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Nezumi had worn through another pair of socks. Not an unusual occurrence—on the contrary, it was so usual it was really just annoying, especially with another person now (and one who was used to well-made clothing, mind). It’s hard to find quality socks and shoes when you live in a slum, however much money you may or may not have. It was quite a few years ago that, because of this, he decided to invest in a sewing kit.
His gran had had one, and he remembered her using it all the time. It revealed a strangely normal side to an otherwise rather terrifying woman, and it stuck in his memory like burrs to the cheap fabric of his socks. Not that burrs ever got anywhere near his socks—it wasn’t like he went gallivanting through bramble fields without shoes on or something.
Regardless.
So yes, Nezumi knew how to sew, and made something of a habit of it. He didn’t really know anything about embroidery, and the only thread he owned was black, but he did have a little jar full of loose buttons and scissors that were never allowed to touch anything but fabric. He didn’t exactly publicize it, but he could only assume Shion knew that he did it, otherwise how else would those holes and tears get mended? He always felt strange stitching up clothes that weren’t his, but knew that Shion had probably never even seen a sewing machine. Someone had to do it.
That was why it was so weird when Shion came home from Inukashi’s one day, took one look at him and the sewing kit, and began to laugh.
Nezumi had a glare on his face before he even heard anything—he could practically feel the other’s amusement. “What?” he demanded. “Why are you laughing?”
Shion made a last-second attempt to hide behind his hand, but he must’ve realized it was useless because he gave it up a couple more seconds into his fit of laughter. “It’s—it’s just—” He glanced away for a moment, trying (unsuccessfully) to gather himself. “You’re always doing something scary, or beautiful, you’re singing or acting or knife-fighting or making threats, and I’m the one doing dumb housework and washing dogs and reading to children, but here you are, sat on the couch, darning socks.”
Nezumi grabbed a thin old pin cushion full of sharp metal points from beside him and held it up in defense. “I will throw this at you.”
Shion only laughed harder, falling backwards into an armchair and knocking over several books. Hamlet yelped and leapt two feet in the other direction.
“Sorry,” he managed to force out. “This isn’t nearly as funny as I’m making it out to be. I don’t know why I’m laughing so much.”
“Are you sleep-deprived?”
“What makes you think that?”
“Your bloodshot eyes and the fact that you look slightly like you’re having a seizure?”
Shion put his face in a pillow and laughed. He twisted around in the chair for a moment, mumbled something indecipherable, then resurfaced to breathe with his hair all tangled and his cheeks red. “It is very warm in here,” he said vaguely, a grin still in his voice.
“Oh, you caught something, then, did you?” asked Nezumi. “Bet it was from those little kids. Didn’t your mama tell you to wash your hands after playing with dirty children? C’mere, airhead.”
“They’re not that dirty,” Shion protested, standing and walking to sit next to Nezumi, who grabbed his hands, then felt his forehead. “Everyone’s dirty. And I didn’t ask to get sick. I don’t feel that sick.”
“Your eyes are alight and your skin is hot, you’re sick. Also, you were laughing like a deranged fool, but I think we can forget about that.”
“No, we can’t. You’re darning socks. It’s hilarious.”
“Well, who did you expect to do it?”
“The mice,” he offered. “Like in Cinderella.”
Nezumi suppressed a groan. “You really have been spending too much time with those kids,” he muttered.
“Hey, you’re the one with the billion storybooks in this place.”
“Frankly, I don’t think the mice did embroidery in the Brothers Grimm version, which is what I’ve got.”
“Are you arguing with a delirious person? That’s not very nice.”
“Yeah, well, you’re a special case, your Highness.”
Shion laughed again and threw his arms around Nezumi, fastening them around his back.
“Wha—?” Nezumi gave a halfhearted attempt to shake him off. “Shion, this is too touchy.”
“No, it isn’t,” he insisted. “You like when I’m touchy.”
This was news to Nezumi. “I do?”
“When I latch onto you at night you stop kicking and fidgeting, so yes, I assume you must like it.”
Nezumi looked down at him, dismayed. “Shion, you shouldn’t do that, I might’ve been having bad dreams or something. That sort of contact could make it even worse…you’re lucky I haven’t broken your nose or something.”
“Well, you nearly sprained my knee once if it’s any consolation. Remember?”
Nezumi snorted. "That’s my consolation prize? You whining about a sore joint like an old man for a week straight?”
Shion grinned up at him, and Nezumi felt his heart wrench with a hodgepodge of emotions that he couldn’t find the effort or time to understand. He changed the subject.
“You should go to bed,” he advised. “Make a cold compress and have some water.”
“I think I’ll just sleep,” Shion mumbled.
“Fine, I’ll make a compress. I just don’t want you being bedridden for more than a few days, you’re half this household’s income.”
“Is that what we’re calling it now? A household?”
“A hovel, if you prefer,” Nezumi acquiesced. He got to his feet, pulling Shion up with him, then pushed him towards the bed. “Take off your sweater and socks and all.”
“So you can darn them?” Shion replied instantly.
Nezumi hissed and made a retort of mediocre vitriol and subpar wit (something along the lines of “don’t make me darn you”), but the other just laughed as he climbed into bed. He retreated to the bathroom to make the cold press, which was nothing more than a towel drenched in freezing water, then wrung out. He had no doubt that he’d make several more throughout the night, and possibly into the morning, depending on how bad Shion’s bug was. Were fevers contagious? He’d never quite learned as much about everyday illnesses as he had about treating bullet wounds and poisoned gashes. Not that that knowledge was any less useful.
He returned from the bathroom to find Shion lying in bed with most his clothes discarded, but several blankets pulled over him. That was to be expected. He’d probably be getting some cold flashes, too. Nezumi folded the towel over itself a few times, then draped it over Shion’s forehead. He barely even reacted—he was almost completely asleep already. On and out like a light.
Nezumi wondered if Shion’s fever-muddled brain would remember the sock-darning escapade when he woke up. He certainly hoped he wouldn’t. He didn’t want to have to deal with that. After he was better again, he had no doubt that Shion wouldn’t find anything really funny about it at all; if anything, he’d want to learn how to do it himself. Nezumi smiled a little at that. He didn’t think he had enough finger bandages to last the days it would take Shion to learn all the different stitches required to patch up a shirt. Then again, if he knew anything about Shion at all, the crazy airhead wouldn’t care a bit. Stabbed myself in the thumb? No problem, let’s keep going, I’ll just bleed all over the fabric. Yeah, wasn’t he rather fond of needles anyway? Nezumi recalled the expression Shion had had on his face when he’d pulled out a syringe to numb a complete stranger’s injured arm more than four years ago.
Yeah, Nezumi thought fondly, rubbing the scar from that bullet wound as he sat down and returned to his sewing. Completely crazy.