I wrote this on a sleepless whim while burning off of coffee and classic rock. I haven't had this much fun writing a fanfic in a long, long time.

I don't own anything, as usual. Lyrics are "Of Angels and Angles" by The Decemberists, which has always struck me as a song that Nezumi would sing as a lullaby or something equally cliched and ridiculously cute. Okay, I'll shut up now before I embarrass myself.

.truth is

/

there are angels in your angles

there's a low moon caught in your tangles

/

Shion is a vision in white sheets and lamplight, lit up in an amber kerosene glow, and he looks young. It's a redundant observation to make at this point, Nezumi dryly notes, but genuine all the same; Shion looks younger than Nezumi has ever seen him before, his skin smoother, the gentle cupid's bow of his lip perhaps softer than anything Nezumi can even fathom. It's a difficult stretch, truly, given that Nezumi has only known violent, jagged things all his life, things like bullets grazing shoulders and sharp bites of hunger that double him over in the dead of winter. Shion, of course, is none of these things; he's reminiscent of untarnished youth, of blush-dusted skin, of lingering, poignant ignorance that passes itself off as generous to disguise its own cruelty. He's pretty like a girl, too, and why that makes Nezumi grit his teeth in agitation is beyond him.

He's almost painful to look at, this whitewashed boy, because there's an acute sort of wrenching in the pit of Nezumi's stomach as he watches him from the foot of the bed, his back against the wall and his limbs bent and crumpled so as to not touch him and wake him up. He knows there wouldn't be too much groaning on Shion's behalf were that to happen, seeing as he's about as dopey as daisies to begin with and would likely nod back off to sleep within the second, but…well, Nezumi can pretend to be nice for just a little while longer. It's not so bad, he guesses.

That, and he doesn't want to touch him. No – it's moreso that he can't touch him. Nezumi has his reasons, reasons that he may or may not have succeeded in putting to words as of yet, but still. He's seen the way that Shion's skin purples in a bruise after bumping his hip into the edge of the bookcase, or how heady and red his blood drips from something so minute as a paper cut; he's seen the boy's skin blister from rising steam, watched him nick his bottom lip after biting too hard in the midst of a train of thought (Jesus, what does he think about that's so important that he'd lose sight of himself like that anyway?). He's so delicate, so tender and pretty like the very same flower of his namesake – and for that, Nezumi can't touch him. Not because he cares. Not because he's afraid. But because he just can't, end of story.

It's a weak excuse, maybe, but he regards that with a quiet scoff and an aversion of his eyes as they search for something safer to look at. Relief comes in the form of a dogged copy of The Picture of Dorian Gray flopped open on the floor, its spine weakened to the point of cracking right down the middle so that the book flops open on its own. Nezumi's lips curl in a grimace at the sight of it; he hates this book, from its vanity to its flowery horror to the sickening effect it has on him when he least expects it. This story of lost souls and divine beauty – it makes him ill, flushes his dreams lilac-purple, makes him wonder if Shion would ever sell his soul for anything in this world or beyond it.

Nezumi has asked himself that question time and time again. He knows his answer.

But what of Shion? What of the flower-boy with his scarlet eyes and bird bones and spacy, detached smiles? One pinch, one prod, and Nezumi's sure the boy would snap right in half, left to erode into white feathers and scatter about the bedsheets to be plucked up one by one. What keeps him together? Is it his soul, or is it something more ephemeral, more untouchable? Perhaps that's why Nezumi can't touch him unless he's awake and gleaming instead of sleeping like a newborn, his body a pale crescent moon curled on his bed and the corner of his eye twitching for a moment before coming to rest again. At least when he's awake, he knows he's being a burden, an idiot, a child. At least he's aware of how Nezumi rolls his eyes at his dreamy ramblings about stupid things like cloudy skies and the way raindrops gather in puddles that look like small countries. Then and only then can Nezumi even consider touching him, be it with his fingertips, the back of his hand, or the tip of his blade.

God – too much thinking. Nezumi bites his lip, knowing he won't bleed even if his teeth are sharper and his bite more carnal. He won't fall to pieces. He never has, not by his own hand and certainly not by Shion's, even if the threat isn't a firsthand thing right now, regardless of Nezumi's rocky nerves and spinning thoughts that wrap around his psyche and clinch.

