#i do enjoy medic's little leg kick in the lift though hehe

[zarla-s]

two smooches for the price of one...

[patreon]

[powerosewaterpuff]

yk so i was watching bmw (boy meets world :) ) while procrastinating an essay so oF COURSE i decided to write some more of my reverse robin au (that pertains to jason being the oldest of the batkids w/ him and dick growing up together) except fLUFF bc i cannot handle angst rn (oR cOulD I wE wiLL nEvER kNoWwwW)

oh and disclaimer there may be several medical inaccuracies so please feel free to correct me :)

jason often gets night terrors, ones that can get particularly awful when bruce goes on an overnight business trip. so one night bruce is in new york after being forced into it by lucius, with dick being adopted for some time now. dick was awake because he was having trouble sleeping, for no real particular reason in all honesty. he heard a short yell though, coming from the room next to him and he dashed over, tripping over his blanket and still gripping zitka tightly. he knew that he wasn’t supposed to fight yet, but he doesn’t really think about that as he yanked jason’s door open.

he then saw his brother laying on his side, turning back and forth, breathing heavily looking so visibly pained it was hurting dick. he rushed over to jason, his eyes darting around because he just didn’t know what to do. taking his chances he tapped jason’s shoulder gently, and he already felt like it wasn’t the right move but he sucked it up and tried again, only this time to some result. jason shot up, gripping on tightly to dick’s arm, his eyes hazy and unfocused and his chest heaving.

dick remained still, only slowly trying to push jason off of him and back into his bed. jason’s grip didn’t let but he laid back in bed, squeezing his eyes tightly as if he was trying to push away everything he had just witnessed. dick took this as an initiative to gently climb into bed, as jason fell back into a less violent but equally as stressful sleep. he placed zitka next to jason, who still hasn’t let go of his arm, and awkwardly sat up in bed, almost acting as a protector. slowly, dick began to doze off, feeling a lot more comforted in his brothers prescence then he had been in his own room.

jason on the other hand, doesn’t remember much of that night, as he rarely fully remembers any of his night terrors (only the scars they leave behind), but when he wakes up at the ass crack of dawn with a few fragments of something he would prefer not to remember, he puts it together rather quickly. he guessed it would happen, and he could’ve told bruce and he knew the guy would drop anything in a heartbeat, but that pissed him off, more so then it justifiably should. he wasn’t a child and he hadn’t been a child for a long fucking time, and it was stupid that he couldn’t deal with a single night without bruce. jason then turned onto his side, disgruntled with a new found rage directed at himself that he might take out on someone else, when he found dick, sleeping at an awkward position.

he was leaning on the headboard, but was slumped down and drooling a bit, which would have been hilarious blackmail material on any other given day. but today, jason felt a pit in his stomach. the only rational thought that his mind could conjure in its fear muddled frenzy was please tell me i didn’t hurt dick, pleasepleasepleaseplease. he quickly checked over dick’s face, cupping his checks and looking for any signs of a bruise. he had given bruce a particularly nasty one earlier in his tenure at the manor, after bruce attempted to restrain him while he was having a night terror so he could avoid hurting himself, instead jason kicked him in the jaw. he even felt bad about it the next day, which was an odd surprise for him at the time.

after checking over dick hasilty, he could see he wasn’t all that hurt, even though if he looked hard enough he could see inklings of nail shaped markings in dick’s right arm just under his shirt sleeve. jason felt a bit of bile rising up, as he gently shifted dick into a better sleeping position, and pulled the blanket up to his chin and slipped a pillow underneath him. dick opened his bleary eyes, mumbling jason’s name in question, and squinting his eyes. jason rolled his eyes but nodded, “yeah, it’s me. now sleep–why’re you shaking yer head? you don’ wanna sleep? too bad.” jason pressed another pillow onto the side of dicks face in a teasing attempt to smother him to sleep, but dick only proceeded to giggle, and snuggle closer to jason, who had sat up already. jason tossed the pillow to the side after a few seconds of play fighting, dick was going to be too sleepy to remember this break in the ‘teasing older brother’ façade. so, he ran his hand through his little brothers hair and laid back down, tracing soft circles into dick’s scalp absentmindedly. and feeling a rush of gratitude that bruce had brought this little circus boy into his life. he really didn’t know what he would do without his little brother. (needless to say, dick became a constant comforter in jason’s night terrors).

jason blames dick for everything. if a vase got knocked over, it was a dick. if the tv wasn’t working, dick had been playing with the satellite. if his phone was missing, dick stole it to play games. if his sweater had a stain, you better bet it was dick. the boy in question, of course, adamantly denies these facts and does have a way of persuading bruce (he is the golden child after all, jason could testify to that), but bruce also knows both of his boys are annoyingly good liars. so every incident is treated like a little miniature crime scene, and it never fails to make jason howl in laughter at dick explaining how he couldn’t have possibly used up jason’s shampoo because he has his own washroom with his own shampoo and so w h y jason w h y would i steal your shampoo. (jason’s usual response is a deadpanned ‘why wouldn’t you’, and that just gives bruce another headache as the two bicker on and on and on.)

the pair of them usually go biking together, and it’s usually quite tranquil to start. until dick makes a sly comment that jason’s old bones must be so tired from cycling, so why not take a break? jason snide reponse is how the fuck are you touching the pedals with your stubby ass legs. that’s really all it takes for them to delve into a full on biking race. it never really ends well, but the two always come out rolling in laughter so whose to complain.

dick thinks real housewives of beverly hills is better then new jersey, and jason is adamant that new jersey is superior in every shape and way. the two agree that atlanta is the absolute winner no matter what though.

jason is dick’s english tutor. and it’s safe to say that it’s an experience. dick already knew a fair amount of english growing up, his father had been a wonderful teacher but it wasn’t exactly up to gotham academy standards apparently (jason knew the feeling) and his accent was still quite prevalent to have him be considered an esl kid, so jason ended up being his tutor once dick started going to english class at school and after his time with an esl instructor. jason, who has an untapped passion for literature that not many can match, is absolutely dedicated to teaching dick, because fuck man this is genius! genius, dick! and dick isn’t exactly a fan, but he does secretly think jason should be a teacher, he’s better then any of the teachers he’s had that’s for sure (his father would’ve really loved jason too, that was also for sure). and dick is considering buying him a little briefcase with his little initials on it. ((it happens, and jason tries really really hard not to cry))

bruce is absolutely that parent that secretly takes pictures of every single moment possible. he isn’t a photographer, in any sense, but he likes to capture natural moments, and he has a series of pictures dedicated to the one trip him and the boys took to Barbados where he started this habit. he wasn’t and still isn’t a big fan of beaches, they’re hot, crowded and just too much for bruce to feel any kind of comfortable in. he remembers sitting under a floppy beach umbrella, feeling the knot in his chest sit heavily on his heart, fire ants scurrying across the underlining of his skin, burning under the side stares of those passing by. it wasn’t until he caught a glimpse of dick riding on jason’s little shoulders, as they trotted around waist deep in the clear ocean water, that the fist squeezing his heart like the rotten fruit it was began to ease. he glanced down at the camera that alfred had subtly slipped into their bag after dicks insistence, and lifted it up to fiddle with it slightly. then raised it up to take a swift picture. capturing jason mid laughter as he leaned back, in a joking attempt to shake dick off who was in the middle of a yelp but had entrenched his hands in jason’s mop of curly hair. it was hilarious imperfect, but bruce would not want it any other way. not at all.

