"Stop squirming."

"It tickles."

"It's going to do a lot more than tickle if you twitch the wrong way and I slash your neck open."

Shion pressed his lips together and went very still, but the playful edge to his gaze said that he didn't take Nezumi's warning seriously. Nezumi tightened his jaw and focused on the knife in his hand. He pulled the next handful of Shion's damp hair straight between his fingers and carefully skimmed the blade across the strands. The shorn bits drifted down onto the carpet like flurries.

Shion had finally reached the point where he was frustrated with blowing and swiping the hair back from his eyes every five minutes, and asked Nezumi if there was somewhere he could have his hair cut. West Block no doubt had barber shops, but Nezumi had always cut his hair himself, and he could only imagine what assortment of rusty, bacteria-coated razors and shears a local might employ, so he agreed to cut Shion's hair himself.

He shouldn't have.

Or at least he shouldn't have agreed so readily, because the moment the words, "I'll cut it for you," left his mouth, Shion's eyes grew so wide and his face so rapturous that Nezumi wanted to swallow the offer back down and choke on it. He shouldn't be giving Shion any more reasons to feel like they were approaching anything like intimacy. But Shion's hair situation was admittedly annoying to Nezumi as well, and why would he pay for Shion to get it cut by a stranger who probably had head lice themself?

So Nezumi compromised by cutting Shion's hair, but resolving to act as annoyed about it as possible. It wasn't hard to do, because Shion turned out to be a very poor subject, talking and wriggling incessantly like a toddler.

"How long have you been cutting your own hair?" Shion asked.

"Forever," Nezumi grunted. He pursed his lips and leaned back to check that the hair at Shion's nape was even. The dark towel he'd placed over Shion's shoulders to keep his wet hair from causing any dangerous shivers made it easy to see errors in the symmetry.

Satisfied, he started on the tufts around Shion's ears. "Now, don't move, unless you want to become a poor man's van Gogh."

Shion remained still, but glanced sideways at Nezumi with a puzzled frown. "Van Gogh?"

"Oh, right." Nezumi wrinkled his nose. "I forgot how criminally uncultured you No. 6 citizens are." He shook his head and leaned down to get a better angle on the cut of his knife. "What a waste of a maiming joke."

"I'm catching up," Shion pouted. "I've gotten through most of the novels on the left half."

Nezumi withdrew his knife and eyed the bookshelves. Shion had been busy; that was a lot of books to read in the few months he'd been there.

"I'll put van Gogh on the list to read next. If there're any other gaps in my knowledge, just tell me what I should read and I'll read it."

"Van Gogh is a painter, not a writer," Nezumi said, chipping away at the hair over Shion's ear. This section always came out a little rough on himself because ears were difficult to cut around, but it was much easier to make the cuts neat when he was working on another person. Nezumi took a step back and studied his work.

Pretty good. He wiped the wet hairs sticking to his fingers on his pant leg and moved to Shion's other side.

"But I think we have a few biographies and art books on him near the back shelves," Nezumi murmured, brushing Shion's hair over his ear with the tips of his fingers. The strands were so pale, they practically blended in against his skin.

Nezumi wasn't sure he'd ever stop marveling at the strangeness of the transformation. Shion's hair retained its youthful shine and softness, and yet it was stark white, a color that had become synonymous with death and danger in West Block.

The white hair was an oddity, but a beautiful takeaway from such a harrowing brush with death. The scars Nezumi had received in life were never so delicate. Or soft. He brushed a hand over the hair at Shion's nape, the texture tickling his palm like the downy fur of a newborn puppy.

Shion's eyelashes fluttered and Nezumi paused in his trimming. Even Shion's eyelashes and eyebrows had been bleached, looking as seamless and natural as they would if he had been born an albino. The biology behind it was confounding. The infection the dead suffered from caused their hair to lose its color and fall out over time, but it never changed someone overnight the way it had Shion.

How had he survived when so many others had succumbed to the infection? What made him different?

And then there was the scar. Nezumi's eyes traced the length of the red mark cutting its way over Shion's throat. He had never seen any of the infected develop such a mark. What did it mean?

"Did you make a mistake?" Shion's voice was tight and quiet, and when Nezumi glanced up, he noticed Shion's cheeks had begun to color. He must have noticed Nezumi's staring and let his mind run away with the meaning behind it.

"Nope," Nezumi said and returned to shearing Shion's shaggy hair. "But it just occurred to me that now that you no longer have to follow boring Holy City standards, you could do something more adventurous with your hair, if you wanted. It doesn't have to be the same as before."

"...You think my usual haircut is boring?"

"Mm," Nezumi mused, smirking a little as he brushed Shion's shoulders clear of white bits. "Your haircut is very you."

Shion's silence was deep. "I know you're making me self-conscious on purpose," he said slowly, "but it's working, and I really need to know now whether you actually hate my hair."

"I don't hate your hair. I'm actually very fond of the white. The haircut, however…."

