[Fic] Fearless
Title: Fearless
Author: analineblue
Fandom: No.6
Pairing/Characters: Nezumi/Shion
Warnings/Spoilers: Vague spoilers through Episode 8/Volume 4 of the novels.
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: ~2,100
Summary: Nezumi confronts his fears before the Hunt.
Notes: There are no major spoilers here, but this is meant to take place roughly following episode 8 of the anime, or around volume 4 of the novels. Also, there's a reference towards the end to Act 3, Scene 1 of A Midsummer Night's Dream - the scene where the fairy queen Titania wakes up, unaware that she’s been drugged, and falls immediately in love with the fool Bottom, whose head has been transformed into that of an ass. Just, you know, for context. *shuts up* Thanks for reading! Comments are always greatly appreciated. ^_^
Also! I finally got myself set up on AO3, so you can read this fic over there as well. :)
**
Fearlessness blew in with the wind, waking up to greet the sun
We knew Dangers would come, I had faith in both of us
Listen to your heart (you can hear me)
Listen to your heart (can you hear me?)
--Tori Amos, Fearlessness
**
It’s approaching late evening, and after they’ve finished with dinner, Shion makes weak, mud-colored tea out of the leaves left over from breakfast. He pours two cups (he takes the one where the ceramic is chipped on one edge, and gives Nezumi the other), and then he and Nezumi settle in on opposite ends of the couch.
The silence feels heavier than it should, like it has ever since certain knowledge has come out about certain friends of certain airheads being imprisoned in certain impossibly impenetrable compounds. It’s to be expected, really, Nezumi figures.
Then again, maybe it’s all in his head. Shion, after all, is making plans for summer in the West Block.
Nezumi leans back against the couch, flipping idly through the pages of a dog-eared script. A Midsummer Night’s Dream - slightly abridged, of course, for their illustrious West Block clientele. The edges of the pages are worn soft, curling in on each other. He’s sure the manager has re-cast his role by now anyway, considering how long it’s been since he’s shown his face around the theatre. Still, he’d picked up the bundle of papers up from where they’d been lying on the table, and has been sitting here for the past twenty minutes just staring at the words - spaced out, thinking.
Shion stares at him over a thick leather-bound book. There’s a rose-colored ribbon marking his place, indicating that he’s about halfway through.
“You never used to do that,” Shion says, and he’s watching Nezumi curiously, a soft expression on his face.
“What, memorize my lines?”
Shion shakes his head. “You’ve already memorized them.”
“How would you know that?”
“A Midsummer Night’s Dream, right? I’ve heard you recite those lines at least a dozen times before.”
Shion says these words with a calm, open expression on his face, without any threat of any kind. It’s infuriating. Irritation bubbles up inside of Nezumi; it’s as if it’s lying right there under his skin lately, the slightest thing will set him off. He gets up from the couch. He’s moving recklessly, and so of course, he catches his shin on the edge of the table. He curses under his breath.
“Nezumi, I know you weren’t reading your lines. What were you thinking about?” Shion asks, as if he hasn’t noticed a thing.
The words float up from the couch, innocuous - his voice is so diplomatic, it makes Nezumi want to cringe.
“None of your business,” he snaps. He resists the urge to acknowledge his throbbing shin. “Besides, you seem to know so much anyway, why don’t you tell me?”
He does, however, give in to the urge to toss the script aside harshly. He’s aiming for the table, but overshoots. He watches it clatter to the floor against the couch. The clasp holding its pages in place opens upon impact.
Part of him wants to rush over, to grab the scattered pieces of paper with their highlight marks and notes in the margins, and just tear them to shreds, but Shion is already getting up from the couch. Nezumi grits his teeth.
“You always say that,” Shion says. It’s an observation made largely to the table, as he crouches down next to it and begins to gather the discarded papers into a pile next to his feet.
“Well, I guess that’s what happens when I’m continuously provoked.”
Shion frowns. “Why am I not allowed to ask what you’re thinking?”