(jason found it once. he saw the picture at the corner of his eye sitting by the keyboard of the ‘Batcomputer’ ((dick was so shitty with names, thank god he didn’t come up with flippy man as his code name )), and he hesitated for a moment before hastily grabbing it. examining it with an unexpected amount of gentleness, he rubbed his thumb against the glass above dick’s hands in his hair and felt something snake around his heart. slowly and methodically seeping into it until he felt like he couldn’t fucking breathe. then he heard damian trotting down the stairs as he explained the details of his anthropology class to dick who was hopping down behind him. jason shoves the picture back and grits his teeth together to ignore the sting that was absolutely not in his eyes)

aAAAND THATS ALL!! i’ve had these in my notes for a while so it’s relief to get them out there hehe so i really hope y’all enjoy ive legit been falling in love with this reverse au bC THERE IS SO MUCH POTENTIAL U G H IVE NEVER BEEN EXCITED TO WRITE SHIT UNTIL NOW SO Y A Y FOR INSPIRATION

Y A Y :)

[kikkieabby]

Ahsoka journey to the Dark side: Chapter 5- Who are you?

I don't want to do this...

Standing over a man with both his hands up, begging for his life. A farmer with a family that sells food to his village that is barely standing on its legs. How did I end up like this, with my saber to his neck? With my hands trembling? With blaster pointing at the back of my head and my life on the line. Where did I go wrong?

(Hour's ago)

"Nice threads." Anakin tells me as one of the medic droids helps me into my new clothes. My hand that was somewhat mutilated was currently in a bowl of something. My fingers felt tingly and...like mucky mud that sticks to your fingers. I had to keep my hand in that bowl for about ten minutes before removing it. When it was time to remove it, I pulled it up and saw goo-like suspense falling into the bowl. I wiggle my fingers a pit to have it all fall into the bowl. It takes a while, and a little bit of cleaning, but my new liquidized fingers were finally on.

Moving my hand to my chest, I looked down to see my new skin somewhat glowing. The liquid matches my skin, but the feeling...it was strange. I felt everything like my skin wasn't removed. The tingling feeling, I felt it go up my spine for a second before disappearing. What is this stuff?

"Enjoying your new skin?" Anakin asked me. Looking over my shoulder, I saw the big dark monster himself hovering over me. I wonder, did he get a growth spurt when he went to the dark side. Now that I think about it, all sith are extremely tall.

"It's strange." I tell him, looking back at my hand. I heard the leather move around his body, becoming louder and louder. Then, once close, the sound stopped, and my body was introduced to a sudden cold. Pulling me back, I looked up to find his lips pressing against mine. Slowly sliding his tongue into my mouth, playing tag with my tongue. His tongue is so big, explains why he was such a cocky ass-hole when I was training.

When he removed his lips, I felt a sudden warmness fading away. Why did I like it?

"Once dressed, the droids will escort you to the docking bay. Try not to do anything stupid." Anakin...no, Vader said to me. I felt so ashamed of myself. Years of training with the Jedi, only to fall into the hands of what used to be my master.

Once I was cleaned up and dressed. The two droids escort me to the docking bay. One with a gun to my back while the other led me. Clones...walking past me. I once called these guys my friends, now, these new clones, I don't know what they are. Rex...I wonder what you would think of your new younger brothers. He'd probably laugh in their faces. I know I would. I don't like these new clones, I don't feel like they deserve to be even called clones.

Clones...that's all there were to the empire. To the Republic, they were nothing but breeding stock soldiers that they could pop out through a machine. We lost 100, they would pop out a 1,000. It amazes me now that I think about it. Even though they were clones, they were still creatures, life's, living things that are part of the force. But in reality, they were slaves, living creatures put in chains the second they were born...is that why they betrayed us? I know they had those chips in their brains...but...

"Were here!" The droid shouted, making me scan the large area. Possibly the biggest docking bay I ever have seen, silver colors blinded me for a while. My eyes did adjust though to the settings. Especially when the droids pushed me into a huge black cruiser that had Vader written all over it. That, and I could also sense him on the ship, waiting for me. Once inside, I was escorted into a room that was designed for the fancy. Velvet flooring, big fluffy bed, huge window view with a blackout option to keep people from looking at you. It even had a kitchen and a bar, very luxurious!

"Lord Vader will be in shortly." The droid that escorted me said as he removed my cuffs. Once off, I begin to move my hands, getting the blood flowing again.

"Don't do anything stupid maggot." The droid with the gun said before he heads to the door. Once close, I use the force and pushed him into the wall, making him fall. I will be damned if a droid talks down to me. Once the doors closed, I walked over to the bar, only to stop to see myself in a mirror the room had near the window. My clothes, they didn't say Ashoka to me.

A long black skirt that wrapped around my waist. Thick eyeliner that made my eyes look evil, along with dark burgundy color lipstick. My top was...unpleasing for me. A dark burgundy top that had an opening cut that exposed 70% of my breast. It was weird since I never showed off cleavage before. Vader must want me to wear something for him to easily remove.

"Why am I thinking that way?" I thought to myself. Looking out the window, I wave a bit, but no one seemed to notice me. Were they ignoring me, or couldn't see me? Whatever the case, I think its best I stayed away from the Window. Looking over at the bar, I could feel the back of my throat watering for a drink. Not of thirst, but for something that would knock me out and make me sleep for hours. I know Vader will do something to me, I don't want to be fully here when it happens. At the same time, I don't want to drink, I act stupid when I drink. Oh forget it! I need a drink!

Then, the ship started to move. We were departing somewhere! Shit, I felt so skittish and scared! Where is he taking me, and what will I do. Will he take me to a facility to be tortured? Or will he finally kill me? I was so scared. Pouring the random liquids into a cup, I gently press the cup to my lips. Allowing the liquids into my throat. A strong burning feeling made the hairs on my back rise up in a frenzy. And this stuff was very strong, I guess Anakin liked it strong.

"Ahsoka." A voice called to me. But it wasn't in the room...

"Yes?" I asked.

"Why are you so blue, my darling?" The voice asked me...it was then I remembered where I heard it from. When my hand was being cut, this was one of the two voices in my head!

"I'm on a ship that is leading me to the unknown. And who are you?" I asked, this voice was new to me. I have never heard before in my life, let alone since last night. But it did sound very familiar! Like maybe I met it in a past life.