"Nezumi…"

"I'm kidding. Your haircut is fine." Nezumi chuckled. "And, truth be told, even if it wasn't, I only know how to cut hair one way, so it doesn't matter. You'll have to find another barber if you actually want something different."

Shion tilted his head and Nezumi hastily yanked his knife back, only just missing the top of Shion's ear. "So I'll have the same haircut as you?"

Nezumi leered at him. "Don't get too excited; you'll still have your same face, so you'll be nowhere near as handsome as I am." Shion narrowed his eyes, but Nezumi grabbed his chin and turned Shion's face forward again before he could make a reply. "And what did I say about moving? You have the attention span of a goldfish. Stay still, and listen properly, or you will get cut, and I won't be sorry about it."

"Sorry," Shion mumbled. "I'll sit still until you're done, I promise." He resettled himself, sitting up prim and properly straight, face at blank attention. With his fluffy white, three-quarters shorn hair, Shion looked a little like a dog sitting pretty for its pre-show grooming.

Nezumi was on the point of laughing and sharing the observation when Shion added lightly, "But I'm not worried you'd cut me, Nezumi. I trust you."

The amusement died in Nezumi's throat. He flicked the tip of the knife against the edge of Shion's jaw.

Shion flinched back and pressed his fingers against the side of his chin. When he saw the spot of blood on the pad of his finger, he blinked at Nezumi with a mixture of hurt and affront. "Why?"

Why? A single syllable had never made Nezumi's teeth clench harder.

"To prove a point."

"What point?"

"That you can't and shouldn't trust me."

Shion huffed. "This again."

"Yes," Nezumi hissed, "because despite everything I've said and done, you still don't get it. We are not and never will be friends, Shion. I'm not above hurting you if it means protecting myself, and you should think the same."

"I get it," Shion said darkly. "I get that, at least, very well. I understand a lot more than you think, Nezumi, and I think you're the one who's confused here. I'm notyour enemy. I would never hurt you. You don't need to protect yourself from me."

Shion held his gaze, but though heat simmered behind his dark eyes, Nezumi saw more exhaustion and sadness reflected in their depths than true anger.

Nezumi's blood boiled. Shion was so stupid, so brazen, so freaking naive. Nezumi wanted to shake him by the everything that they'd been through, everything Shion had seen Nezumi say and do, he still believed Nezumi was good. That somehow because circumstances had shoved them into the underground room together and Nezumi occasionally gave Shion survival lessons that they had some special understanding or trust between them.

As if trusting someone guaranteed safety on both sides.

He couldn't be more wrong. Purposely, accidentally, Nezumi would hurt him—and Shion would hurt Nezumi right back. It was unavoidable; two people couldn't occupy the same space without bringing pain to one another, and one certainly couldn't live in West Block and expect safety from any quarter.

How could Shion be so stubbornly wrong after everything he'd experienced?

Nezumi had tortured a man in front of him, but it was like Shion had forgotten all about it. He had probably rationalized it somehow. An act that had gotten out of hand, a moment of anger, a show Nezumi had put on to scare those who didn't know better.

He remembered the pain in Shion's eyes, the heat in his voice when he yelled, "This isn't you, Nezumi!"

But that was him. Why wouldn't Shion accept that? It was Nezumi's hand that struck the No. 6's official's cheek, his mouth that spat insults and threats, his heart that couldn't forgive. Nezumi wasn't ashamed of the hatred inside him. He owned it; it gave him strength when he felt weak. But Shion wouldn't abide by it. He rejected that part of Nezumi, just like everything else he didn't like in West Block.

Fucking hypocrite. Would you stop projecting on me and accept the truth I give you for once in your life?

Nezumi was going to throttle Shion one of these days, and Shion would probably still insist it was some sort of lie, that it wasn't Nezumi's hands doing the violence.

Shion scowled and wiped his chin again, but the nick was tiny and already clotting over. "You better have cleaned your blade well," he grumbled. "I don't want to get infected again."

"I clean it thoroughly," Nezumi sniffed. He had given the blade a thorough scrub just that morning, in preparation for the hair appointment. "But either way, you should be fine since you're immune—right, Mr. Blood Serum?"

Finally, Shion looked pissed. A measure of relief tingled in Nezumi's chest at the sight. He leveled an icy glare at Nezumi. "Yeah, alright. I think we're done."

Shion made to get up from the armchair, but Nezumi used his free hand to push him back down. "Don't be a child. Your hair is only three-quarters done and it looks ridiculous. Let me finish cutting the front and then you can throw your hissy fit."

A low growl rattled in Shion's throat, but ever the obedient subject, he settled back into the chair and submitted. He kept his mouth shut, but Shion's sulky gaze burned a hole through Nezumi's forehead.

It didn't bother Nezumi much—he was accustomed to prolonged staring of all sorts—but after a moment he said, "I'd close my eyes, if I were you. Unless you want hair in them."

Shion twisted his mouth to the side, but his eyes slid closed. Nezumi paused before he put the knife to Shion's hair again. Their positions reminded him too much of the night Shion kissed him on the cheek before trying to leave him forever. The sense of deja vu was swiftly followed by the memory of the kiss Nezumi had given Shion a few nights before.

