Work Text:
“My love, thy hair is one kingdom, the king whereof is darkness. Thy forehead is a flight of flowers…”
Hamlet squeaked a few times at Shion, rather excitedly, he thought. Shion was still trying to get a feel for what things Hamlet liked to hear read aloud—in some ways, it seemed like he liked anything. But Shion noticed he got more squeaks out of the mouse when old-timey words were used, like thy and whereof. Why the mouse had an inclination for old literature, Shion assumed he would never know; but at the very least it seemed to fit his namesake.
Shion scratched Hamlet’s head, leaned back in his chair, cleared his throat, and decided to start from the beginning again.
“My love—”
Click.
“Thy hair is one kingdom…”
“What rubbish are you reading now?” Nezumi asked—or rather demanded—shutting the door behind him.
“Welcome back, Nezumi,” Shion replied, looking up from his book. “How was work?”
“I didn’t think there were any lousy love poems buried in the books here,” Nezumi continued, refusing to greet him or answer his question and jumping straight to criticism.
“Of course you wouldn’t know. The books were all disorganized. But I found it when I was cleaning up.”
Nezumi shrugged. “It doesn’t sound familiar. Who’s the author?”
“E.E. Cummings.”
“He sounds like a hack,” Nezumi said, tossing his scarf carelessly on the couch and throwing himself on it just as carelessly.
“You’ve barely heard a few lines. There’s no way you can tell just from that.”
Nezumi, looking up at Shion from the couch with a bored expression on his face, waved his hand. “Go on, then. Hamlet looks like he’s eager for you to continue.”
Shion cleared his throat, then read:
my love
thy hair is one kingdom
the king whereof is darkness
thy forehead is a flight of flowers
thy head is a quick forest
filled with sleeping birds
thy breasts are swarms of white bees
upon the bough of thy body
thy body to me is April
in whose armpits is the approach of spring—
Nezumi made a gagging noise.
Hamlet squeaked.
“What’s wrong with it?” Shion asked, starting to get a bit annoyed. “Was it the armpits—”
“Yes,” Nezumi said, “that was incredibly unromantic. Not to mention your speaking voice. It still hasn’t improved, after all this time. Why Hamlet likes it when you make a love poem sound like a eulogy, I’ll never know.”
Nezumi had barely been home for five minutes, and yet he was already at the prime and peak of his unrelenting rudeness. Shion sighed. He was about to close the book when Nezumi quickly rose and plucked it from his hands.
“Hold on, don’t just stop there. Hamlet would be so disappointed. I’ll show you how a pro reads a love poem.”
“You just got home. Don’t you want to relax at all? Do something other than make fun of me?”
“Make fun, tut, tut. How crass. It’s constructive criticism. I’m trying to help you better yourself. And you’re not going to do it by reading the ugly parts of subpar poetry with a voice that sounds like the flies that buzz around West Block meat.”
He either had a really bad day, Shion thought, or a really good day at work. It was hard for Shion to tell, since Nezumi rarely, if ever, told him about it. It was also hard to tell since Nezumi was pretty much like this constantly, regardless of what kind of day he had outside the underground room.
“Okay, Mr. Pro. Go ahead.” Shion sat back in his chair.
Nezumi sat on the arm of the couch, close to Shion, and cleared his throat. He sat up straight, took a deep breath. The room was silent for a few moments, as even Hamlet had quieted down and was still, eager for his master to begin. Despite only a few seconds passing, Shion felt a palpable change in the mood of the room, all the unpleasantness and teasing Nezumi had possessed earlier dissipating in seconds, the air becoming calm, cool. Nezumi was focused, serious, his gray eyes intent upon the page.
“My love,” Nezumi began, in a voice that was soft and light, but firm and commanding at the same time, “thy head is a casket—” And he reached out a finger to gently touch Shion’s forehead. Shion felt a jolt of electricity shoot up his sternum from the unexpected touch. He had expected Nezumi to just read—but no, he thought, this is Nezumi; Nezumi would never do things halfway; of course he was performing.