"I am someone close to you, but also far. I have been watching you, studying you. And although you never see me, I am with you." The voice said...it was a hissing like voice. Very rugish but...machine-like. Like Plo-Koon's mask.

"I am not Plo-Koon." The voice said.

"Then who are you?" I asked.

"I am what lies in your heart. The very thing you denied for years to survive. The thing you ignored in order to be accepted. " The voice spoke.

"I don't understand." I said.

"Awww, you will soon. What you denied all your life...the truth. And Anakin know's it as well." The voice said, I accidentally dropped the glass in my hand. A strong surge of pain went through my body. Then a bright white, stiletto of a female appeared before me. Then faded in a flash right before my eyes.

"Nrgh!" I growled. Even though the pain was gone, I still felt an aftermath. Ugh, is this a new thing now. I guess, because this pain was making the voice chuckle:

"There you go. I want you to remember what you are, and realize why Anakin spared you." The voice spoke. "And remember, I am always watching you."

"Go fuck yourself..." I growled as I opened my eyes. In front of me...well I guess you can guess for yourself.

"Snips..."

(Back present)

"KILL HIM!" Vader shouted at me. The man was at my feet, crying as he grips my boot. In all honesty, I don't even remember coming here. All I remember was looking up to a dark figure. Then...a boot. Yea, I think he might have kicked me in the face, not the best way to get to point A then point B. Now here I am, in a smelly

"Please...I don't want to die." He begged me. Vader's anger was growing, poking at the sides of my neck. He was going to kill me, He was going to kill me if I didn't kill him.

"Kill him..." He growls to me, only this time he was louder. Tears falling down my cheeks as my heart races to find a common ground. I can't kill an innocent, I can't do it like this. I am a Jedi. My hand slowly lower it's self as my body prepares to die. I can't do this, I couldn't do this, I won't do this.

"I'm sorry Vader." I muttered as I dropped the saber. Closing my eye, I prepared for the worse. Maybe he will do it quick, shot me in the head, or swipe it off with his saber. Hehe, funny, I imagine my head roll down the ground like a ball. Sadly, he didn't do that What he did though was yank me to the ground my head, pinning me to the floor with his boot.

"Why do you defy me!? Why do you keep upsetting me Ahsoka!?" He shouted. It was funny, I could have sworn I heard old Anakin for a second there. Maybe it was all this pressure to my brain that's make me hallucinate. His boot was pressing hard against my chest, pushing against my heart.

"I don't want to do this." I said whimpered. "Just kill me please."

"Killing you wouldn't bring me the pleasure I will get tonight! Or maybe I should perform a small snip on your brain. You know, rendering you thoughtless." Anakin growled at me...he was joking, right? He wouldn't do that to me...right?

"Anakin..." I moaned, only to have a strong thrust to my chest. Making both my hands fly to his foot, gripping the leather that wrapped around his feet and legs.

"Don't. Say. That. NAME!" He growled at me before removing his boot. He then leans forward, gripping one of lekke's with that big black leather hand of his, then hoisted me up to my feet. He then lifts my lightsaber to his hand, before forcing it into mine. Making me grip the metal object before pushing me forwards towards the weeping man.

"Kill him or I will destroy you myself. And when I am finally done, you won't even remember your own name..." An...no, Vader growled to me. His voice was sharp and harsh, like a blade slowly sinking into your backside. It made my body tremble with fear. I know he won't kill me...I know he wouldn't waste the time...but what would he do to me if I don't kill this man?

"You know what he will do." The said, it returned!

"You!" I shouted in my head.

"You know what he can do. What sort of power he has. Do you really want to see it?" The voice asked.

"No..." I whimpered. My lips were trying their best not to form a frown, but they did...I found myself making a frown as my vision becomes blurry.

"Then kill the man, please Vader." The voice tells me.

"But I don't want to kill him...I am not that kind of person." I cried. Tears rolling down my eyes as my legs become weak. My index finger was twitching, debating whether or not to press the button to summon my saber.

"Tik-Tok Ahsoka." Vader growled at me.

"No..." I thought.

"Listen to me Ahsoka." The voice whispered. It sounded like it was right next to my ear, I could even feel a warm moist air blowing at the little fuzz on the top of my earlobe. "He will destroy you...but if you play your cards right...you can destroy him."

"What?" I asked.

"Vader doesn't want to kill you. He finds you valuable. Use it to destroy him and save the galaxy."

"I don't want to kill."

"In order to win, you must make sacrifices. In order to survive, you must make choices that will only benefit you! You know these rules! You know the art of survival! Show that bastard you are not to trophies with!"

"But..."

"You will perish in a pit of torture and despair until you wouldn't recognize yourself in a mirror! Do you really want that!?" The voice asked me...those words hit me very hard. And at the moment...I felt like a child again. Because when I was a child...it was the first time I was scared, confused and lonely. The feeling of those three combined into one can make anyone question a lot of things. A lot of things...

"Okay." I spoke before summoning my saber. Raising it to the man's head, I watched his eyes widen a bit as his cries became louder.

Bring Vader down would be a victory. At the time I thought. To be able to save trillions of lifes, while still being me. I wanted it. And somehow the voice convinced me of doing it. I don't know if my body was tired, or I was just becoming mentally weak. But I just...I wanted a small piece of peace. I wanted to be at ease, even if it was for a while. And getting to Vader's good side, was that goal. The voice was right, I survive. And I have survived worse than this. Even before I was a Jedi.

"Ahh!"

The man screamed before I made his head fall from his body. Like a ball that just been lightly kicked into a wall. Little drips of red here and there, but nothing too serious. Looking over my shoulder, I saw Vader staring at me. I wonder what he was thinking at the time. Possibly ways to torture me, or new ways to train me. I wish I knew, but that was something I could not get.

After a minute of silence, he walks over to me and gently places a hand over my head. While his other hand was placed on my right hip. Slowly, pulling me close to his body, he makes the hand on my head pushing my head onto his chest. Forcing me against the cold dark leather of his uniform. Why is hugging me like this? Why is he hugging me at all? And where is the voice? I don't sense it anymore...and why do I only hear one of the two.

"Let's go Ahsoka, I want to go home."

(Later that day)

After a long and quiet trip home, I found myself in his bathroom. Only this time, I wasn't crawling through his vents. I was in his tube, soaking and absorbing the green liquids he prepared just for me. Some sort of healing medicine for my aching and tortured bones. It was funny to me, this morning I wanted to rip his head off, now I feel so relaxed.

"WHAT DO YOU MEAN!?" A voice shouted. Forcing me to look at the door of the bathroom. I heard a female scream just now, what's going on?

