Work Text:
“… desire… carry.”
Their feet halted mid-step.
It was impossible, how could—but then, a memory flickered, sharp and vivid. Fiery orange locks whipping close enough to brush against their face, and a flash of teeth, shark-like, in the gaping maw of the creature.
(“desire you body have.”
“I see.”)
Oh.
Panic jolted through them, twisting their insides into knots. They spun on their heels, bolting back toward the blazing fire. Damp clothes clung to their skin as they pushed forward, icy dread coursed through their veins. Their breath came in frantic, uneven bursts, their heart hammered cold and sharp in their chest.
The flames grew brighter as they neared, but it only plunged them deeper into darkness, like rain pouring from the edges of the heat. At the sound of their footsteps, the blindfolded man standing beside it turned his head slightly, his face blank and inscrutable. He lingered for a moment before shifting back to the flames without a word. They came to a trembling halt before him, and pointed to the one lying in the fire, its body writhing faintly.
“Mr. Silvair,” they gasped, their voice hoarse and cracking, “can them return similar?”
The firelight cast uneasy, flickering shadows across his features, obscuring his expression.
“… maybe.”
Their breath hitched, sharp and metallic in their throat. Yet they remained quiet, sensing that his response was unfinished. For a long moment, only the fire’s crackle filled the air. Then he spoke again, his voice muted.
“me can research,” he stood unnervingly close to the fire, the tongues of heat curling at the tattered edges of his coat. His posture was still like an old, weary statue. “need much time.”
The image of the green-lit elevator flickered in their mind, a ghost of another life. They squeezed their eyes shut against it, and their thoughts were soon overrun by the sound of laughter, sharp and high-pitched, of a familiar head tipping back and demanding to be carried. Their fists clenched until their nails broke the skin, blood welling in crescent shapes.
There really wasn’t much of a choice from the beginning.
“… me wait.”
His head tilted slightly, as if acknowledging their resolve.
“alright.”
He swung his axe down without hesitation, aiming directly at the neck of the unconscious creature sprawled on the ground.
*
“need research object.”
His back remained turned as he studied his tools before the bloodied surgical table. They’d already picked up their crowbar before the words left his mouth.
“me go out seek.”
The narrow halls echoed with their footsteps and the wet, crimson trails they left behind. The stains lingered long after, refusing to fade.
*
And so, they waited,
one bloodied crowbar at a time.
*
“you need rest.”
They pushed against the hand resting on their shoulder, but their knees buckled the moment they tried to stand. Darkness edged into their vision, and before they could fight it, he pressed them back down into the chair. His grip was firm, unyielding.
“me go out seek.”
A part of them wanted to protest, to scream, to swing their crowbar at him. But in the end, they could only manage a weary nod.
The faint creak of the door clicking shut behind him reached their ears. Moments later, exhaustion overtook them, and they slumped where they sat, unconscious.
*
And so, they waited some more.
*
Lately, they've picked up a peculiar new habit.
They divided the strands of orange hair into neat sections, fingers deftly weaving them into intricate braids. A tattered hair-styling book they’d scavenged during the last world adjustment had sparked the idea. Though the book was yellowed and damaged, its pages held countless styles. Fishtail, waterfall, lace, ladder… each one was equally fascinating and irritating in its complexity.
In the beginning, their attempts were disastrous—clumsy knots unraveling almost instantly. But persistence paid off. After countless retries, their hands had become skilled, precise. They even joked to themselves that if they ever returned to their world, they could make a living in a salon.
But for now, there was only one “client” who occupied their care.
With a quiet sigh, they tied off the braid in their hands. Today’s style was simple; their sleepless nights had sapped the energy for anything elaborate. The head resting on the table remained motionless as always, orange strands glinting faintly in the dim light.
Their lips pressed into a thin line.
With a sudden, sharp tug, they yanked the tie free. The braid unraveled, each careful weave undone in an instant.
