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The knife glints in the light of the bedroom as Shion twirls it idly, approaching Nezumi with a coolness that wasn’t there two years ago. In his countenance, a composure and carefulness Nezumi recognizes, but not from the person in front of him.
“I want you to use this tonight.” His words are more statement than question. Shion flips the knife so that the blade is pressed between his fingers, offering the handle to Nezumi with a practiced ease. He can see how sharp the blade is before he takes it, the grip familiar and at the same time altogether foreign in his hands.
Nezumi considers it for a moment, studying Shion, then the knife. Of all the things he’s learned about Shion, this surprises him the least - he still remembers that first night 6 years ago, though kinks hadn’t been the foremost thought at the time. The boldness does take him aback, a sign of growth and maturity he doesn’t expect. But even that doesn’t account for the weight that settles low in his chest, clenching his gut and chilling his bones.
“This could seriously hurt you. I could kill you.”
“I know.” As always, Shion’s gaze is unflinching. “You won’t, though.”
As always, Nezumi flinches, turning his gaze to the blade. Even so, he doesn’t miss the words that hang after, unsaid but heavy in the air. ‘But I wouldn’t really mind if you did.’
Inukashi was right, and Nezumi will owe them after this. Steeling himself, he lifts his gaze, meeting Shion’s head on.
“Fine. We’ll do it.”
The smile that breaks over Shion’s face is radiant, blinding him in a way that reminds him of before. Before Safu. Before the facility. Before he left Shion to shoulder the burden he should have helped to carry.
‘Who are you, Shion? What have you become? Would telling me what you’ve been through ease the load? Would it ease the guilt?’
Nezumi tightens his grip on the knife.
“On the bed, then.”
Shion moves the few steps towards the old bed, unbuttoning his shirt as he goes. Though he’s definitely not relaxed, there’s a renewed lightness in his steps, a slight raise to his shoulders that gives away his excitement. There again is that familiar feeling - awe and a little bit of fear mixed in. That has never changed.
Shion doesn’t remove his shirt before he flops back onto the mattress. The message is clear - ‘I’ve done my part. It’s your turn.’
Nezumi follows him to the bed as Shion settles into a comfortable position, careful to keep the knife’s blade behind him and away from them both as he straddles Shion’s hips. “Obiedient, aren’t we. Who thought you’d become so well-behaved?”
“Who said anything about being behaved?” Shion’s eyes glimmer with a hint of mischief - another of those long-lost gestures Nezumi hadn’t seen yet since he returned. Nezumi’s heart aches.
“You might want to consider it. Just for tonight.” Leaning in close, he brings the blade around, pressing the dull edge to Shion’s cheek in a warning. He can feel the warmth of Shion’s breath mixing with his own, their lips only centimeters apart. It takes all his control to not pull back - or close the gap - as he drags the knife down to Shion’s jawline, careful to keep the sharp side away from the skin. Close like this, he can see the muscles in Shion’s neck working as he swallows. Deliberately, Nezumi tilts the knife as it reaches the juncture of Shion’s jaw to his neck, letting the tip press in just enough to split the skin and not draw blood. Shion swallows again against the blade, his breath hitching ever so slightly, coming out in a puff against Nezumi’s lips.
Abruptly, Nezumi pulls back, withdrawing the knife from Shion’s skin. The loss is palpable, Shion’s expression falling with a mournful whine. “Ah ah ah,” Nezumi chides him, wagging a finger at him. “It’s unbecoming to pout, Your Majesty.”
Despite his words, he feels the weight on his shoulders ease, just a bit. Another glimmer of the boy he left, the boy he lived with, the boy he fell for. ‘You aren’t fully broken… Not yet. But almost.’
“This is awful vulnerable of you, you know. After all… anyone could decide to stab you here,” Nezumi presses the flat side of the knife to Shion’s side, “or here,” now the ribcage, “here,” the tip presses against Shion’s sternum, “Or… I could just slit your throat, and be done with it.” He presses the flat side of the knife to Shion’s neck, the whole of it against the skin of his jaw.
