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Nezumi has no vulnerability.
To survive in West Block, he had to have no vulnerability. The place he called his home was set far away from the cluster of broken houses from an abandoned past. Even more remotely so that his home was underground, away from prying eyes that wandered too far. He’s well guarded, in his underground home, with no vulnerability; hidden amongst towers of classical books which No.6 forbade.
Life was as good as it could get.
Until he came along, ripping asunder barriers with casual, naive words.
“Nezumi, I think I’m almost done.” He could hear Shion;s straining voice, a book clattered to the floor, then several more.
“It doesn’t sound like you’re done.” Nezumi teased, comfortably seated on the couch. His previously clustered room gradually became less clustered, stacks of books now neatly organized on the bookshelves. Shion groaned, rubbing the back of his sore head. Luckily, only one book managed to fall on him and it wasn’t too thick like most of the other books.
“I am. It’s the top shelves I’m having trouble with.”
“It’s a shame you’re not tall.”
“I’m taller than I was four years ago.” replied Shion, picking up the books.
“Not as tall as me.”
Shion peeked around the corner of the bookshelf. “Then why don’t you help me?”
“Someone has to look after the soup.” Nezumi waved his hand over the heated pot.
“Excuses,” Shion replied as he disappeared once again behind the massive shelves.
An easy conversation not unlike many they’ve had. It had become the norm for him now, listening to Shion talk. The boy never shuts up, always going about the dogs he washed, the kids he read stories to while Nezumi worked, things he’d seen when Rikiga took him around town. Always rambling with an unguarded expression, smiling as if their world was stable.
It needed to stop.
It had to be stopped.
But Nezumi couldn’t bring himself to stop it. The vulnerability he prided himself in not having was in front of him, chipping away those carefully built defenses.
Shion is his vulnerability. Ever since that cloudy night, when at his lowest, he was shown a side of humanity he thought never existed.
Shion will never know how much that night affected Nezumi. He thinks he does but he couldn’t possibly understand. Nearly at the foothold of death, Nezumi ran, passing several houses with locked windows, heeding the warning of their eerie homes of the storm. Pausing to catch what little breath he could suck in. His legs were sore and bruised, the soles of his feet dully throbbing, and the wound on his arm bleeding. Nezumi knew he should’ve given up and died but the will to live was stronger. Much, much more stronger.
Why was he born? To die alone? To die with no one knowing he existed?
Shion could never understand. To feel hopelessly alone and frustrated, thinking his only purpose in life was to die. Only to hear Shion’s scream, the only human sound blaring against nature. To see the windows left open as an invitation. Nezumi existed because of Shion.
Nezumi narrowed his eyes.
He’s going to kill me.
Nezumi stirred the pot, watching a potato slowly swirl along with the wooden spoon. If only he had killed Shion earlier, he wouldn’t be in the current situation he was; aiding Shion into No.6, into Hell itself. He glanced at Shion. His back was too him, reaching on the tips of his toes to grab a book. Shion never pulled up a guard around Nezumi. Not even when Nezumi pinned him to the floor, stating he could kill him.
“I know you won’t kill me.”
Was it blinding trust? Or was it the words of a white-haired idiot?
Nevertheless, Shion was right. It was too late now. He couldn’t kill him; his one and only vulnerability.
“Nezumi?” He looked up. Shion was looking at him with concern. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine,” Nezumi replied with a dismissive hand. “I’m not as weak as-”
He stopped. Shion had walked in front of him and with no hesitation, placed both his hands on either side of Nezumi’s face and gently pressed his forehead against Nezumi’s. His eyes widened. He could feel warmth radiating off Shion’s hands. His breathing slowed, almost afraid to breathe until Shion pulled away first.
“You don’t feel warm.” He said, oblivious to Nezumi’s odd reaction. Nezumi quickly recovered, checking back his expression.
“I’m not weak enough to get sick.” He uttered, annoyed. He could still feel the lingering warmth from Shion’s hand. He shuddered and cleared his mind. “The soup’s done so let’s eat.”
“Right,” Shion replied, carelessly smiling, just like that careless gesture, simple little telltales of care. Shion went to retrieve the bowls. Nezumi leaned forward, his dark fringe obscuring his eyes as he tightly clasped his hands together.
Shion was going to kill him.
The white-haired idiot had confessed that he couldn’t stand the thought of losing Nezumi. Although Nezumi didn’t say it, the feeling was mutual. Nezumi needed Shion. It was too late to kill Shion, too late to distance himself, and much too late to change the course they were set on. He was going to take his vulnerability to Hell. Nezumi had no choice. Shion would go, regardless if Nezumi wasn't, alone and mostly certain be killed.
He had to protect it. Shion had to be protected. If anything happened to Shion, he wouldn’t be able to handle it.
The brown mouse, Cravat, climbed up his leg, perching itself on top of his knee and chirped. Nezumi lifted his head, setting aside his thoughts as his Shion walked backed with two empty bowls.
“Let’s eat.” He cheerfully said. Nezumi relaxed and smiled back. He grabbed the bowl Shion extended towards him.
Hell be damned, Nezumi was not going to let Shion die.