress separating him from Shion. "Tonight sucked, though, because it's raining and people don't come out when the weather is crappy. The crowd was maybe twelve people. Not at all at the level I deserve. I should be paid double to work slow shifts; my time and talent are worth more than a dozen people's attention."

Shion hummed in acknowledgement.

This was another area in which Shion differed from everyone Nezumi knew: No one just accepted his boasts like that. No one agreed with him so readily and without an ounce of sarcasm. Inukashi and Rikiga sassed and insulted him constantly, and even his manager at the playhouse had been known to roll his eyes and accuse Nezumi of being a drama queen—before immediately reverting to flattery, for fear of losing his headliner.

The only other people who swallowed down Nezumi's arrogance so readily were his fans, and those were sycophants, drooling and lapping up his good looks and honeyed words like indiscriminate dogs.

But Shion didn't fall into either category. He didn't snarl at Nezumi for being a narcissist, or fall at his feet and worship him like a god. He challenged him where he disagreed, and agreed without ceremony when he believed Nezumi was in the right.

Shion believed Nezumi was a great performer who was worth more than West Block could afford, and that was that. To him it wasn't a brag, but the truth, plain and simple and nothing worth gushing over.

"I'm sorry to hear that," Shion said, shifting to hook one arm under the pillow.

Nezumi shrugged a shoulder and stared at Shion's bangs.

His hair was getting long. They would need to give it a trim soon, or risk Shion transforming into a sheepdog. The pale strands hung low enough to mingle with his eyelashes, like frost on frost.

Nezumi wanted to brush the hair away from Shion's face. But he didn't. He wouldn't.

He refused to touch Shion except to prove a point. Otherwise, it was too dangerous. If he touched Shion's hair, then he might want to touch the scar peeking over his collarbone, and then where would it end?

With Nezumi's end, most likely.

Shion didn't seem entirely comfortable with the marks he'd earned from his battle with the infection, but Nezumi thought they were beautiful. More beautiful than any of the scars Nezumi had received in his fight for survival.

The white hair and scar winding its way down Shion's body were proof of his strength. Time and again circumstances had tried to destroy him, but Shion had survived. He should wear the badges of his courage with pride, but Shion didn't yet seem to understand how much of a gift it was to be alive and well in such a wretched place as this world.

But he was learning. Slowly. Perhaps he would come to appreciate his scars in time.

"I'll be your audience, if you'd like?" Shion said a moment later. "I can't pay you for your trouble, but I promise to appreciate you properly. Until tonight's deficit is made up."

Shion's mouth held the sleepy hint of a smile and Nezumi's lips twitched in amusement. He was glad Shion's eyes were still closed and his voice teetering on the edge of sleep, or else he might have been in some danger.

"Well… I suppose," Nezumi decided. "Since you promise to heap praises upon me, as is my due."

He rolled over onto his back and stared up at the dull concrete ceiling as he waited for a song to come to him.

Are you going away, going away?

Leaving me alone, are you going away?

This wasn't the song he performed tonight, but it's the song that came to his lips when Nezumi opened his mouth.

Unless his manager told him that a certain set was needed, or the crowd demanded a particular piece, Nezumi usually let the songs take him as they wanted, spontaneous in accordance to his moods.

He wished he had thought a little more before letting this one push past his lips.

Nezumi's heart sped and ached as he continued, and not for the first time in as many days, he was forced to rely on his acting ability to keep his expression and tone level.

How could I live with you gone away?

Leaving me alone, are you going away?

Should I keep you, but if you grow displeased,

I fear you would not come back.

Sadly, I would let you go, so please

Come back as soon as you leave.

Shion didn't respond after the song had finished. Nezumi prayed that the music had lulled him back to sleep. He didn't want Shion probing into that performance.

Nezumi swallowed and, carefully, turned his head. Shion's eyes were still closed, and the soft smile had smoothed out.

Maybe he was safe. Maybe—

"Sounds sad, Nezumi."

Nezumi repressed a sigh. "Guess I was channeling the depressing weather," he said, affecting indifference. "The rain makes me melancholy."

"Mm. Not me. I love the rain."

A smile rose to Nezumi's lips. "Yes. As I recall, you like to scream at it."

Shion's sleepy smile returned, more defined this time. Nezumi chuckled and rolled back onto his side to face him.

He would never forget that night.

Trudging through the wind and the rain—weak, bleeding, and utterly hopeless—Nezumi had been ready to give up. His shoulder ached, his sparse, soaked clothing weighed a ton, and his lungs and legs were ready to collapse from the hours of running and crawling. He wanted to lie down and let fate run its course. Ever since he lost his family, Nezumi suspected he was destined for a bitter end.

But apparently fate had other plans for him.

Just before Nezumi was ready to crumple, he spotted a boy standing at an open window. Shion looked so normal as his head poked out and his eyes turned skyward, but he was nothing like Nezumi could have imagined.

To think such a small body held such a depth of rage and longing.

Nezumi's skin had prickled at the wild in Shion's eyes. His heart seized at the sound of Shion's scream melding with the roar of the storm. It was as if he and the hurricane were one: an expansive, roiling tumult of power with no apologies and no restraint.

Shion emptied his lungs into the sky and then started giggling like a madman. Nezumi had never seen something so ridiculous, or someone so delighted to be alive.

He was mesmerized.

In that moment, Nezumi forgot his exhaustion and his pain, and he realized he wanted to live. He had to survive, if only to prove to this strange screaming boy that he, too, was a storm that would not be conquered.

Shion had saved him that night, body and soul. Nezumi's years had been a series of dark memories and danger, but Shion had shown him that light still existed in the world, and it asked nothing of you but the willingness to let it in.

"To think," Nezumi mused, a light laugh bubbling to his lips, "we wouldn't be here at all if you weren't such a freak about storms."

I wouldn't be here.

Shion opened his eyes.

Nezumi felt his gaze like a bolt of lightning through his chest. His heart clamored like thunder and his stomach pitched in helpless warning.

"I'm glad I love storms," Shion said, voice soft as the patter of rain on the ground above. "Because now every time it rains, I think of you."

Don't.

Nezumi didn't react. He didn't even breathe. How could he when Shion was staring into his eyes and saying something so sappy and dangerous and Nezumi wanted to turn and run?

"I'm so grateful that I opened the window that night," Shion murmured. "And I'm so thankful you came back for me. I don't even want to think about what my life would have been like if we'd never met."

Stop, Shion. Please.

But Shion continued to look at him the way he looked at thunderstorms and Nezumi couldn't find the strength to silence his magnitude.

"Strangely though," Shion said, and then immediately had to pause to stifle a yawn so massive that tears pricked at his eyes. "Rain also makes me very...sleepy. Guess because it's comforting?"

Shion rubbed the tears from the corners of his eyes and then, finally, his breath evened out and he dropped back to sleep for good.

Nezumi stared at Shion's peaceful face and trembled.

Perhaps he had been all wrong. Perhaps Shion was the wolf and he the lamb.

A/N: The song Nezumi sings is a Korean folk song called Gashiri. It's very pretty, if anyone is interested in the tune: watch?v=sxZ8RjBZVPk