"THAT BITCH!" Another voice shouted. Suddenly, I started to sense a disturbance in the force. A strong aura of rage and harmonies...oh crap, and it was towards me. Standing up from the tub, I nearly slipped when my feet touched the floor. Luckily I was able to grab the edge of the tub before fall. Once on my feet, I walked over to the side of the bathroom and grabbed a towel. Wrapping my body a bit, I walked over to the door. Once I opened it, I walked straight to the wall that blocked the view of the bathroom from the bed. Leaning against it, I listen closely to the voices in the room.

"Vader no longer needs your services. He says he wants you out." A clone says. What did you mean by services? Are the concubines getting fired?

"But...I gave Vader my virginity! He's the only one for me!" A girl shouted...I couldn't tell her age because I couldn't see her.

"He says you will all be put in Aria for your services." The clone said. Aria was known as the paradise planet. Fresh fruit, clean water, entertainment up to the ying-yang, best place to live. Sadly, you couldn't just move there unless you were rich or born there.

"Its because of that bitch isn't it! That fucking Jedi!" Another girl shouted.

"Classified. Vader just wants you out." The clone said. I could hear his footsteps as he leaves. Then, the door closing. A second later, the bickering sounds of the females cursing my name.

"Ugh! I knew that slut would replace us! After everything I had given him!" A female voice shouted. Seconds later I hear the door opening, making all the girls go silent. And the aura of anger vanished into thin air. Looking over the corner, I saw Anakin. Not Vader, just Anakin in those Jedi rip off design clothes. He was walking into the room, remaining silent as he proceeded to walk towards his dresser drawer. Once there, he opens a drawer door and begins to rummage through some stuff.

"Why are you still here?" Anakin asked the females. Some of them pouted at his words as other just made weird grunt sounds.

"We are being replaced!? By that slut!?" One shouted.

"Yes, you did your job and I am rewarding you to live in a paradise. Go before I change my mind." Anakin growled before closing the drawer. He then walks over to his close, opening the doors, he pushes random threads that hung to the side. What was he looking for?

"But you're my everything..." One said, this made Anakin stop what he was doing. He turns his attention to the females in the room and growled:

"GET OUT! I DON'T WANT YOU ANYMORE!" He shouted. Then like flies to vinegar, they ran away out the room. Oh force...don't tell me Anakin and I are going to-"HA!"

His voice shouted, making me look over at him again. In his hand was a bright blue tube. Its funny, at that moment, I didn't realize how much trouble that one tube would give me in the future days.

[neo---blue]

These Sheets, Those Shelves, and This Shitty Place (—and Shion)

Shion's warmth is fading from the mattress. Nezumi feels disarmed.

Shion has just finished the Iliad and is going off to look for the Odyssey after Nezumi told him they were related works. What of it?

A loaded exchange between Shion and Nezumi in the library vault on a night before the Manhunt

hello. i finished this after my birthday so of course i wanted to update the shion/nezumi birthday fic, but this finished itself first so... hehe. >:) anyway, here it is. in the manga and novel, they said that the manhunt came "one day, out of the blue" so i just supposed it didn't immediately happen after that chapter nezumi had an episode and danced with shion to make him stop worrying about him, and i supposed that that didn't immediately happen after they ambushed fura. yes. super wordy and introspective, but i really enjoyed writing this. i hope you enjoy reading it as well!

6.6k+ words on ao3 or Keep Reading!

            Nezumi whistles, not looking up from his book, not even when he feels Shion stirring beside him. "You sure about that?"

            "Yeah," Shion answers from the other side of their bed, "I'm sure there was a copy when I organized all our books."

            ‘Our books?’ Nezumi twists himself towards the wall on his side of their bed, away from the rest of their room, having to raise his book slightly to keep his shadow from covering words he hasn't been registering. "Good luck," he mutters as courtesy, not meaning it but earning a response from Shion anyway,

            "I'll go check right now."

            Shion sits up. It's with much effort that he lifts the blanket off of himself, body quick to protest the loss of direct warmth from Nezumi. It's for this sole reason that Shion considers not leaving anymore. But shortly he's able to reason that he already has half of all the books over there in his mental catalog, and he already knows how to maneuver around this general area, knows it like the back of his hand; he won't take too long.

            Shion dangles his legs off the bed, with less effort now, peering down at the floor. He reaches for each of Nezumi's slippers by stretching his legs, using his toes to turn one over and using his heel to drag the other closer. He shifts all of his weight forward and stands, every movement careful not to disturb the mattress nor Nezumi.

            Nezumi doesn't mind it. He just eyes the same line on the same page for the nth time. He comes close to giving up altogether; on top of not having been able to read in silence all evening, Nezumi is becoming thoroughly distracted now that Shion is continuing,

            "I'm just not sure where I categorized it under." Shion's padded towards the shelves, looking through the sections, blinking slowly to connect his rote memory to this overwhelming reality. He has an urge that he holds: the urge to comment, again, for the nth time, on how amazing this place is, by the sheer number of books housed within it; he feels the same immense sense of curiosity now as he did the first time he'd entered here, books piled up high on the bed and the couch and the floor and every other surface in the room. That they're organized now doesn't change how his heart beats with excitement every time he thinks of how many stories there must be here to read and learn about, how much of all of it makes up the boy he saved four years ago. He only goes on now, "Besides, Nezumi..."

            "What?"

            "You wouldn't help me," Shion mumbles, content with skimming his fingers along rough, old spines, each hiding yellowed pages that held words and worlds he's yet to explore. "It's why organizing all the books took longer than I wanted."

            "Don't complain," Nezumi complains, chides, switching his book over to his other hand, "you're the one who volunteered to do it." He's positive they both remember clearly, even if it was several months ago:

            'It'll take a hundred years—' 'I'll do it in a week!’

            "I did," Shion agrees instantly, though it took a week and a day. He shakes the thought off, crouching down to look from the bottom shelf up. "But it would have been nice if you helped me decide whether to catalog them by author, year published, title, or genre—"

            "And? Where would you have put it if I told you I wanted them arranged by author?" Nezumi challenges, "You didn't even know who Homer was yet at that point."

            "Well," Shion replies, still scanning the titles. "I do now—"

            "No you don't," Nezumi cuts in. "I don't even know who Homer is. Actually, no one knows who Homer is."

            "...What’s that mean?"

            "The problem with all these epics is that they're so old no one even knows who the hell actually wrote them or where the hell they actually came from anymore. Was Homer a bard who ran around singing epics for money and fun? Was Homer a bunch of poets coming up with stories off the top of their heads at a symposium? Was Homer an entire country that wanted to decide on an origin story once and for all? And did Homer even exist to begin with? In reality, there's a huge possibility that Homer's epics have been edited a handful of times by different people from different times. And remember, this was ancient, a point in history when they'd just started actually writing stuff down, and by then the story's already been no less than a hundred years old..."