Nezumi lifts the edge of his mouth up into a sneer.
“Shall I spell it out for you, your majesty?”
“Yes, please.”
Shion looks up at him, face calm, genuinely seeking information. He should be angry. Instead he’s picking up the pages of the script carefully, smoothing them over with his fingers, flattening the creases with the palm of his hand.
Nezumi wants to grab him by the throat, wants to twist his arm around behind his back and pin him to the floor, but somehow, that approach has lost its impact along the way. So he can exert physical strength over Shion. So what?
This, Nezumi thinks darkly, is exactly what the old woman had warned him about.
Back then, they’d just been words - he’d had no idea. How acute the danger would become.
He thinks he understands now though. The warmth and kindness that Shion had shown him that night so long ago - it’s right there in this room with them now; it’s always here, maybe. He can still feel the rich warmth of cocoa in his mouth, can still taste its cloying sweetness, and of course he can still feel the warmth of Shion’s hand, of his body lying next to him on that bed that was too big for the both of them combined. The sound of Shion’s breath, smooth and calm next to his ear, rising and falling steadily. It had been this. This warmth, this weakness, that once felt, couldn’t be forgotten.
Shion is watching him; he’s so attentive Nezumi half expects him to start drooling. He closes his eyes, breathes.
“Inukashi’s dogs are working hard,” he says finally, staring somewhere past Shion’s face, resigned. “You should show your thanks to them next time you give them a bath. They’ve been crossing a lot of ground lately, back and forth from here to your little friend’s new home.”
Shion blinks at him. A beat passes.
“Is that what you were thinking about while I was reading?”
Nezumi’s eyes meet Shion’s. The agitation is fading. Settling in his chest is a feeling of calm. Trust. Security.
“I thought you said it was none of my business?”
Before he can stop himself, Nezumi laughs.
“What? Is that funny?”
“Yeah,” he says, laughing again. “It’s hilarious. You’re a regular comedian, Shion.”
Nezumi leans back against the bookshelf. Shion has got the pages of the script in order already; he’s tapping the edges together on his knee, straightening them. Then he hands the stack to Nezumi.
His eyes glisten by the light of the oil lamp. His hair is practically glowing; it’s almost translucent in the soft light. “This is the first time you’ve told me something like that so easily. Thank you.”
Nezumi rolls his eyes. “You’ve got to be kidding.”
Shion shakes his head. “I’m not saying it lightly, I’m sincerely thanking you.”
Shion’s face is still lit up by the light; it catches for a moment on the scar that runs across his cheek. Nezumi looks away. Forces his eyes downward and stares at his feet, instead. His voice is quiet when he speaks.
“You shouldn’t dole out your thanks so casually, Shion.”
“I’ll always listen to you,” Shion is saying, as if maybe he hasn’t heard him.
No, that’s not it, Nezumi thinks. Shion always hears him.
“Whatever you have to say, about anything,” Shion says. “I’ll listen. And sometimes I’ll probably thank you for it because it’s really valuable to me.”
“What’s valuable? I think you’ve finally lost it,” Nezumi says, frowning down at Shion.
Shion shakes his head. He sits back on his heels, smiling a little.
“You’re wrong, Nezumi,” Shion says.
It’s not anger than makes Nezumi crouch down to meet Shion’s eyes on equal ground, it’s something else, something much deeper. His heart pounds in his chest as he stares into Shion’s eyes, trying, as he’s tried countless times before, to figure out just who this person is who’s sitting in front of him.
“I’m not wrong,” he argues, even though he knows from experience how utterly pointless it is to argue with Shion. “What’s valuable is information. What’s valuable is being able to survive. You should remember that, too, because… I don’t know how I’m going to be able to protect you once we leave this place. Just staying close to me… It might not be enough.”
A deep shiver runs down Nezumi’s spine. This isn’t something he’d meant to say.
He closes his eyes, and when he opens them again, Shion is back on the couch, glancing at him over the spine of his book again.