Grabbing their crowbar, they strode out of the room, leaving the scattered hair behind.
*
And so, they waited,
one braid at a time.
*
They stumbled upon a cat ear headband while scavenging after yet another world adjustment had come to its end.
Something within them snapped. They didn’t remember much after that, only fragmented images of twisted doorways and flickering lights as they navigated the altered terrain to return to Mr. Silvair’s place. When their mind finally cleared, their raincoat was drenched in blood, the crowbar in their hand broken clean in half. The jagged edges of the shattered tool had pierced their palm, sharp pieces embedded deep into their flesh.
They stared blankly at the floor, their thoughts strangely calm, detached. They realized they won’t be able to braid hair in this state.
When Mr. Silvair found them, they were standing frozen in the center of the room, one bloodied hand gripping the broken crowbar, the other hanging limp at their side. He said nothing at first, only guided them to sit down before silently wrapping their hand in bandages. They didn’t resist, didn’t say a word. Their head remained bowed, eyes locked on the stained floor.
He didn’t ask what had happened, and they didn’t offer to explain.
“rest.” he said simply, his voice flat but firm.
Later, they curled up on one of the patient beds in the adjacent room. The faint rustle of the blanket stirred as Mr. Gap’s shadowy form appeared beneath it.
“give your heart?” he rasped, the same request as always.
They didn’t respond. They didn’t even flinch. Instead, they closed their eyes and let the darkness within themselves rise to meet the one outside. Eventually, he gave up and left, his presence slipping away like water through cracks in stone.
In their sleep, they dreamed of carrying a soft, warm sun, orange in hue. Its light spread in tender rays, illuminating their arms, filling them with a fleeting sense of comfort.
*
Just a bit more,
*
“Mr. Silvair,” they spoke one day, their back pressed against the cold wall as they sat on the ground. Across the room, he was hacking methodically at a bloody tangle of flesh and shattered bones on the surgical table.
“when will them return?”
The rhythmic thudding of the cleaver continued. They hadn’t expected anything else.
*
just a bit more.
When he first woke, his head ached as though it were being split apart.
A dense fog pressed into his mind, seeping into every corner of his thoughts. It dulled his senses, leaving him adrift in a haze that muted everything familiar. For a long moment, he lingered in that liminal space, disoriented, as if pulled prematurely from the depths of unconsciousness. His skin felt damp and cool, the sensation unnervingly similar to waking underwater, and his throat was parched, raw as though scoured by sand.
It felt as if every part of him had been shattered, crushed under a weight he couldn’t remember bearing.
A throbbing pain radiated behind his eyes, pulsing in time with the dim awareness clawing its way to the surface. The world was an incomprehensible blur, dark shadows bleeding into muted light, the shapes around him amorphous and unsteady. Shadows pooled at the edges of his vision, curling inward as the fog thickened. His head pounded, being tossed around like a toy shouldn’t have hurt this much.
But soon, the shroud began to lift.
The indistinct shapes around him slowly coalesced, edges sharpening until the space became familiar. The scent of blood hit his nose, faint but unmistakable, stirring something sharp and visceral in the back of his mind. He was no longer in that narrow hall, flames licking at him, devouring him whole. He was back in his room.
And beside him, a figure sat silently, unmoving.
Ah.
Recognition sparked weakly, like an ember struggling to catch. He tilted his gaze upward, a minuscule movement that sent a wave of dizziness cascading through him.
There was an extra chair by the table. Familiar hands worked steadily, weaving sections of his hair into careful braids. They leaned toward him slightly, their posture straight but relaxed, their raincoat draped over the chair’s back. Their crowbar rested at the chair’s leg, fresh blood gleaming on its surface.
An almost melodious joy thrummed in his mind with every soft, deliberate tug at his hair.
“.....”
He parted his lips, as though to speak, but no sound emerged. The only noise that escaped was a faint, strained hiss, like air leaking from a punctured pipe. That was when it dawned on him. He had returned to his original form. He was a lone head again.