            Shion didn't seem to notice when exactly his gaze drifted away from the books, to fix itself on Nezumi's figure: his untied hair, his steady back, the fingers poised gracefully to hold his book to the wall. All Shion knew was that he was hanging on to every one of Nezumi's words with wonder. See, when Nezumi spoke, nothing else in this room mattered to Shion except him.

            When Nezumi's trailed off for a moment, a thought— several thoughts— wedge themselves in the back of Shion's mind. As he processes the cognitive overload from ideas he's never once imagined in his life, especially having never been exposed to the topic at hand, heavily discouraged from pursuing the arts and humanities in No.6, he's led to a related feeling: annoyance...? or something akin to it.

            Any memory Shion has of anyone talking this much was of the students in his grade of elites— err, the one he was kicked out off for 'poor decision-making skills.' The kids in that class always talked about their own specialties like they knew it all.

            And with No.6's education system, really, it wasn't unlikely that they did know it all. But more than that, they talked like they were the only ones that mattered. Of course they would feel that way as citizens born into a special status that promised them lofty quarters to rest and relax in, endless electronic resources for elaborate self-study, and overall sophisticated houses that fit their lifestyle perfectly. This education, providing for the maximum ideal conditions for growth and development, ensured that students will know it all.

            Shion recollects that even Safu found ways to fit her specific neuroscientific register and vocabulary in everyday conversations. But to him she was never annoying, he never felt spoken over. She was slightly, slightly awkward, a little rough around the edges towards those who made fun of the way she dressed, and she didn't know how to pause for breath when she lectured Shion on hormones and their consequent bodily reactions— but she only ever sounded passionate, never like a know-it-all; she didn't speak just to gloat about how much she knew or boast her special status as the high-class citizen she was.

            Additionally, Safu was actually talented. Shion has been turning it over in his head for a while now since the time he was evicted from Chronos, because it hadn't felt all that different: had he actually been talented himself or did he just luck out getting top scores in his early assessment? Developmental cognitive studies is as far from his own ecology major as emergency medical procedures, but if he were able to perform an impromptu suture-surgery on a bullet wound by memory of one video at age 12, he guessed there was a high chance that he wouldn't be wrong to assume that an aptitude exam taken at age 2 could hardly be reliable especially the older a subject gets.

            In the least, even if Shion weren't talented— and by no means does he have any misgivings coming to terms with this— he was never at risk of flunking out from the special course. Maintaining grades in the special classes wasn't exactly easy, and he saw a handful of other classmates leave for unsatisfactory performance, but if he focused enough it was a breeze. Still not as talented as Safu, though. And besides, he flunked out of the special course regardless, just for his own reasons.

            As he helped his mother pack up their things from Chronos to prepare for the tedious move to Lost Town, Nezumi's words made carved deeper impressions in Shion's mind and gave his feelings a tact that helped him realize how out of place he'd felt all along at the very top with the smartest kids in his grade. His plain, humble times with Karan at Lost Town didn't make him feel any less dignified or any less real.

            And even as he jumped out of the Security Bureau's remote-controlled car and tossed his official citizen ID to keep moving, keep running (and swimming) to find himself here in an underground library vault in West Block, Nezumi's words materialized and Shion could finally fully grasp them:

            'Petri dish elites' was on-point, is exactly what they are, what Shion used to be— brought up and pampered in artificially perfect environments to be reared and controlled exactly as they should.

            But in Lost Town and West Block alike, especially here in this room— in a place that experiences the real impacts of fickle weather and he has to either turn the heater up or scoot closer to Nezumi to make it through the night without his teeth chattering the entire time, in a place where he's free to pursue any book he wants to read on any topic, whether scientific or literary (but mostly literary) and learn about heroes and dramas and tragedies— a place he can call his starting point, Shion realized that human beings needed much less than the luxuries in Chronos and in No.6 in order to live a content life.

            With little to nothing but the clothes on his back, with Nezumi and the library and this bunk they share, Shion feels like he has everything he could ever need.

            Shion wonders how Safu would react if he said that to her.

            It's because I left No.6... He comes up with the words in his mind, as if addressing them to Safu, that I discovered what kind of person he really is, the very reason I didn't get to push through with the special course. That I discovered what kind of person I really am. It's not a walk in the park, but... I don't regret meeting him, or following him, or staying with him. In fact... he's just like you, in a way.

            He could almost hear Safu's voice, pretend-condescending but undeniably sweet, What are you talking about, Shion?

            Shion closes his eyes. What was he talking about?

            Safu and Nezumi may speak on relatively similar levels of enthusiasm when it came to things they're knowledgeable about— whether it's neuroscience or literature— but there's no way Safu and Nezumi are alike, not even at the base level however he cut it.

            Nezumi never spoke warmly, or cheerfully, or looked at Shion like he was the most wonderful part of his life. Nezumi's words were always cold, edged, and quite frankly he looked down on Shion more than anything.

            Shion treasures them both, though. That's about all they may ever have in common. He would do anything to keep them both in his life, protect them at any cost.

            Shion recalls vividly the sensation of Nezumi's fingers interlocked with his, and he's able to calm down the extreme anxiety that rises in his chest with every thought he gets of Safu these days.

            The only way he's able to stand his ground knowing Safu is currently in danger is by Nezumi, the faith he has in the plans they have to go save her themselves. The waiting is just part of the plan. And it's a huge part of the plan— if he breaks by utter tension now, it's all going to be for naught.

            So Shion takes a deep breath for the time being, lends himself to the soothing feeling of being here, falling for Nezumi. He's able to smile as he opens his eyes to look through the old books again, listening not to his haphazard, discomforting, annoying thoughts, but to Nezumi.

            "What I'm trying to say is, authorship for the really old stuff is quite the controversial thing. And from the start, it was a no-go for you to arrange them by year published either. I would suppose that even the greatest libraries still have no clue about everything to this day," Nezumi is explaining. "Hear me, Shion? Get what I mean?"

            "I get it," Shion hums, "somehow. And there's no appeal to having just arranged everything alphabetically, right?"

            "Right, exactly."

            "Right," Shion nods to himself, "exactly."

            "So?" Nezumi prompts again, "Where do you think you would have put the Odyssey?"

            "Well, if I knew everything I know now," Shion starts, sounding a tad bit dramatic as he gets back on his feet, stretching away the strain in his legs from bending his knees for a second too long. "I might've just put it under classics with the Iliad. How would I have known the Odyssey was a sequel?"

            "A spin-off, technically— but fair enough. I don't think there was any way you could've known better before anyhow."

            "Yup," Shion concedes, casually, unafraid to admit he didn't know; he likes to believe that he's entirely past the shame of knowing less than he ought to when it comes to things like this. "Even now, I still hardly know anything about literature. Can you cut me some slack?"

            Nezumi shrugs his shoulders. He folds the page he's been stuck on and sets his book down. He rolls over away from the wall, arm unconsciously falling forward to feel Shion's residual warmth on his side of the bed. He glances at the copy of the Iliad Shion's left behind before finding that Shion's disappeared into the space between the other bookcases. "Since I'm feeling generous," Nezumi simpers into the pillow, "fine."