“If you’re not able to protect me, then that’s when it will be my turn to protect you,” Shion says simply, before he turns his attention back to his book.
Don Quixote - Nezumi reads the title as he reclaims his spot on the couch. Shion had asked Nezumi once, shortly after he’d brought him here, about what order he should go in, where he should start - there were so many books. Off the top of his head, Nezumi had listed five or six titles - what would generally be regarded as influential, important works of fiction. Don Quixote had been number four. Nezumi wonders how long it will take him to get through them all.
He draws his feet up onto the couch. The air in the room is drafty. It’s been chilly in the evenings lately, and tonight is no exception. Nezumi wraps his fingers around the mug of tea. It’s still warm, and the heat seeps into his fingers, his palm.
It’s not that he hasn’t heard Shion’s words. He has, loud and clear. They terrify him. It’s a different kind of fear than he’s felt before, different from being afraid of entering the correctional facility, or of the Hunt, or the wasps, or any number of real, genuine threats. His fingers tighten around the mug, his grip so vice-like he thinks he might crush it between his fingers.
“Nezumi,” Shion says. “I meant it when I said I wanted to be your equal. That’s why I’m not worried. We’ll protect each other. That’s all we can do, right?”
Nezumi shakes his head. “You’re the only person who could seriously say that at a time like this. You’re pretty fearless, aren’t you?”
He’s fighting back a laugh, but his grip on the mug has loosened. He sets it carefully on the table in front of him, and looks over at Shion.
Shion is staring at him, and his expression is strange, unreadable.
"If I’m fearless, then so are you, Nezumi," he says seriously.
Nezumi wants more than anything to laugh, but it catches in his throat. His head feels light, airy, and for a brief moment, he thinks that maybe Shion’s airheadness is quite literally rubbing off on him. And then he realizes that it’s just that he’s forgotten to breathe. He takes a deep breath, filling his lungs with the cool air of the room, and lets it out again.
Before Shion had come here, the air in this room had always felt dank and musty. Nezumi had gotten used to it, but now it’s as if the oxygen itself has been aired out, cleansed. He takes another breath, holds it in his lungs.
Then Nezumi kicks at Shion’s foot with his toe, and when Shion looks up, he tosses the script over to him.
“Help me out for once, would you?”
Shion gives him a puzzled look.
“We’re drilling lines here, your majesty. If you please.”
Nezumi shifts towards Shion on the couch, moves his legs and leans in so that he can see over Shion’s shoulder. Shion’s body is warm. His body is always warm; Nezumi never stops noticing this. Sometimes he wonders if the old woman would tell him he’s hopeless, that he’s already lost. Sometimes he wonders if she’d been wrong all along.
Shion lifts his eyes up to meet Nezumi’s, blinks at him through a messy fringe of white hair.
“Here,” Nezumi says. He flips forward several pages, and points to a highlighted section of text. “This scene. Middle of the page.”
Then he flops back over to the other end of the couch. He loosens his throat in preparation, starts to get into character.
“'What angel wakes me from my flow’ry bed?'”
“Um, Nezumi?”
“I said, 'What angel wakes me from my flow’ry bed', Shion.” He watches Shion expectantly.
“Am I really supposed to sing? It says-"
Nezumi bites his lip at the frown on Shion’s face, and then ends up smiling a little anyway. “It’s okay if you don’t sing. Just read.”
“But-"
“Shion, it’s okay - sing, don’t sing. It doesn’t matter. I’m trying to get into character here.”
Nezumi closes his eyes, and listens as Shion’s voice - he went with not singing, in the end - fills the room. His voice is clear and solid. He doesn’t stumble on the words, his rhythm is decent. And it makes reciting the lines that come next that much more effortless.
“'I pray thee, gentle mortal, sing again,'” Nezumi begins, and Titania’s words come alive in the chilled air - subdued, impassioned.
