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The research lab always smelled faintly of coffee. Rich, bitter and freshly brewed, the kind Café Manhattan insisted on making herself in the corner. Her coffee machines puffing out steam like a gentle heartbeat for the room. Somewhere beneath it lingered another scent. The sweetness of Tachyon’s tea, always overloaded with a ridiculous amount of sugar until it was more sugar than tea. The mixture of the two was strange, but somehow it fit.
The rest of the space was pure Tachyon. A glass container burbled in the corner, its liquid glowing faintly as though it disagreed with the laws of nature. Scattered notes, formulas, and diagrams crowded every surface, some looping in neat strokes, others scribbled mid-thought as if Tachyon’s mind had outpaced her own hand.
Jungle Pocket sat perched on the lab desk behind Tachyon, legs swinging idly, half-watching the chaos, half-scrolling her phone. She had told herself this would be a quick visit, just dropping by before heading home after training. But with Tachyon, time was always a slippery thing. Minutes stretched and folded in on themselves, until an evening had a way of becoming a whole night.
Her phone buzzed lazily in her palm, Dantsu shared a video with her on Umastagram but she wasn’t really looking at it. Not when her eyes kept wandering, drifting past the half-open notebooks filled with spiralling equations. They landed, instead, on Tachyon herself.
Specifically, her hair.
It was longer than she remembered, reaching way past her shoulders now. Shiny in places, but the ends…
Pocket squinted. Uneven. Jagged, like someone had been hacking at it without a mirror.
“You cut your own hair?” she blurted.
Tachyon didn’t even pause in her furious typing, fingers gliding across the keys at a rhythm that sounded more like calculation than communication. “An efficient subject trims unnecessary growth without relying on external maintenance.” Her tone was matter-of-fact, but her lips curved like she had just told a joke no one else was smart enough to get.
Pocket leaned forward, resting her chin on her hand. “That’s a yes, isn’t it?”
“Hypothetically.”
The answer was so quick, so dry, that Pocket couldn’t help but smile. There was no sting in it, no edge. It was just pure, unbothered Tachyon. She drummed her fingers against the desk, letting the silence hum between them, savoring it the way one might savor a secret. Then, with the casualness of someone tossing a pebble into a still pond, she said, “You know, I could do it for you. Make it, you know… even.”
The words landed lightly, but in the quietness of the lab at night, they seemed to echo loudly. Pocket shifted her weight so her chin rested on her palm, eyes fixed on Tachyon’s hair again. Uneven, jagged, and stubbornly imperfect, much like the girl herself.
For the first time in minutes, Tachyon’s hands stilled on the keyboard. A pause. Barely a breath, but Pocket caught it. Caught the way Tachyon’s shoulders tightened just slightly, as if the suggestion had landed deeper than it should have.
When Tachyon finally looked up, sharp eyes met Pocket’s with the precision of a scalpel before darting back to the screen. “Noted,” she said, voice even, measured.
Which, Pocket knew, could mean anything from absolutely not to I’ll think about it in three months.
Still, she kept looking at those uneven ends, the faint swish of hair as Tachyon bent over her work. And she wondered, not for the first time, how much of Tachyon’s rough edges came from no one else ever stepping in to smooth them. Pocket leaned back, but her eyes stayed on Tachyon’s hair. Uneven edges and stray strands curling slightly the wrong way. An easy enough fix for Pocket. But the longer she thought about it, the more it didn’t feel like it’s just about the hair.
Pocket’s family never let her go a week without fussing over her. They used to straighten her collar before school, brush the lint from her jacket, or run their fingers through her bangs to check the length. At the time, it felt annoying and too overbearing. But looking back, it was the kind of care that settled so deeply into her days she hardly noticed it was there until it was gone.
Tachyon, though… Her family was different. Famous, always moving, always elsewhere. The kind of people whose faces appeared on screens more often than across a breakfast table. Pocket had only ever heard bits and pieces about them, but it was enough to understand they were “hands-off”. Not in the way that they trusted her to manage herself, but in the way that meant their time was given away to something else.
She looked at Tachyon’s hair again, the uneven strands falling into her face. The more she stared, the more it struck her. Of course no one fixed it. Of course no one fussed. There had never been anyone who stayed close enough or long enough to notice.
A mix of frustration and tenderness rose in Pocket, the kind that made her lips curve in a faint, stubborn line. “Well,” she murmured mostly to herself, “guess I’ll just have to be the first.”
Tachyon pretended not to hear her. But her fingers, poised over the keyboard, paused a fraction longer than usual before resuming their furious clatter. Pokke watched her for a long moment, letting the silence stretch, the decision settling quietly in her chest. She wasn’t going to say more. She didn’t need to.