            While it's a topic close to Nezumi's heart for various reasons, he can't fault Shion for his naivety if it's not about the hideous workings of this world or the nihilistic cruelty of reality. Tonight, there's no need for hostility; he wouldn't let Shion make excuses for anything else.

            "I will cut you some slack."

            "Thanks," Shion answers from a far corner of the library, voice muffled from being absorbed by the volume and volumes of books.

            "I gotta say though, Shion," Nezumi calls, raising his voice if only slightly to reach Shion from the bed and beyond the first shelves across the room, "You finished the Iliad in three days. I'm surprised."

            "I don't know," Shion chuckles sheepishly, voice automatically adjusting as well, "Once I was past all the language in Shakespeare, other things seemed a little easier to digest."

            "Ooh," Nezumi moves onto his back, looking up at the ceiling and picking up Shion's book instead of his own. He raises it above him, makes a show of fanning through the pages elegantly, to no one in particular, perhaps to himself. With his arms outstretched and dust catching in his shirt sleeves, he idly muses that there was always something so calming about flipping through these pages this way. His eyes fall closed in relaxation, lips curling in satisfaction. "I'm impressed. So Your Majesty truly is a fast learner."

            "Why," Shion sings, from another corner of the library, "my most trusted liege Nezumi, was that praise?"

            Nezumi's eyes shoot open at the comment, he freezes— had he really just praised Shion? His fingers are clutching at the book now, and he has to physically stop himself from using it, open and dusty, to cover his face.

            Instead, he feigns plaintiveness despite knowing Shion hadn't seen his reaction, doesn't even turn his head. He closes Shion's book carefully and puts it down beside him, shifting to sit by propping himself up on an arm.

            Shion's warmth is fading from the mattress. Nezumi feels disarmed.

            Several thoughts occupy his mind, faster than any of the words he's given up repeatedly trying to take in all evening, and they're all about Shion.

            Easily, effortlessly, expectedly, all he can think about again is Shion.

            Nezumi licks his lips, trying to decide what to quip about first, which to scoff at and make a snide remark on, to save himself from this disarmed feeling that he absolutely hates: that Shion just sang-song an obvious attempt at a comeback, that the book by his hand lay perfectly flat and even, or that these sheets, those shelves, and this shitty place will never be the same again—

            Shion, his voice, it has a specific quality: genuine-sounding and engaging, modulations mice and children alike have grown fond of listening to for a reason or another. If he just learned to project and animate that pathetic monotone Macbeth wouldn't have to roll over in his grave— that's what Nezumi used to think. But just now, Shion's response, it was sanguine, true to character: a one-liner that undoubtedly matched Nezumi's well-rehearsed effort to play with him this king-vassal ruse.

            Nezumi lets his mind wander in that direction— when did Shion learn to act so well? It was probably a fluke and nothing more, but a part of Nezumi wouldn't put it past Shion to just learn how to do it even if they'd both agreed that he wasn't cut out to play roles he's not suited for in the least. He contemplates what kind of person Shion is, and arrives to some conclusion that if there were any book on theatrics laying around here— not unlikely, by the way— Shion could just practice as soon as he knew the theory, and he could probably do it that way with technically anything.

            Along with Nezumi's mind, his hand wandered, too, seeking more of Shion's warmth before it fled the sheets completely. Finding not nearly enough anymore, his hand settles back on Shion's book, pads of his finger flipping through the corner of the pages. Nezumi's mind settles here, too.

            Shion has tons of quirks but among those that intrigued Nezumi most was how, as he read along, Shion would unfold any dog ears Nezumi's left in the book from whenever long ago he'd read it. Nezumi adored these books but that didn't keep him from vandalizing them, folding pages to mark where he left off, or underlining or encircling or boxing lines he liked to revisit, writing his own footnotes wherever there was space. Shion, though, did none of that— he would turn these pages so gently that even the dust wouldn't shuffle. He wouldn't even use a bookmark, that boy, he would only memorize which page number he was last on, then pick it up from there next time.

            If Shion had extra time, which he always seemed to have on top of meticulously washing Inukashi's rental dogs or shopping for bargains for low-tier groceries for him and Nezumi, he would sit down with his book and read, smooth out the old folds, fix up any tears with some clear tape, and remove those pencil markings while he was at it.

            'I mark those for reference, you know,' Nezumi had confronted him once, recently, when he caught him fiddling gently with a worn copy of Tristan using an eraser. 'Well, if you ever need a line for anything,' Shion returned, airily tapping his temple with his pointer finger, 'It's in here now. You can just ask me.'

            Nezumi remembers snorting to ask if he was showing off, so this is the brain of an elite, huh? But Shion only chalked it up to mental exercise, said that if he had the Correctional Facility floor plan with its numbers of steps and angles of exposure and vulnerability crammed on its own in his head, he would lose it. And besides, he's done all this since coming here to begin with, earnest in his quest to learn about Nezumi and take him in through these books. So it happened, that every book Shion touched, though visibly aged and still dust-laden, sat nearly as flat and bound to its spine as it was the day it was printed.

            Nezumi straightens his back now.

            He vaguely recounts his grandmother's words, 'Never sigh for anyone.' She also used to tell him all the time, that this chamber had everything he would ever need.

            It was only after she was gone and he'd barely managed to get back here alive that he started to learn that they were loaded words— words that seemed to mean more than they did the last time he thought of them, each time he thought of them.

            Not sighing for others meant fighting for himself and himself alone. It meant doing anything it took to keep himself alive, coming in and out of every ordeal with new ways to survive if only for another week longer, another day. Nezumi was to sink his teeth into his lip and silently prowl anywhere he can fit, steal from the unguarded but never take more than he needed.

            And on days there was absolutely nothing to take from anywhere, places even his mice couldn't loot for the barest minimum, because that's just the kind of place the West Block is, he could retreat into this room.

            This room, dark, quiet, and underground, was secure, a safe haven.

            Not sighing for others meant crying for himself and himself alone. It meant doing anything it took to keep himself sane, and Nezumi, half-delirious from hunger and a fever, would reflect and realize that they were true, his grandmother's words: this place really did have everything he needed.

            Here, he could pick a book, a story, a line to lose himself in, keep starvation at bay by occupying himself with all kinds of tales told on paper. Here, he could practice sighing and soughing, for those characters and their tragedies, but never still for anything or anyone else. Here, he would learn about the simplistic tendencies of the human, their sensibilities, their desires; Nezumi was to smirk and whisper, grant the weak-willed's wishes with choreographed sweet nothings.

            And here, he would learn that which was his sure salvation from cold, hard poverty— Nezumi was to learn how to sing. How to let lyrics flow from his mouth and ride the wind that steals away suffering souls, and how to let scripts live through him to thieve the hearts of other humans by enchantment.