She’s awake, Nezumi thinks. And she has no idea of the transformation that’s taken place.
end
Author: analineblue
Fandom: No.6
Pairing/Characters: Nezumi/Shion
Warnings/Spoilers: Vague spoilers through Episode 8/Volume 4 of the novels.
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: ~2,100
Summary: Nezumi confronts his fears before the Hunt.
Notes: There are no major spoilers here, but this is meant to take place roughly following episode 8 of the anime, or around volume 4 of the novels. Also, there's a reference towards the end to Act 3, Scene 1 of A Midsummer Night's Dream - the scene where the fairy queen Titania wakes up, unaware that she’s been drugged, and falls immediately in love with the fool Bottom, whose head has been transformed into that of an ass. Just, you know, for context. *shuts up* Thanks for reading! Comments are always greatly appreciated. ^_^
Also! I finally got myself set up on AO3, so you can read this fic over there as well. :)
**
Fearlessness blew in with the wind, waking up to greet the sun
We knew Dangers would come, I had faith in both of us
Listen to your heart (you can hear me)
Listen to your heart (can you hear me?)
--Tori Amos, Fearlessness
**
It’s approaching late evening, and after they’ve finished with dinner, Shion makes weak, mud-colored tea out of the leaves left over from breakfast. He pours two cups (he takes the one where the ceramic is chipped on one edge, and gives Nezumi the other), and then he and Nezumi settle in on opposite ends of the couch.
The silence feels heavier than it should, like it has ever since certain knowledge has come out about certain friends of certain airheads being imprisoned in certain impossibly impenetrable compounds. It’s to be expected, really, Nezumi figures.
Then again, maybe it’s all in his head. Shion, after all, is making plans for summer in the West Block.
Nezumi leans back against the couch, flipping idly through the pages of a dog-eared script. A Midsummer Night’s Dream - slightly abridged, of course, for their illustrious West Block clientele. The edges of the pages are worn soft, curling in on each other. He’s sure the manager has re-cast his role by now anyway, considering how long it’s been since he’s shown his face around the theatre. Still, he’d picked up the bundle of papers up from where they’d been lying on the table, and has been sitting here for the past twenty minutes just staring at the words - spaced out, thinking.
Shion stares at him over a thick leather-bound book. There’s a rose-colored ribbon marking his place, indicating that he’s about halfway through.
“You never used to do that,” Shion says, and he’s watching Nezumi curiously, a soft expression on his face.
“What, memorize my lines?”
Shion shakes his head. “You’ve already memorized them.”
“How would you know that?”
“A Midsummer Night’s Dream, right? I’ve heard you recite those lines at least a dozen times before.”
Shion says these words with a calm, open expression on his face, without any threat of any kind. It’s infuriating. Irritation bubbles up inside of Nezumi; it’s as if it’s lying right there under his skin lately, the slightest thing will set him off. He gets up from the couch. He’s moving recklessly, and so of course, he catches his shin on the edge of the table. He curses under his breath.
“Nezumi, I know you weren’t reading your lines. What were you thinking about?” Shion asks, as if he hasn’t noticed a thing.
The words float up from the couch, innocuous - his voice is so diplomatic, it makes Nezumi want to cringe.
“None of your business,” he snaps. He resists the urge to acknowledge his throbbing shin. “Besides, you seem to know so much anyway, why don’t you tell me?”
He does, however, give in to the urge to toss the script aside harshly. He’s aiming for the table, but overshoots. He watches it clatter to the floor against the couch. The clasp holding its pages in place opens upon impact.
Part of him wants to rush over, to grab the scattered pieces of paper with their highlight marks and notes in the margins, and just tear them to shreds, but Shion is already getting up from the couch. Nezumi grits his teeth.
“You always say that,” Shion says. It’s an observation made largely to the table, as he crouches down next to it and begins to gather the discarded papers into a pile next to his feet.
“Well, I guess that’s what happens when I’m continuously provoked.”
Shion frowns. “Why am I not allowed to ask what you’re thinking?”