Was his throat shredded when the body had been severed from him? No, he realized with mounting dread. It was more likely that his esophagus and airway had been completely destroyed. The thought sent a jolt of irrational fear through him, an overwhelming squeeze in his nonexistent chest.
But before panic could overtake him, the sensation in his throat shifted, contracting unnaturally, as though the remnants of his being were still trying to find their place.
"Cough! Kaff, khoff... khak."
He turned sharply to the side, his entire form convulsing with a violent fit of coughing. The sound startled him. It was raw and broken, but unmistakably his. His voice was back, fractured but present. He wheezed, breath heavy and uneven, each intake scraping against the rawness in his throat. Relief rippled through him.
The sound pulled their gaze upward abruptly.
Their hollowed face came into view, sharp cheekbones jutting beneath pallid, sunken skin. Their tiredness seemed etched into the dim light itself. Their eyes were bloodshot, exhaustion dulling the expression to something worn. Even their jawline seemed to have sharpened dangerously, a knife’s edge where softness once lay.
The braid they had been working on slipped from their fingers, strands unraveling into a loose mess. They glanced down, brows furrowing for a brief moment in contemplation, but then simply let it be, abandoning the effort.
Their face softened as they looked back at him, smoothing out the lines of their weariness.
"You're awake. Are you still uncomfortable?"
Their voice held a gentleness that felt out of place in the barren stillness of the room. He didn’t understand the words, but the unfiltered care was unmistakable. It was a rare tenderness, one they reserved only for him. And he didn’t know what expression his face wore as he looked up at them, but their eyes widened slightly, and their lips parted in surprise.
For the first time in a long time, the two of them faced each other properly. Yet there was no comfort in it for him—only a deep, cutting awareness of his defective nature. Their inquisitive gaze seemed to pierce through the haze of his mind, and then, a memory surged forward, unbidden. He remembered the last time he had faced them like this: barreling toward them with legs that wobbled and faltered like a newborn’s, clawing with hands that ignored his every desperate, screaming thought to stop. His mouth had opened wide, yet not to speak, not to smile, but to bite.
The shiver hit him all at once, running through him like ice cracking beneath pressure. His mind got caught up in the moment of his body being severed, limbs betraying him to the bitter end, the undeniable need to destroy whatever was within reach consuming him, even as he was facing the one human he liked the most.
Stop, stop, stop—
“you alright?” their voice broke through his spiraling thoughts, this time in his own language. Their hand moved toward him as if to touch his forehead.
Reflexively, he rolled aside, just enough to evade their reach.
The sudden motion froze the air between them. Something inside him sank, sharp and heavy, dragging him down with it. He squeezed his eyes shut, fire blooming at the back of his eyelids. It seared through him, a burning heat against the cold that clung to his skin like a drowning man’s grip. Their fingers clenched before retreating soundlessly.
He heard no footsteps followed. They didn’t leave.
He told himself it didn’t matter, that his desire to be carried by them was inconsequential, a longing that held no weight. He could go wherever he needed, whether by his own will or by the hands of those who handled him roughly, casting him about like a mere object. It didn’t matter, he told himself again. He had always found his way back to this room, even before they appeared before him for the first time, looking at him sprawled on the ground and carrying him without hesitation, no question asked.
But no matter how many times he repeated it, the ache remained.
(An insidious voice whispered that actually, actually, he wanted nothing more than to let himself be held in their arms again, happily, without a care, like before. But they wouldn’t be happy holding nothing but a bodiless head.)
The miserable feeling clawed its way up, growing larger with every suffocating second of silence, swelling far beyond what his small, severed form could contain. Still, he turned away stubbornly, hiding his face, showing them only the back of his head.
Until finally, a soft, broken sniff escaped him.
His face twisted in agony as if the emotion itself was trying to force its way out. He couldn’t hold it in anymore. All he wanted was to be with them. Why was something so simple so unbearably painful?