Nezumi's stomach wriggled. He shouldn't have done that. A bet was a bet, and Nezumi was usually one to uphold his end of the deal, but in this case, following through only made both of their lives more confusing. Shion always read more into Nezumi's actions than Nezumi intended, and he had a dreadful feeling that kissing him had contributed to Shion's disillusionment with his personal character.

He didn't know why he chose to kiss him then. Well, no, that wasn't true. Nezumi knew why he kissed Shion right at that moment: He could feel Shion tearing himself up over his friend's fate, and the palpable agony and frustration ate away at Nezumi's nerves until he felt like he had to do something to distract Shion from the masochistic limbo into which he'd fallen.

The real question was why had Nezumi chosen that specific manner of distraction? It was an obscenely bad decision. Shion had feelings for him, and they both knew it, and Nezumi had done his damnedest not to do anything to encourage the idea that those feelings could lead to anything.

And then Safu got kidnapped and Shion tried to leave him, and Nezumi didn't know what the fuck he was doing anymore. He wanted Shion to stay away from him, but when he was faced with the reality that Shion was going to leave him without even saying goodbye, Nezumi's chest felt so tight he couldn't breathe. He lectured and berated Shion about wasting energy on caring or crying for others, but when he saw Shion sobbing, and heard his callous words parroted back at him, Nezumi's stomach churned with shame.

He would have done anything to erase the pain on Shion's face, but he had nothing in his repertoire but insults and manipulations. So he used manipulation, because he knew Shion's feelings, and he knew that if he kissed him, Shion would forget about the pain and focus on him instead.

He had been thinking about Shion when he should have been thinking about himself. He should have considered the vulnerability of kissing someone he couldn't throw away, about the questions and expectations that followed. He was lucky he had a good excuse to use in place of truth when Shion asked him why he'd done it.

Nezumi's heart raced, but his hands stayed sure as he shaped Shion's bangs. This isn't good. This is the worst.

But what was there to do about it? Shion threw him off balance, and every time he tried to right himself, he either hurt Shion or pulled him too close. He couldn't afford to get soft, or bog himself down with feelings, or confuse Shion even more than Shion already was. If he kept letting himself get distracted, both their lives were forfeit. Especially now that they knew the Hunt would be upon them any day.

I can't think about this anymore. I have to stay focused. The descent hasn't even begun. Nezumi set his face into a mask of indifference and finished trimming the front of Shion's hair.

"All done," he said, wiping the knife off on his pant leg. "You're released."

The antagonism had faded from Shion's face in the time it took to finish his haircut, and when he opened his eyes, he looked thoughtful and far away. Nezumi didn't want to know what he was thinking; Shion's thoughts always led them to terrible fights, and Nezumi wasn't in the mood for more back and forth.

Nezumi stared at the white hair littering the newspapers they'd put down to keep the trimmings from sticking to the pale green carpet. He very nearly sighed at the mess that measured how long he and Shion had been in close quarters, but he stopped himself just in time and stooped down silently to fold the papers closed and dispose of the shavings.

Fingers brushed the nape of his neck and Nezumi froze, breath stuttering in his throat.

"Your hair is getting long too," Shion said. Offhandedly. Calmly.

Nezumi's heart was about to punch a hole through his chest. Shion's fingers were cold as a blade, and soft as a promise; they were a threat Nezumi had never felt more keenly. It had been years and years since Nezumi had felt such paralyzing terror.

No one snuck up on him. No one got close enough to touch unless Nezumi allowed it.

Nezumi did not allow this.

And yet, there Shion's fingers were, drifting up to smooth the ends of his hair. A shiver built at the base of his skull, following the path of Shion's gentle touch.

"I don't suppose you'd trust me to cut yours?"

Nezumi found his breath again and shot up and away, where Shion's hands couldn't reach him. Shion blinked at him. Nezumi didn't know what face he was making. He could hardly think past the warning bells blaring in his mind.

Hadn't he just told himself to shut out feelings and focus on survival? Hadn't he just said he needed to keep his guard up so they both didn't get caught unawares and get killed? He had closed the door, but, apparently, he had forgotten to lock it, because Shion just slipped through as easily and silently as water through a crack.

Nezumi wasn't supposed to have cracks. This wasn't like him. This wasn't him at all.

I'm going to die. We are going to die if I don't wake the fuck up.

"I thought we already established," Nezumi said, voice tight and serrated from a combination of anger and fear, "that I don't trust you."

The concern on Shion's face muddled into sadness, and something deep in Nezumi's chest twisted.

"Right," Shion murmured. He studied Nezumi, and there was something in the look that was a little too knowing for Nezumi's liking. "Right," Shion repeated, but with more feeling this time, a verbal shrug. "I'm going to rinse off the strays."

Shion paused by the first set of bookcases. "Thanks for the haircut. I appreciate it. Even if you only did it to save money." He aimed a slight smile back at Nezumi and proceeded toward the bathroom.