A few days later, Pocket found herself wandering into the lab again, the quiet hum of the coffee machine blending with the faint, almost syrupy scent of steeped tea with an unreal amount of sugar. The room felt familiar and yet strangely alive in Tachyon’s absence from her usual spot at the desk. Pocket had half-expected to find her hunched over a notebook, muttering to herself about a breakthrough theory or typing furiously at the laptop, but this time, the chair was empty, the notes scattered, and the usual hum of chaotic thought absent.
Then, from in front of the window, she saw her. Tachyon, standing with a pair of scissors balanced lightly between her fingers, eyes fixed on it like she was solving a problem only she could understand.
“Hmm,” Tachyon murmured, not looking up. “Precision is best achieved with steady hands. Yours, presumably.”
Pocket blinked. The words were typical Tachyon but the meaning was unmistakable. Slowly, she stepped closer, and Tachyon extended the scissors toward her.
Pocket’s fingers hovered over the handles. “You… you want me to?”
Tachyon finally met her eyes, just for a fraction of a second. “Trim, yes. Uniformity is desirable for this.”
The confidence in her tone was quiet but deliberate. No boast. No smirk. Just a decision made, and an unspoken trust placed entirely in Pocket’s hands.
Tachyon moved first, lowering herself onto a stool in front of the window. Her posture was calm and precise, like an experiment arranged with exact parameters. She tilted her head slightly so her ears twitched just above and settled into place with an ease that belied the tension in the room. Pocket mirrored her movements, sliding behind her carefully, feeling the quiet pulse of anticipation between them.
She adjusted the scissors in her hands, steadying her grip, then allowed her gaze to settle on Tachyon’s hair. Each stray lock seemed to hum with its own personality, and Pocket’s chest tightened at the intimacy of it all. She hadn’t anticipated this level of closeness when she offered to cut Tachyon’s hair. Now that she was here, she was acutely aware of the responsibility she held.
Her fingers brushed lightly against the first strand, careful to avoid the area near Tachyon’s ears, which twitched slightly when she got close. A warning, but it was not aggressive, just cautious. Pocket felt a soft surge of protectiveness wash over her. She noticed the gentle brush of Tachyon’s tail against her legs. It was strange, how something as simple as cutting hair could feel like tending to something fragile and precious.
Tachyon didn’t flinch. She simply adjusted her posture, her head tilted just enough to give Pocket full access, her expression unreadable but calm. In that quiet, Pocket felt the weight of the trust being placed in her hands.
Taking in a slow breath, Pocket began. The scissors cut through the stubborn ends in careful, deliberate motions. Each snip sounded louder to her ears than it probably was, echoing softly in the otherwise quiet lab. The outside world with the distant chatter of students from outside the window faded until it was nothing more than a distant hum behind the cocoon of focus and quiet between them.
Tachyon, for her part, sat completely still. Her back was straight, her shoulders relaxed but alert. The faint weight of trust she had placed in Pocket’s hands was almost tangible. Pocket’s stomach fluttered with both nerves and the quiet thrill of responsibility.
With every careful snip, Pocket felt closer to understanding Tachyon. A loose strand fell between Pocket’s fingers, and she carefully aligned it with the rest. She saw a faint shiver pass through Tachyon’s ears, a minuscule movement that made Pocket smile under her breath. It was a small signal of vulnerability, and somehow that made the act feel even more intimate.
Then, without warning, the lab door slid open. Café Manhattan stepped in, her soft monotone cutting across the quiet. “Oh… I thought I was alone.”
Tachyon’s posture shifted immediately. The confident calm she had maintained transformed into a delicate tension. Pocket froze, scissors mid-air, heart hammering in her chest. The fragile bubble of intimacy between them shattered in an instant.
Tachyon’s eyes darted toward Café, a flash of mock indignation crossing her face, but it softened almost immediately. She exhaled lightly, her ears flattened just slightly with subtle evidence of relief. Pocket’s heart raced as she realized how precious this small, unspoken closeness was. She noticed Tachyon’s tail flick once before slightly curling around Pocket’s leg, a signal of both comfort and unease.
“Ahh! Café!” Tachyon exclaimed, voice light but deliberately theatrical, “But the lab is never truly empty. Observations must include all variables, yes?”
Pocket blinked. Her fingers twitched on the scissors, but the sudden shift in Tachyon’s tone made it impossible not to smile. She caught herself glancing at Tachyon’s ears, noting how they had relaxed after the initial twitch. This reminded her how delicate and expressive they were.
Café, as always, remained calm. Her eyes first met Pocket’s, lingering just long enough to make her stomach flutter. Pocket wasn’t used to this sort of acknowledgment from anyone, but it felt gentle, almost approving. Then Café’s gaze flicked toward Tachyon. Pocket noticed the way her eyes soften while looking at Tachyon. Pocket’s chest tightened slightly over the acknowledgement between the two of them as it added a new layer to the intimacy she felt.
Pocket watched as Café’s eyes returned to her, giving Pocket a faint, approving smile before speaking. “I see. Carry on, then.”