“you desire me body have,” his voice cracked, unsteady even to his own ears. His mouth quivered as the words tumbled out. “… me cannot. cannot.”
He repeated it over and over, each syllable choked out like gravel scraping his throat. The words were heavy on his tongue, like dirt being stuffed into his mouth. Yet he forced himself to swallow, no matter how much his existence protested against it. A sick, icy weight settled in his core, dragging him into a rising wave of nausea.
It felt wrong, wrong, wrong . Yet he knew it wasn’t.
The cold, hard tabletop jarred against his skin as his trembling head shifted, and for a moment, he felt his whole body—or what was left of it—would collapse into itself. He gagged violently, though nothing could ever come up. He had no stomach, no gut, no physical vessel to wrench painfully. Never in his existence had he envied others so profoundly. He envied their bodies, their ability to break down and vomit, to give in to the rawness of their urges. But that was beyond him. If he lost his sentience, he wouldn’t be himself anymore. He wouldn’t be anything at all.
His throat burned like fire, but still, he held on. A head without a body has nothing to vomit. His breaths came shallow and ragged, scraping through his mouth like sandpaper, harsh and unrelenting.
And then, finally, the tears came.
They trickled from his eyes, carving pathways of anguish down his cheeks. A strangled, wounded sound ripped from him, raw and piercing.
“cannot! cannot! cannot!”
The words were a frantic, desperate mantra, each one echoing like a scream caught in a collapsing tunnel. The air he breathed churned uselessly in his throat, rushing back and forth without lungs to anchor it. The sensation scraped cruelly at his insides, and a grotesque illusion flashed across his eyes about how the force of his screams might tore his tongue to shreds.
He blinked the horrifying thought away, letting the bitterness inside spill forth like an unchecked torrent.
He cried. Truly, wholly, and miserably cried. His sobs tore through him relentlessly, as though his esophagus might rupture under the weight of his wailing. His vision blurred with tears, and the throbbing in his head swelled as though fists were pounding at the inside of his skull, desperate to escape. The sharp ringing in his ears was deafening, a shrill cacophony like the sirens he remembered from those dark hallways, back when his sentience was slipping away with every passing moment.
Panicked, his single hand flung itself over his ear, futilely trying to block out the noise. But one hand was not enough. It couldn’t shield him from the overwhelming illusion of sound, nor from the reality of his anguish. Tears streamed down his face, and his cries turned hoarse and desperate, his voice crumbling under the weight of his misery. He sobbed so hard it felt as if he might faint, his mind spinning in chaotic circles. If he had a body right now, his heart would surely leap out of his mouth from the force of his cries.
He rolled left and right, desperately trying to escape the pain clawing at him from the inside. His movements became erratic, and before he realized it, he’d reached the edge of the table. The hand darted forward and seized the braid of his hair to pull him back. But he yanked free from its grasp with a reckless force, ignoring the sharp sting as strands of his precious hair tore loose. The hand, undeterred, scrambled on its five fingers to intercept him at the edge, positioning itself like a barrier to shove him back to safety.
He collided into it with more force than he thought possible, the impact sending the hand wobbling precariously.
And then, with a single, sickening motion, both of them went over the edge.
For a moment, everything was still.
They stood frozen, their face smoothed into a blank expression as if their mind couldn’t fully process what had just happened. Reality snapped back in just as he began to plummet. In a flash, they lunged forward, arms outstretched, and caught him before he could meet the unforgiving floor.
For a while, the room was filled with nothing but the sound of his labored wheezing and their low voice attempting to calm him, though it was unclear if they really spoke for him or for themself. They clenched their teeth as they murmured soothing words in their language, frustrated when they couldn’t translate "breathe" into his. Resorting to action, they held him tightly, one arm supporting him while the other patted the back of his head in a steady rhythm, trying to ground him.