            Nezumi was to never sigh again.

            The thought came over him as he caught himself sitting motionless with baited breath— he was about to sigh again. He's lost count of how many times he's sighed in the last few months, lost count of how many times he's fought and cried but never just for himself or these stories.

            Nezumi can't even remember the last book he finished. He had an extensive, unorganized reading list, and on his off-days from the playhouse he would lay in bed the entire time and bury himself in his mountains of books to read to his mice.

            But now, distracting him from ever finishing another book, someone has stolen his attention— someone who took this place over by reading to the mice, organizing all the bookcases, making this bed every morning, keeping him warm.

            Shion has been like the sun, full of light and life and warmth, and when Nezumi is with him he feels real, and alive— Living people sure are warm.

            When they conversed, even when Nezumi had little to no idea where on earth Shion got what he's saying or how the hell he has the guts to be saying them at all— naive ideals, bare confessions, words of irrefutable hope and love— Nezumi felt real, and alive, so alive, that for the first time in his life he had more than himself and fiction to cling to.

            Whether harsh debates or playful banter, it was accompanied by stale and moldy bread, meat a day away from rotting, water heated in an old kettle— and Macbeth soup, on relatively better days, like either of their paydays from giving dogs baths and putting on shows in the theater— and they've never quite felt like luxuries before, just the bare requirement not to starve to death or completely go insane. But that he had Shion's company over shamefully cheap dinner made him ignore orders from his grandmother never to sigh, and instead Nezumi would agree with her other words, with all his hesitant heart, that this chamber—

            —these sheets, those shelves, this shitty place—

            (—and those ignorant, innocent words, and that light that stubbornly, incessantly shone through— and Shion—)

            —is all Nezumi would ever need.

            And while during these days Nezumi experienced several episodes of emotional unrest, somehow he couldn't help thinking that these have been the most peaceful days of his life. Even if there were less air to breathe in this cramped vault, less room to move on this single-size bed, less surface area of this cheap blanket to put over his scrawny body, there was also less fuel and tinder used up to keep the kerosene heater lit, less nightmares or sleepless nights to be had, and less cold mornings to wake up to.

            Life like this is comfortable.

            That Shion would come back and slip under these sheets after fiddling and twiddling around those shelves to retire with him in this room— as has become routine— is comforting to Nezumi. Life like this, with Shion,  is all Nezumi would ever need.

            But the warmth that spreads through Nezumi's chest at the thought freezes over instantaneously, unnaturally; it becomes a sharp sensation stabbing at his lungs and his heart— these peaceful, comfortable days can't last.

            These sheets, those shelves, and this shitty place—

            —and Shion—

            Nezumi suddenly feels uncertain if he's willing to wager all of this; it's the same feeling he got when he decided by himself to gather information how-many monthly paychecks' worth to get as far as he can without involving Shion and his reckless tendencies, the same feeling of grudge against salty tears forcing their way out of his eyes after clueless, inexperienced lips touched his for the very first time only to kiss him farewell, the same feeling when he held the trembling hand that struck his cheek and he had to swallow any doubts he had and keep them down, for his own sake and Shion's.

            The Manhunt is going to happen soon, so soon Nezumi can feel it in his bones, and however much he wishes to deny that these past few day have felt like he was desperately living out the remainder of this peaceful, comfortable life, it doesn't matter. The reality of the situation is that this waiting it out is part of a plan.

            Nezumi had come up with this plan— a plan with a chance at success so low that this risk shouldn't even be worth considering, even if they've maxed every factor on their side— but he had to continue keeping those doubts down, believe in his own plan, promise they would make things work out, to preserve Shion's sanity, keep his spirit alive, protect his smile.

            Now isn't the time to waver.

            Now isn't the time to waver, Nezumi knows, but even at present, on a nice, friendly night, he's beginning to yearn for these sheets, those shelves, this shitty place, and Shion—

            "Sorry, it's not a tragedy this time. But did you hear that? Nezumi praised me."

            It's hearing this gentle exchange that jolts Nezumi right out of his thoughts and back to reality; he's so startled by Hamlet's chirp and shuffling and Shion's voice that his heart feels like it's on the verge of bursting.

            His hand comes up automatically to soothe his chest but when he sees Shion approaching with a copy of the Odyssey clasped tightly in his fingers, a victorious grin on his face, and the flickering orange tint of the heater in his translucent hair, Nezumi slides his hand further upward to hold his nape in an attempt at nonchalance, poorer than before all of these thoughts.

            Shion glances at him and in his ears Nezumi can hear his heart drumming loudly and erratically to the sensation of his chest tightening, clenching, wrenching— unsoothed, because his palm has gone elsewhere, covering his vitals to make up for the fact that he'd been so disarmed he's left himself exposed again. He could swear Shion must have seen right through him.

            But Shion is only cheerfully treading back towards the bed, and when he's seated on the edge of the mattress toeing off Nezumi's slippers, happily and jokingly mumbling "Even Hamlet couldn't believe that you were praising me," the fickle warmth within Nezumi's chest, or the loss of it, puts the thorns back in his next words:

            "—Praise?" Nezumi just might have; following all the sentiment off the top of his mind just now up to this point, it felt safe to say that tonight was one of those nights that he, full from Macbeth soup, felt gracious enough to take the thorns out of his words to give Shion a real compliment. But when he thought about how this night could probably be their last together, even Nezumi can't fight the bitterness that makes him make haste of taking the praise back: "As if." He means to glare at Shion and his profile, but when he sees Shion turning to him he just rolls his eyes and they land on the flat, dusty copy of the Iliad by his hands. "You're just as good as Paris."

            Shion is blindly pushing the slippers with his heels, fixing them in an orderly fashion against the edge of the bed next to his own shoes. He tilts his head, unfamiliar with the look he caught in Nezumi's gaze before he broke eye contact to click his tongue.

            Shion revisits the words in his short-term memory, unsure of what to make of what Nezumi's just said. But, the tone of his comment was low like his usual scoffs, and the way Nezumi is averting his eyes makes Shion guess the words were meant to offend him, provoke him— yet he finds himself calm and unfazed, neither by Nezumi's words nor by his demeanor.

            It would be a grave insult to Nezumi and his praise, whether he meant it or not, if Shion hasn't learned by now how to react, if he hasn't realized that Nezumi's words are never empty. And if he didn't understand them, Shion didn't have to pry or demand or throw some kind of tantrum— he just had to figure it out on his own. He's used to it.

            Shion's learned as much in this room as Nezumi has. Perhaps even more.

            Less a serious response to what Nezumi said than an offhand answer, he tilts his head, and speaks up amidst the strange tension hanging in the air, "Then you must be Helen?"