Café began to retreat, each step measured as if she didn’t want to disturb anything further. Pocket’s eyes followed her, almost holding her in place, until the door finally slid closed with a soft click. The lab fell silent again, save for the faint background hum outside the window. Pocket exhaled without realizing she’d been holding her breath.
She returned her gaze to Tachyon, who had eased back into her usual poise. Tachyon leaned forward, resting one elbow on her knee, and tilted her head just enough to watch Pocket’s careful hands. “Interesting hypothesis,” she said, words slow and deliberate, “that cutting hair could affect cognitive alignment. Shall we test it?”
Pocket’s lips twitched. “You mean… you’re making this about science?”
“Of course,” Tachyon replied with perfect seriousness. “Hair is a variable. Precision is paramount. Consider it a controlled experiment. Your performance will be measured.”
Her usual smirk returned, though it didn’t mask the subtle trust in her posture, the way she allowed herself to stay still and to be tended to. Pocket shook her head, half-laughing, half-muttering to herself.
“This is ridiculous,” she said softly, but her fingers didn’t stop moving. “Ridiculous… and yet exactly what I expected from you.”
Tachyon’s eyes met hers for a fraction of a second, and Pocket felt a strange, fleeting connection pass between them. Then, true to form, she leaned back again, muttering about “length uniformity” and “experimental variance,” while letting Pocket continue her work.
As she continued, Pocket couldn’t help but notice the small movements of Tachyon’s ears. Every so often, they twitched like a subtle sign of her comfort or discomfort. Pocket adjusted, careful not to brush too close, learning the tiny boundaries that defined where she could reach and where she couldn’t. It was delicate, intimate, almost like a dance between them.
One stray lock curled over the base of an ear. Pocket hesitated for a fraction of a second, then gently tucked it back, careful not to touch the ear itself. Tachyon didn’t flinch, but her ears twitched toward Pocket’s hand, almost inquisitively, as if she were testing the water. Pocket’s heart stuttered, it was such a small acknowledgement but it meant everything.
Tachyon shifted just slightly, leaning forward as if to invite a more comfortable angle, and Pocket adjusted with her, trimming carefully along the uneven strands. Every so often, Tachyon’s tail gave a slight flick, a subtle rhythm that seemed to mirror the motion of Pocket’s fingers. The motion was barely noticeable, but it spoke volumes of a quiet acceptance, a soft permission in a way no words could convey.
Pocket took a deep breath and let her hand linger, brushing a stray strand from Tachyon’s temple. Her fingers hovered near the base of an ear again, close enough to feel the warmth radiating from her head without crossing the line. Tachyon didn’t pull away. She let the touch stay.
“Almost done,” Pocket whispered, more to herself than to Tachyon.
A faint smirk tugged at Tachyon’s lips, a hint of amusement slipping through her usual cryptic calm. “I am measuring your efficiency,” she said, but her tone was soft now, the teasing almost gentle.
Pocket smiled, feeling the tension ease from her shoulders. She trimmed the final few ends, letting her fingers linger in Tachyon’s hair as if memorizing the feel of it. There was a quiet intimacy in the air, the kind that needed no conversation. The lab around them, the scent of coffee and the mock representation of tea, felt suspended. They were in a world of their own.
Finally, Pocket set the scissors down on the desk and leaned back just a little. She let her fingers brush lightly along the ends one last time. It felt softer than she expected, smooth and even where it had been jagged before. She exhaled quietly, half in relief, half in quiet pride. Tachyon’s ears twitched once, then settled, almost leaning into the subtle touch. Pocket’s chest swelled quietly at the trust implied in that small gesture.
Tachyon stayed still for a moment before she reached up, her fingers brushing along the freshly trimmed ends. Her touch was tentative at first, careful, as though testing whether this new texture was real or some fleeting illusion.
“You… actually did it,” she murmured, voice low.
Pocket’s lips twitched into a smile, but she didn’t speak. She let Tachyon explore, let her confirm for herself that the work was done well.
Tachyon’s ears twitched slightly as her fingers traced the soft hair along the nape of her neck and over the ends. She let out an inaudible sigh, leaning slightly into the touch, her usual guard slipping for just a heartbeat.
Finally, she lifted her head and met Pocket’s eyes, the faintest smile tugging at her lips. “Well… I must admit. Precision exceeded my expectations,” she said, the words carefully chosen, hiding the warmth that threatened to show.
Pocket chuckled softly. “Glad you like it.”
Pocket smiled, brushing a stray strand from Tachyon’s temple. Her fingers hovered close to the base of an ear again, close enough to feel the warmth radiating from her head without crossing the line. Tachyon didn’t pull away. She let the touch stay, quiet, safe.
And in that stillness, Pocket felt it. The depth of the unspoken bond between them, the intimacy in a gesture so small it could have been nothing. The ears, usually so guarded, were the most telling.
And if this small act could hold this much meaning, she thought, then there must be more to notice. More to care for.
And she would gladly be the first to do so.