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The scissors went snip snip snip and Korekiyo could feel his head growing lighter. He was aware it was a physical sensation, but it's almost as if the fog inside his head is lifting as well, the world gaining color it did not have previously: from the sepia tones of old photography to the sober shades of the tiny bedroom they were sequestered in.
Rantaro, manning the scissors, peered curiously at him. He smelled like menthol and dirt, and when Korekiyo asked if he knew how to cut hair Rantaro asked no questions - instead, he simply gave Korekiyo that almost lazy smile, and guided him to the little room he rented. He’d grabbed one of the kitchen chairs, dragged it in front of the mirror, and Korekiyo sat in there, staring at his sister. She smiled at him, prettily, mouthing words he knew well enough to repeat without prompting.
Then: the feeling of a brush in his long hair, taming the hair he can barely touch on the worst days because it feels like a ghost puppeteering his every move, the sound of scissors opening and closing. Snip snip snip. Hair, softly falling into a bedsheet.
"Is this alright?" He asked, and Korekiyo looked at his reflection. His hair now reached his shoulders, and he could imagine that when it grazed on naked skin, it would feel too much like nails, leaving angry, red marks behind. A shudder made goose flesh rise in his arms, safely hidden by the long sleeves he wore - if anyone touched him, Korekiyo would scream.
"Shorter." A beat, just enough time to remember some manners. He’d been taught those, presumably. "Please."
Rantaro nodded, went snip snip snip again, grabbed, almost lazily, a clipper. A few soft bzzts later and he has an almost respectable haircut.
"Better?"
The boy in the mirror does not look like his sister: he looks like his own person, instead of being simply an extension of someone else.
"Yeah." Korekiyo choked on the words, but forced them to leave his throat anyway. "Thanks."