“I already told you - you won’t. I know you won’t.” Despite the tremors of his skin, the goosebumps rising where Nezumi’s blade has touched, and the ever-burning heat of his rising temperature, Shion’s voice is steady - certain. As if this is the one truth he knows, above all. Through everything, Nezumi will not hurt him. Not with this.
A familiar fear rises within him, and for the first time, he’s not sure what scares him more - that Shion might be right… or that Shion might be wrong.
‘Shion… why do you trust? After all I have done, the burden I left on your shoulders, the hell we have been through for my selfish gain, why? What have I done, what have I ever done to earn this? Do you not know that you should have thrown that away all those years ago? That anyone else would have given up when I ran?’
He never planned to hurt Shion, and yet he did. He can plan to not hurt Shion now, but what wounds might remain if things go wrong?
The edge of Shion’s snake-like scar reaches just about an inch below his blade. Carefully, Nezumi pulls it along the neck until the tip is against the end of Shion’s scar. Lightly, he traces it with the tip of the knife, following the twists and curves along the neck, down his shoulders, around his ribs and chest. He pushes away Shion’s shirt as he goes, letting it sprawl out on the bed in a rumpled mess. The trail dips beneath Shion’s waistline, but for now Nezumi leaves that alone, stopping when it finally dips below the fabric of his trousers.
This is Shion’s first sign of survival - a visual mark left after what should have been his end. An end that would have spared him this, spared him the knowledge of the truth and all that transpired. ‘But is it the end he would want? Would he want to be spared, at the chance of losing you?’
He brings the blade back up to Shion’s ribcage, pressing the tip to his heart once again. He twirls the blade once, twice, three times against the skin, letting the sharp side finally rest against his skin, before applying any sort of pressure, making sure Shion knows it’s there. ‘What scars lie here that I can’t see? What marks of survival remain within?’
A tiny drop of blood pearls against the blade, too small to fully flow beyond the slightest trickle, but enough to shock him out of his thoughts for a moment. Nezumi lifts his gaze, to find Shion’s eyes shut, and body slumped. For a moment he feels that familiar dread - until red eyes flutter ever so slightly, opening just a sliver as if in question. The lines of Shion’s body suddenly fall into place in Nezumi’s mind - he’s relaxed, not dead or hurting. The shoulders that seem slumped have simply eased into rest, for the first time since Nezumi’s return, if not longer. The image of strength, of composure, of carrying the world on still narrowed shoulders is gone, eased into comfort. Shion is relaxed in the face of danger, in the face of a trust that hasn’t failed him. He’s right - Nezumi has done many things, but never once has Shion had to fear the weapon in his hand.
‘Oh. This is my burden to bear. This is my part to play.’
Nezumi watches him, taking in every detail of him. The way starched white fabric has wrinkled and pooled around him, creating mountains and creases that will inevitably need to be ironed out later. The way it matches the color of equally white hair, splayed out on the pillow and plastered to his forehead, messy and sublime, all at once. Exposed, mussed, and vulnerable, the mask finally gone, Shion is beautiful. Ethereal. More than Nezumi deserves.
“Nezumi? What are you thinking?” Shion’s voice holds none of the command of earlier, only a soft concern mirrored in his gaze.
“Nothing.” Nezumi flips the knife, resuming the same close position as before, looming over him with millimeters to spare. This time, he lets the sharp side of the blade press against Shion’s neck, letting the small line of blood form with careful precision. “You’re still too trusting.”
“I know.” Moving for the first time since this started, Shion closes the distance between their lips, leaning into the press of metal against his skin. He lets out a breathy moan - Nezumi knows it’s partly for show, but the grip of Shion’s hand on his collar is not.
Before long, the knife finds the bedside table, left there to keep clear of the rustling of fabric and shifting of bodies. In the throes of ecstacy, the heat of passion, they’re not quite ready to play with the knife. Yet.
The thin line left on Shion’s neck will heal by morning - some of the bite marks and nail marks they make now might not - but this is just their start. Tomorrow, tomorrow, tomorrow, they will do it again, shoulder their burden, and take another step forward. Together.