The hand skittered to his side on the floor, wriggling anxiously like a small creature desperate to help but powerless to do so.
He was lost in his own collapsing world, his thoughts racing and fracturing all at once. He couldn’t process their touch, couldn’t hear their words. Everything was drowned beneath the phantom sensation of choking on smoke, a searing memory that burned hotter than reality.
Seeing this, their brows knitted in deep concern. Then, carefully, they tilted his chin up. His face was streaked with tears, his swollen eyes barely able to stay open. His brow was furrowed tightly in agony, his mouth trembling. The sight was so wretched, so profoundly helpless, that they leaned in, pressing their forehead lightly against his as if by instinct. Their breath brushed against his face as their fingers ghosted over his damp cheeks. Carefully, they wiped at the corners of his eyes, smoothed his furrowed brow before threading softly through his disheveled hair.
Gradually, the icy chill of his skin began to thaw under the faint warmth of their touch. His ragged breathing slowed, the sharp edge of panic dulled. It started to even out, though a stray whimper still slipped from his lips.
“Mr. Chopped,” they said quietly.
He let out a fractured sound in response, barely audible. The heat of their hands against his scalp was beginning to replace the searing flames in his memory, extinguishing it bit by bit.
“sorry.”
For a fleeting moment, he stilled, his hiccuping breaths halting as his unfocused eyes blinked up at them.
Their expression turned contemplative as they tried to find the right words, piecing together a sentence in his language with painstaking care, ensuring no misunderstanding could creep in this time.
“me desire you body have,” they said slowly. “you seek body.”
They hadn’t thought much about the words when they first said them, that fleeting comment about wanting him to have a body. But he had taken them seriously—so completely, so fervently—that he’d tried to make that careless desire a reality, no matter the cost. They’d had time to think about it, about what they could possibly say to him when this moment came. They could’ve chosen to defend themselves, to explain that they hadn’t meant it, that he had acted recklessly by attempting to obtain a body without understanding the risks. But those excuses felt hollow. The damage was already done, and empty justifications would change nothing.
In the end, there was only one option left.
And they had no hesitation in admitting their fault. Not a shred of it.
“your sentience change, you disappear,” they said quietly, their gaze dropping to the floor. For a brief moment, their eyes closed, concealing their true feelings. When they opened them again, the double eyelids gave a fleeting glimpse of vulnerability, like curtains drawn back to reveal the barest truth. “… understand, my desire hurt you.”
“… not…!”
He cut them off instinctively, the protest slipping out before he could even think.
Even now, he refused to see them as the cause of his suffering. In his mind, they had done nothing wrong. If anything, he only had the thought to defend them, even from themselves, from the blame they willingly shouldered. To him, the situation was simple. They wanted him to have a whole body, and so he tried to get one. The agony of acquiring it, the loss of sentience that followed—it wasn’t their doing, but the outcome of a failed research, a misstep beyond control. He hadn’t been able to give them the happiness they sought, so his body was removed again, cast away like a failure.
To him, it made perfect sense.
It was a twisted, yet strangely innocent way of thinking. It was childlike in its naivety, but unshakable in its logic.
They didn’t respond to his protest, the silence stretching between them. Confused, he turned his face upward, wondering if his words had been wrong somehow. Their eyes met his, startlingly close. The tip of his nose nearly brushed against theirs, the intimacy of the distance catching him off guard.
They were staring at him, their face emptied of pretense, stripped of all the layers they used to conceal themselves. Their expression was as barren as a sandy beach, the tide having swept away every trace of emotion. And yet, in that emptiness, there was something raw, unfiltered, like a truth they rarely showed.
Time seemed to falter as their gazes remained locked.
Finally, they spoke.
“you not flawed. not need body.”
Their eyes burned with an intensity that bordered on suffocating, the words carrying a quiet conviction that left no room for doubt. Their tone was smooth, even tender, as though their earlier confession had been nothing more than a passing thought, irrelevant compared to this truth they now offered him.