“Of the cool jewel of thy mind,” Nezumi continued, and his finger carefully went up Shion’s forehead to his crown as he spoke. “The hair of thy head is one warrior, innocent of defeat—” And his hand spread out flat against Shion’s head, slowly and lightly caressing Shion’s hair until he reached the hair at Shion’s neck, his fingers brushing the fine white locks and his fine pale skin. “Thy hair upon thy shoulders is an army with victory and with trumpets…”
At this point Shion noticed that his heart was racing—from Nezumi’s touch, and from his captivating performance. Nezumi stopped reading, and smirking leaned back with the ease and smugness of someone who had just won something, his arrogance replacing all the previous grace and candor. Damn, Shion thought, embarrassed, because Nezumi was right, and he really was good at reading poems aloud—and because Nezumi knew that Shion thought so, too, and he hoped that he hadn’t felt Shion’s heart before with his fingers at his neck.
Nezumi said nothing. Shion thought he would brag, or ask Shion what he thought, but he just sat there, smug, waiting for Shion to speak. Hamlet squeaked and ran down Shion’s arm and out of sight, and Shion snapped out of his stupor.
“Of course you’re good,” Shion said, a bit defensively. “You’re an actor. I’m not.”
“It doesn’t take an actor to read a love poem well,” Nezumi countered.
“Then what’s your secret, Professional Love Poem Reader?”
“The secret,” Nezumi said, unfazed by Shion’s taunting, “is that love poems always have an object. If you read them without purpose, they fall flat. If you give them meaning, read them to somebody—” Nezumi sat up straight again, assuming his actor pose. “‘The hair of thy head is one warrior, innocent of defeat’…” His hand fell through Shion’s hair again. But then he was silent. As Nezumi had been nonstop chatter since he came home, from bursting through the door and ranting to the eloquent performance he just gave, the speechless silence unsettled Shion a bit.
“Thy hair upon thy shoulders,” Shion continued, softly, “is an army with victory and with trumpets.”
“So it is,” Nezumi said solemnly. Then he shut the book and stood. “Anyway, I’m tired now. Making me have to deal with your questionable literary taste as soon as I get home. Next time you want to do that, try something like Rimbaud instead.”
“Or,” Shion started, “you can keep your unwanted opinions to yourself.” The jab came easily to him, but the previous mood hadn’t quite left him; he could still feel Nezumi’s hands on his hair, the softness of his voice hanging in the air around him, the direct sincerity of his gray eyes. It spread in his soul like a pebble landing in water.
“My, my, at least your tongue remains sharp. That will aid you where your lack of eloquence won’t.”
“Nezumi—” Shion started, but he didn’t have anything else to say. He was dumbfounded. He was always dumbfounded when Nezumi came in like a hurricane, and seemed completely unaware of his own intensity and volubility. He brought rain and wind and chaos, and left everything upturned, walking away from it all as if it hadn’t happened, leaving Shion to gaze at the wonderful wreckage left behind.
Nezumi raised a questioning eyebrow at him. Shion tried to think of something to say. “We’re almost out of bread,” he finally said.
“When are we not?” Nezumi asked. “Lucky for us, I got paid extra today. I’ll get some more tomorrow.”
“A-ha!” Shion said out loud before he could stop himself. “I knew it. Something good did happen to you today.”
“Shove it,” Nezumi replied, turning away from him, making his way toward their food supply.
Shion stayed put. He ran his fingers through his hair, the ghost of Nezumi’s touch still lingering. The hair of thy head is one warrior… his hair, scarred permanently white, proof that he was still alive and fighting. He already accepted it, but Nezumi reaffirmed it. He felt light, like he was floating; like Nezumi’s gusts and gales in their attempt to toss him around had failed, and instead he was fascinated by the way they lifted him off the ground.
He picked up the book. Nezumi was right, about the poem needing an object, a meaning. Whether he was aware of it or not, he wouldn’t look at the poem the same way again.