Nezumi lifts the edge of his mouth up into a sneer.
“Shall I spell it out for you, your majesty?”
“Yes, please.”
Shion looks up at him, face calm, genuinely seeking information. He should be angry. Instead he’s picking up the pages of the script carefully, smoothing them over with his fingers, flattening the creases with the palm of his hand.
Nezumi wants to grab him by the throat, wants to twist his arm around behind his back and pin him to the floor, but somehow, that approach has lost its impact along the way. So he can exert physical strength over Shion. So what?
This, Nezumi thinks darkly, is exactly what the old woman had warned him about.
Back then, they’d just been words - he’d had no idea. How acute the danger would become.
He thinks he understands now though. The warmth and kindness that Shion had shown him that night so long ago - it’s right there in this room with them now; it’s always here, maybe. He can still feel the rich warmth of cocoa in his mouth, can still taste its cloying sweetness, and of course he can still feel the warmth of Shion’s hand, of his body lying next to him on that bed that was too big for the both of them combined. The sound of Shion’s breath, smooth and calm next to his ear, rising and falling steadily. It had been this. This warmth, this weakness, that once felt, couldn’t be forgotten.
Shion is watching him; he’s so attentive Nezumi half expects him to start drooling. He closes his eyes, breathes.
“Inukashi’s dogs are working hard,” he says finally, staring somewhere past Shion’s face, resigned. “You should show your thanks to them next time you give them a bath. They’ve been crossing a lot of ground lately, back and forth from here to your little friend’s new home.”
Shion blinks at him. A beat passes.
“Is that what you were thinking about while I was reading?”
Nezumi’s eyes meet Shion’s. The agitation is fading. Settling in his chest is a feeling of calm. Trust. Security.
“I thought you said it was none of my business?”
Before he can stop himself, Nezumi laughs.
“What? Is that funny?”
“Yeah,” he says, laughing again. “It’s hilarious. You’re a regular comedian, Shion.”
Nezumi leans back against the bookshelf. Shion has got the pages of the script in order already; he’s tapping the edges together on his knee, straightening them. Then he hands the stack to Nezumi.
His eyes glisten by the light of the oil lamp. His hair is practically glowing; it’s almost translucent in the soft light. “This is the first time you’ve told me something like that so easily. Thank you.”
Nezumi rolls his eyes. “You’ve got to be kidding.”
Shion shakes his head. “I’m not saying it lightly, I’m sincerely thanking you.”
Shion’s face is still lit up by the light; it catches for a moment on the scar that runs across his cheek. Nezumi looks away. Forces his eyes downward and stares at his feet, instead. His voice is quiet when he speaks.
“You shouldn’t dole out your thanks so casually, Shion.”
“I’ll always listen to you,” Shion is saying, as if maybe he hasn’t heard him.
No, that’s not it, Nezumi thinks. Shion always hears him.
“Whatever you have to say, about anything,” Shion says. “I’ll listen. And sometimes I’ll probably thank you for it because it’s really valuable to me.”
“What’s valuable? I think you’ve finally lost it,” Nezumi says, frowning down at Shion.
Shion shakes his head. He sits back on his heels, smiling a little.
“You’re wrong, Nezumi,” Shion says.
It’s not anger than makes Nezumi crouch down to meet Shion’s eyes on equal ground, it’s something else, something much deeper. His heart pounds in his chest as he stares into Shion’s eyes, trying, as he’s tried countless times before, to figure out just who this person is who’s sitting in front of him.
“I’m not wrong,” he argues, even though he knows from experience how utterly pointless it is to argue with Shion. “What’s valuable is information. What’s valuable is being able to survive. You should remember that, too, because… I don’t know how I’m going to be able to protect you once we leave this place. Just staying close to me… It might not be enough.”
A deep shiver runs down Nezumi’s spine. This isn’t something he’d meant to say.
He closes his eyes, and when he opens them again, Shion is back on the couch, glancing at him over the spine of his book again.