For a moment, he felt like he had rolled into an impossible dream. His disbelief must have been written all over his face, because they paused, their gaze flickering as though searching for the right words to drive their point home.
“you good. not need change.”
The words weren’t a reassurance. They were a command, absolute and immovable. A statement of fact so firm it carved its way into his very being.
Then, without warning, they leaned forward and bumped their forehead gently against his.
The sudden gesture startled him, his eyes going wide with surprise. They huffed out a soft laugh, the sound light and almost playful, and for a fleeting moment, he believed them. Perhaps it was because they were otherworldly, a being that burned brighter and steadier than anything he’d ever known. Like a distant light, something too brilliant to gaze at directly, yet impossible to resist. Maybe he had been drawn to their warmth from the very beginning, rolling into their presence time and time again without realizing how deeply it had changed him.
How else could he explain how willingly he bent to their conflicted desires?
They lowered their gaze at last, the fierceness in their eyes softening as their voice dropped to a near-whisper.
“you healthy,” they said, their tone gentler now. “me grateful.”
They should have told him sooner that they didn’t care about his appearance. Whether he had a body, incomplete or whole, it didn’t matter. And if having a body meant losing his sentience, they’d sooner cut it away themselves, carry him wherever he wanted to go, whenever he wanted, as long as their strength allowed it. All he needed to do was call out to them.
It was time to stop hurting each other with useless silences that led nowhere. There was no point in all of it anymore.
His tears returned with renewed force.
The oppressive misery that had clung to him since waking began to dissolve, like a field of balloons bursting one by one. Each one left nothing behind but a strange, pure relief. The tears that flowed freely from him seemed to wash away the last stubborn remnants of doubt and pain. For the first time, cradled in their arms, he felt it—acceptance. Unhesitating, unconditional.
They wanted him as he was, body or not.
“them alright?”
Another figure had entered the room without him noticing, drawn by the commotion. Murky silver hair spilled over one shoulder, eyes hidden behind bloodied bandages. The tilt of his head gave the impression of mild concern.
“Mr. Silvair,” they greeted, and he nodded in acknowledgment, even if he didn’t understand their language.
“their sentience return similar?” his unseen brows seemed to knit together faintly as he asked, his tone more analytical than worried.
Their gaze dropped to the head in their arms, still wailing unabashedly. The corner of their lips raised faintly. It was a small, but sincere smile.
“… them happy,” they replied simply.
His gaze flicked between the crying head and the one holding it. Though the one in their arms was an absolute mess, tears spilling unchecked, voice cracking under the weight of emotion, they looked light in a way he hadn’t seen in a long time. If happiness had a place in this scene, it was written all over their face, not the one bawling loudly.
Still, emotions were complex, messy things, perhaps beyond his immediate understanding. He decided to accept their words at face value.
“I see.”
An almost mechanical smile curved his mouth. His research had succeeded. The small one’s sentience had returned, and more importantly, they seemed satisfied with the result.
Crossing the room in a few long strides, he knelt beside them. His hand reached out, patting the head gently. It was an odd gesture of comfort, though his fingers were clearly probing for any signs of irregularity. The small one didn’t react, still consumed by his noisy sobbing, too overwhelmed to notice his inspection.
After a moment, he concluded that everything seemed stable. He would need to run further tests later, but for now, this was acceptable. Giving one last, perfunctory pat, he stood up and left the room, his presence fading like a shadow into the corridor beyond.
The room felt fuller than it had in a long, long time.
Alone now, the two of them lapsed into silence, broken only by his occasional whimpers and hiccups. Their hand continued its steady rhythm, patting the back of his head, pausing now and then to wipe the tears streaking his face. Their sleeves were thoroughly drenched, saturated from the endless stream of his crying since waking. They had half a mind to pull him against their chest and let the fabric there soak up the remainder of his seemingly infinite tears. Where did he find the strength to cry so hard after such a long time in a coma? He was only a head, after all.