            "The face that launched a thousand ships?" The delay in Shion's reply allowed Nezumi to regain his composure, and he's able to bring his hand away from his nape and to his chest, no longer aching, only the tips of his fingers touching the cloth of his shirt in a mock-timid gesture. He even manages a smile, sensual and pretty. "What a great compliment. That's so generous of you to say, your Majesty—"

            "You know it, Nezumi," Shion interjects, eyes lowering for a moment to imagine touching those sensual lips with his, fleetingly, before looking right at Nezumi, "You could easily be the most beautiful—"

            "Shion." Nezumi says this in a tone that warns Shion not to finish that sentence, not to finish that thought. This smile, one he reserved for seduction, worked to derail Shion, but all too well. It's no secret that Nezumi is attractive and that Shion is attracted to him, but if this carries on, Nezumi's not sure he can stay composed. His smile fades along with any emotion in his face and he continues, "Calling you as good as Paris wasn't a compliment."

            Shion gets it. Nezumi doesn't want to hear it. He drops the need to tell Nezumi he's beautiful altogether, despite believing it to be the honest truth. He settles for a noncommittal reply instead, throwing in a shrug. "Didn't think much of it, so it's fine—"

            "I'm telling you to think about it now, Shion." Nezumi picks up the book and hands it to him, lifting his facade to explain, "Paris could get the power to rule over a huge chunk of the world or the intelligence to fight and conquer any other place he wanted— but he chose a girl."

            Shion takes the book and looks to the shelves, deciding by the cold floor and the slippers tucked under the bed that he'll put it back tomorrow. He tosses it gently to the bottom of the bed before pursing his lips as he looks Nezumi over again. "You... You're so cynical."

            Nezumi snorts, "Great, what else is new—?"

            "Paris didn't choose a girl over power and intelligence," Shion continues without missing a beat. "Simply put, wasn't he just not interested in what Athena and Hera had to offer? Aphrodite, on the other hand, didn't promise just a girl—"

            "—the heck are you saying—"

            "—Aphrodite promised him the love of the most beautiful mortal in the world."

            Nezumi's eyebrows draw together and he finds himself scowling, "What did you say?"

            "Paris chose love," Shion repeats, sounding like he had all the confidence in the world to be concluding such a cheesy speech. "Over power or intelligence, Paris chose love—"

            "—And ended up waging war on all of Greece? Over such a pointless thing?" Nezumi could say a thousand things about how rotten and obsolete some values portrayed in literature are, especially in the classics, but he only scoffs: "Pretty dumb if you ask me—"

            "It's not dumb—!" Shion starts to retort, but Nezumi snides,

            "It is!"

            Literature held tens and thousands of stories about humans making dumb decisions, and what good was literature if one didn't look past the entertainment it brought to learn from it? Especially in Nezumi's experience, from being smoked out like a literal rat out of his first home by greed-ridden intelligence and merciless power, to having to live in a literal dumpsite where people struggle everyday to make ends meet— Nezumi knew that it was human nature to just take and take and take, graciously receive anything offered to them that would benefit themselves, or seize that which isn't theirs by force if they were rapacious enough— at the very least No.6 was a prime example of this.

            And then it hits Nezumi, the realization— it's right in front of him. In front of him is Shion, candid, altruistic, simple-minded Shion, who's barely made a dent in learning about the true, hideous nature of No.6— but for sure, for sure, Shion knows that if he had stayed on the other side of the wall, no, if he had never opened that window and taken Nezumi in, he would be well on his way to becoming the elite he was destined to be, apathetic and oblivious and uncaring but ultimately well-off, sleeping in a luxurious bed complete with plush pillows and duvets, reading and writing theses on ecology as his expertise without having to even lift a finger, and living in a completely technologically equipped mansion designed to give him the best life.

            Despite all of that, Shion is right here, in front of him. On these thin, dirty, secondhand sheets, among those dusty, dilapidated, old-fashioned shelves, in this shoddy, dingy excuse of a room. Shion is right here because of him, because Shion was drawn— mind, body, and soul— to Nezumi.

            "Sounds familiar, doesn't it? Someone who had immense power and intelligence for the taking..." The words steadily come forth from Nezumi's mouth lacking bite or any trace of derision. He just sounds like what he's stating is matter-of-fact, "...but he chose to run after love."

            "Ah." Shion understands this fully well.

            He always thinks about the what-if's of having never met Nezumi— when he can't sleep after Nezumi kicks him out of bed or hogs the blanket, when he zones out trying to pick something new to read from hundreds of choices without Nezumi's explicit review and recommendation, or when he's watching the kettle to keep the water warm while he waits for Nezumi to come home. This train of thought always goes through No.6 and living his successful and sheltered and boring life— but it eventually finds its way back to the West Block, living his inconvenient, danger-filled, heart-stopping life with Nezumi.

            "So that's what you meant..."

            "...That's how it is, isn't it." Nezumi lays back down, hair sprawling all over their pillow.

            "Yeah." Shion feels like this should have hurt, like it always does when he has to question everything he ever thought he knew— But there's no questioning here, only a feeling in his core that he can't name, something reassuring.

            Shion feels like Nezumi had finally acknowledged his feelings: yes, like Paris, Shion was ready to wage war against all of No.6, because over intelligence and power in that artificial paradise, that greedy parasite, Shion felt real and alive here, too. Shion had chosen these sheets, those shelves, and this shitty place; Shion had chosen Nezumi, and he had chosen love.

            Oddly fully satisfied by what's just transpired, Shion takes a deep breath that thins out into a smile as he lays back down beside Nezumi, not before Nezumi can grab his own, unread book out of the way. "Well, sorry. I guess I'm just not as cynical as you. It can't be helped. Besides, at least for me, I know it'll all be worth it in the end."

            Can it really not be helped? Nezumi could hear the self-assured smile in Shion's voice, and his first instinct is to attack him for saying such a naive thing— Shion doesn't know enough, he hasn't seen enough, hasn't read enough of this world to be saying he isn't a cynic. He doesn't have enough an idea of what's going to happen from here on out to be saying it was all worth it. In what end?

            If the manhunt really happened tomorrow... would you still be able to smile and say that? Shion?

            But Nezumi only returns to his earlier position when Shion had gone off to look for the Odyssey right after finishing the Iliad, facing the wall. He unconsciously sighs at the relief— Shion's warmth is reaching him again.

            He thinks to tell Shion not to start another book when he hears him open to the first page of the Odyssey. If the Manhunt really happened tomorrow, he might never be able to come back to it.

            Nezumi opens his book. The lines still don't register. He might never be able to come back to it, either. He wills himself not to think of it. He wills himself to say nothing more.

            Tomorrow, Nezumi is going to have hogged the sheets again but Shion will make the bed nevertheless. Nezumi is going to ask about another title to try to read and Shion will guide him through the shelves using his mental catalog. They'll take turns reading their books to the mice, maybe dance again in this room before going out.

            They won't know that it will be the last of these sheets, those shelves, and this shitty place that they'll ever see.