“If you’re not able to protect me, then that’s when it will be my turn to protect you,” Shion says simply, before he turns his attention back to his book.
Don Quixote - Nezumi reads the title as he reclaims his spot on the couch. Shion had asked Nezumi once, shortly after he’d brought him here, about what order he should go in, where he should start - there were so many books. Off the top of his head, Nezumi had listed five or six titles - what would generally be regarded as influential, important works of fiction. Don Quixote had been number four. Nezumi wonders how long it will take him to get through them all.
He draws his feet up onto the couch. The air in the room is drafty. It’s been chilly in the evenings lately, and tonight is no exception. Nezumi wraps his fingers around the mug of tea. It’s still warm, and the heat seeps into his fingers, his palm.
It’s not that he hasn’t heard Shion’s words. He has, loud and clear. They terrify him. It’s a different kind of fear than he’s felt before, different from being afraid of entering the correctional facility, or of the Hunt, or the wasps, or any number of real, genuine threats. His fingers tighten around the mug, his grip so vice-like he thinks he might crush it between his fingers.
“Nezumi,” Shion says. “I meant it when I said I wanted to be your equal. That’s why I’m not worried. We’ll protect each other. That’s all we can do, right?”
Nezumi shakes his head. “You’re the only person who could seriously say that at a time like this. You’re pretty fearless, aren’t you?”
He’s fighting back a laugh, but his grip on the mug has loosened. He sets it carefully on the table in front of him, and looks over at Shion.
Shion is staring at him, and his expression is strange, unreadable.
"If I’m fearless, then so are you, Nezumi," he says seriously.
Nezumi wants more than anything to laugh, but it catches in his throat. His head feels light, airy, and for a brief moment, he thinks that maybe Shion’s airheadness is quite literally rubbing off on him. And then he realizes that it’s just that he’s forgotten to breathe. He takes a deep breath, filling his lungs with the cool air of the room, and lets it out again.
Before Shion had come here, the air in this room had always felt dank and musty. Nezumi had gotten used to it, but now it’s as if the oxygen itself has been aired out, cleansed. He takes another breath, holds it in his lungs.
Then Nezumi kicks at Shion’s foot with his toe, and when Shion looks up, he tosses the script over to him.
“Help me out for once, would you?”
Shion gives him a puzzled look.
“We’re drilling lines here, your majesty. If you please.”
Nezumi shifts towards Shion on the couch, moves his legs and leans in so that he can see over Shion’s shoulder. Shion’s body is warm. His body is always warm; Nezumi never stops noticing this. Sometimes he wonders if the old woman would tell him he’s hopeless, that he’s already lost. Sometimes he wonders if she’d been wrong all along.
Shion lifts his eyes up to meet Nezumi’s, blinks at him through a messy fringe of white hair.
“Here,” Nezumi says. He flips forward several pages, and points to a highlighted section of text. “This scene. Middle of the page.”
Then he flops back over to the other end of the couch. He loosens his throat in preparation, starts to get into character.
“'What angel wakes me from my flow’ry bed?'”
“Um, Nezumi?”
“I said, 'What angel wakes me from my flow’ry bed', Shion.” He watches Shion expectantly.
“Am I really supposed to sing? It says-"
Nezumi bites his lip at the frown on Shion’s face, and then ends up smiling a little anyway. “It’s okay if you don’t sing. Just read.”
“But-"
“Shion, it’s okay - sing, don’t sing. It doesn’t matter. I’m trying to get into character here.”
Nezumi closes his eyes, and listens as Shion’s voice - he went with not singing, in the end - fills the room. His voice is clear and solid. He doesn’t stumble on the words, his rhythm is decent. And it makes reciting the lines that come next that much more effortless.
“'I pray thee, gentle mortal, sing again,'” Nezumi begins, and Titania’s words come alive in the chilled air - subdued, impassioned.
She’s awake, Nezumi thinks. And she has no idea of the transformation that’s taken place.
end