The absurdity of it brought a flicker of exasperated fondness to their chest, a warmth that threatened to bubble into laughter. They fought it down, not wanting to make him all pouty from being laughed at.
Even after all he’d endured, his desires were still so simple. All he wanted was to be carried by them. There he was, completely vulnerable in their arms. His raw feelings leaked out like water from a cracked jar, impossible to contain. He didn’t hold them accountable for the careless words that had led him to endure the agony of acquiring a body, only to lose it again. And now, because they’d told him he was fine as he was, he had bounced back to his carefree self, as if their words—fleeting and contradictory as they often were—were the ultimate truth.
If it was for their happiness, he would yield to their desires without hesitation.
He couldn’t be unaware of it. No, he must know. Perhaps he was simply adjusting himself to their will. The thought stung faintly, but the sight of him now, nestled in their arms, overwhelmed them. He was so painfully honest, so guileless, willing to reshape what little he had left of himself just to make them happy. He was utterly, unbearably lovely.
Their lips twisted into a smile.
How could they not be happy staying by his side when he was like this?
His crying eventually subsided, leaving behind only occasional hiccups. With his tears finally stopping, his vision cleared, and he began to notice the disheveled state of himself. The braid they’d nearly finished earlier had come completely undone, leaving his hair to spill freely around him. His bangs had rumpled in the process, stray strands sticking to his tear-streaked face.
He wrinkled his brow and tilted his chin, pursing his parted lips as he tried to blow the errant strands out of his face. The gesture was as endearingly pitiful as it was futile, and when the strands stubbornly refused to budge, he gave a small, frustrated huff.
A sudden cough broke the quiet, ringing sharply in his ears. He glanced up, only to find them bowing their head as laughter spilled from their lips. It wasn’t the usual muted chuckle they gave now and then; this was unrestrained and genuine. Their neatly white-clad shoulders shook with it, and he couldn’t help but feel himself jostled along in their unsteady arms.
He eyed them with suspicion, his face twisting in mild indignation. Were they seriously laughing at him ? The idea stung his small pride more than he cared to admit. After a moment of internal debate over whether he should feel angry or let it slide, he huffed quietly to himself. Fine. He’d let them off the hook this time.
But there was something far more urgent to address. His hair.
It was an absolute mess, tangled and wild, and likely singed at the ends from the fire. He shuddered at the thought. This was unacceptable, a situation that demanded immediate attention.
“cut hair someone around,” he mumbled between sniffles.
Their laughter had subsided by then, and they turned their full attention to him. Something in their patient expression reassured him. His hesitance ebbed away, replaced by the same blunt honesty he’d always shown with them.
“… want go,” he added, testing the words like they might crumble in the air.
The simplicity of it struck him. If he wanted something, all he had to do was say it to them. No need to hold it back or dress it up.
“desire you carry me!”
The words tumbled out in a rush, raw and unguarded, as if a dam had burst inside him. For so long, he had buried this desire, swallowing the ache of wanting to be held, carried, cared for . But now, with their gentle words and soft touches finally coaxing his feelings into the open, the pain of hiding it was gone—vanished without a trace.
They listened in silence, their hand moving steadily to stroke his head as he poured out his thoughts in a stream of aggrieved murmurs and plaintive whines. They let him speak, never interrupting, only brushing stray strands of hair from his face and tucking them neatly behind his ears.
Then their mouth relaxed into a smile.
It wasn’t a broad or showy grin, just the faintest curve of their lips, but it softened the corners of their eyes, brightening their face with something warm and genuine. It was a look so tender that, had he been capable of blushing, he might have turned scarlet on the spot.
Maybe he didn’t fully realize it, but they had always been obnoxiously soft with him.
“alright,” they said simply, as though his request was the most natural thing in the world.
And just like that, the sun found its place back in their arms, where it belonged.