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The library vault smells thoroughly of burnt rice. It sounds, however, like Nezumi’s total unwillingness to admit a mistake.
“It’s not burnt,” he snaps. “It’s seared. There’s a difference.”
“Seared implies intention,” Shion points out, peering dubiously into the pot. “You forgot to turn the heat down, didn't you?”
Nezumi waves Shion off with theatrical disdain and reaches to adjust the pot. That’s when it happens: he forgets that the kerosene heater is, in fact, still very hot, and touches its cooktop for only a moment.
Nezumi's whole body jolts, though he doesn't make a sound. The spoon he was stirring with clatters to the floor, making the mice run for cover. Shion freezes mid-step.
“Nezumi?”
Nezumi's reaction isn't normal. His eyes are wide, but he just stands there, silent and still, utterly shell-shocked. The burn on his palm is bright red, but it's like he doesn't recognize his hand as his own anymore. Like his thoughts are elsewhere, a thousand miles away.
Then the trembling starts, and Shion forgets everything else.
“Nezumi," Shion presses. "C'mon, don't just stand there!”
“What?” Nezumi’s voice is raw.
“Come outside! We could put snow on it!"
Nezumi still doesn't seem to hear him, so Shion is forced to take charge. He grabs Nezumi's wrist—gently but firmly—and pulls him toward the vault door. Nezumi resists for only a second before letting himself be dragged out into the cold.
They storm down the hallway together to where snow has accumulated on the stairs that lead up to ground level. Shion drops to his knees in the snow and yanks Nezumi down with him.
“Put your hand in.”
Nezumi blinks at him, still dazed.
“In the snow! Just do it!”
It’s a rough few seconds. Nezumi obeys, plunging his hand in, flinching as the cold hits. His trembling slows after a few moments, but his quick breaths fog around his face in little white puffs.
Neither of them says anything for a while. Shion can hear some kids yelling in the distance, but he thinks they'll go undisturbed for now—at least long enough for Nezumi to get his bearings again. He watches snowflakes settle in Nezumi's hair in the orange light of twilight and breathes a few calming breaths of his own.
Nezumi sniffs, then sits back on his heels with a massive sigh. He opens and closes his hand, testing the pain. Then, finally, he speaks.
“I’m fine.”
“No, you’re not.”
Nezumi scoffs weakly. “You’re annoying.”
“And you’re a bad liar.”
There's more silence, but Shion doesn't push. He just waits, his knees going numb, snow soaking through the fabric of his pants.
“Sorry,” Nezumi mutters. “Didn’t mean to turn dinner into a performance piece.”
“You don’t have to apologize. I just could tell something was wrong."
Nezumi finally looks at him, tired and sharp all at once.
"Are you good now?" asks Shion.
"No, I burnt my fucking hand."
"I'll get us a bowl," Shion offers, pushing himself off the floor. Neither of them stopped to put their coats on, so it's starting to get too cold for him, anyway. "If we bring some snow inside with us you can keep it cold for a while."
Nezumi makes a dismissive noise but doesn't stop him. He probably doesn't care to be outside for much longer, either.
Ten minutes later, Nezumi sits hunched over with his injured hand resting in a small metal bowl packed with snow. Shion returns from the bathroom with their first-aid kit and goes digging around for anything they can use. They might be chronically low on supplies, but they do happen to have some aloe vera gel on hand.
“You really don’t have to—” Nezumi starts.
“I know,” Shion interrupts. “But you’re letting me, so I will.”
Nezumi looks away.
“Do you want me to wrap it later?”
“I’m not helpless.”
“I didn’t say you were.”
Shion can tell that Nezumi isn't used to asking for help. Or getting help, for that matter. He just sits there with his jaw tight, not quite meeting his eyes, like this whole episode has been nothing but an embarrassment to him.
“I expected you to at least swear or something,” Shion says after a moment. “When you touched it, I mean. But you actually just went blank or something.”
Nezumi doesn’t answer.
“It scared me,” Shion admits.
Nezumi’s face hardens. “Drop it.”
“I’m not trying to pry. I just want to understand.”
“And I don’t care to explain.”
Shion decides not to push his luck again, so the room falls back into silence—save for the faint hiss of the heater, now only burning hot enough to warm the room. Shion keeps an eye on Nezumi, afraid that he might go blank again, though fortunately the time for that seems to have passed. He just lifts his hand from the bowl and puts it back again, over and over, numbing the burn but trying not to freeze himself.
“...Thanks,” Nezumi says, out of the blue.
Shion blinks. “What?”
“I said thanks, you idiot. For dragging me outside, and... everything else.”
Now Shion pushes his luck.
"Does it feel nice to be cared about?"
“Don’t ruin it.”
Shion chuckles and gets to his feet. He disappears behind the bookcases and returns with a spare blanket—a ragged one, but made with wool and sure to be warm. Without a word, he drapes it over Nezumi’s shoulders and across his front.
“Try not to die of gratitude,” Shion says, heading back to the heater.
“I already said thank you," Nezumi grunts at him. "You only get one.”
Shion surveys the pot again and pokes at the rice with the spoon he rescued off the floor. Sure enough, the rice is practically black on the bottom. Unfortunately, Shion knows from experience that if he only discards the burnt bits, it'll still taste burnt all the way through.
Shion decides to exercise some discretion. He grabs a pot holder, lifts the pot by its handle, and unceremoniously dumps its contents into the trash.
“Hey,” Nezumi protests, though he makes no effort to move from the sofa. “That was still edible.”
“No, it wasn’t.”
“You don’t know that.”
“You hurt yourself just making it, and you still want to eat it?”
Nezumi huffs. “What, so you're saying it's cursed?”
Shion ignores him and starts rummaging through their shelves. “We still have that packet of instant noodles, right?”
“I was saving that.”
“For emergencies, right? Well, I'd say this counts."
Another ten minutes later, Shion has the noodles boiling in the same pot, using as little water as he can get away with to save fuel. The trick is to add the rest of the water right at the end. That way you don't have to wait for the soup to cool, either.
He hands Nezumi a bowl once it’s done, and Nezumi takes it without a word. They sit close, steam rising between them. The noodles have more flavor than Shion is used to at this point but also a lot more salt.
"This is bullshit," Nezumi complains, discovering he can't exactly hold a spoon with both hands already occupied. He reluctantly puts the metal bowl aside. "Who knows how long this'll take to heal?"
"It's just a first degree burn," Shion tells him. "And on the hand, too. You'll probably be better in a week."
"A week's still a week, in my book. This fucking hurts, by the way."
"I'm sure it does. But at least it wasn't your right hand, right?"
Nezumi tuts at him. "I don't play favorites, Shion."
The atmosphere starts to feel lighter again as they fill themselves up on food and conversation. Shion expects Nezumi to be extra crabby tonight, but that's nothing new. He'd already come home from the theater swearing up a storm earlier, though the injuries he sustains there seem to be more of the mental variety.
"You really didn't have to," Nezumi says again later, as they empty their bowls. "Like you said, I've still got a working hand."
"You looked comfortable under the blanket, that's all. And it's not like the noodles took much effort."
“…Still. Thanks.”
Shion looks over, surprised. “Twice in one night?”
It takes Nezumi a second to realize what he's done. He sighs, then picks up his melting bowl of snow again and plants his hand back inside.
“Don’t get used to it.”
Shion settles back on the couch, smiling.
“Too late,” he says.
Nezumi just rolls his eyes.