Stifling a sigh, Nezumi slowly stretches out his legs and winces as his joints pop, having been settled in one position for too long. How long has it been since Shion drifted off to sleep anyway? Has Nezumi been watching him this whole time? He's been losing track of the hours more and more lately, and that's bad, that's bad, because isn't he supposed to be the one that lives in the here and now out of the two of them? There are more important things to be counting than Shion's wispy eyelashes, after all, things like how many minutes they have left before they tear that monster city to pieces with their teeth. He's never been one to dabble into the future, but god, he's smart enough to know that he can't afford to waste whatever dwindling time they have left.

Frustrated, Nezumi pulls at the makeshift tie of his hair until it falls loose about his shoulders. He runs his fingers through it, winds a lock of it around his knuckle, then rubs his aching scalp with his fingertips. He doesn't pretend they're Shion's. He doesn't, not even when Shion squirms in his sleep, his little white hand flopping helplessly over the edge of the bed. His wrist is so tiny and breakable and pretty. Nezumi doesn't know if he wants to bite it or kiss it. Either one would lead to destruction, so he supposes it wouldn't matter.

Nezumi would love to see what this boy would sell his soul for. The corner of his mouth lifts in a sardonic something of a smirk, albeit a tired one, and he watches Shion squirm again, slowly coming back to life after sleeping for a hundred years. Nezumi stays at the foot of the bed, but lets his body slump into a languid heap now that he's able to move freely; even though he knows he was free to do so the whole time, but that's not the point (if there ever was one).

Shion yawns and rubs at his eyes with his fists, starkly resembling a content little kitten as he blearily stretches out. Hands dropping away, his eyes flutter open to find Nezumi's in the hazy glow of the room; the kerosene lamp washes him in dusty gold, kissing the red of his eyes a rich scarlet and his cheeks a sleepy pink. Pretty. Dammit.

"Nn…what time is it?" Shion's voice is hoarse from sleep, his syllables slurring into one another. It's endearing, Nezumi half-thinks.

"No idea."

"How long have I been asleep…?"

"Beats me." Nezumi toys with a loose thread of his sweater, tugging at it until the fabric bunches together in protest. "Something like forever, I'd say."

"Ah. Sorry."

Nezumi scoffs again. He tightens the thread around his finger until the tip reddens, circulation cut short. "Why are you apologizing?"

"Well, you were just sitting there doing nothing, so I figured you must have been really bored." Shion rolls over onto his side, watching Nezumi with soft eyes. His pale hair fans over one cheek, fine and fair like duckfluff. "Usually you're at least reading something. Have you worn out all the books in this place already?"

Nezumi huffs out a bemused laugh. "Unlikely, seeing as you've taken the liberties of organizing them like some cute little housewife." He looks away from Shion, only to catch a glimpse of the broken Dorian Gray winking at him from the floor. "See that one right there?" he asks, nodding his head to the book. "I forgot I even had it. Were you reading it earlier or something?"

Shion takes notice of the book and hums in recognition. "Oh, yeah. The title of it caught my eye, so I flipped through it while you were out at work. I liked it."

"You shouldn't," Nezumi objects softly, eyes fixed on Shion's collarbone. To bite or to kiss?

"Why not?"

"Because Oscar Wilde is so damn good at expressing everything we need to move away from as humans." Nezumi finally lets himself fall onto his side on the bed, all wiry limbs and a wild crash of dark hair that splays out like an ink spill over the pillow. Lying parallel to Shion, he murmurs, "Narcissism, avarice, conceit…all of the things that drive us that much farther away from what's really important in order to survive."

Shion blinks his bright eyes at him. His eyelashes are so long. Nezumi lost count of them hours ago. "But maybe he – Oscar Wilde, that is – meant it as a sort of parody, don't you think? Maybe he didn't mean it like that."

"Says the boy that lives off statistics and numbers to make sense of the world."

"That's not true," Shion protests, however quiet his voice is in the stillness of the room. "I live off the same things you do. I breathe and eat and sleep. And I read, too." A small smile breathes over the corner of Shion's mouth, sheepish but candid. Honest. "But thanks to you, I'm reading all of these books I couldn't even touch back in No. 6. So, thank you."

Nezumi stares at him for long moment, searching his face for something ugly to latch onto. When he fails and finds nothing – nothing but tenderly flushed cheeks and warm eyes – he flits his gaze up to the ceiling, frowning sourly. "I swear," he mutters, "you're always either apologizing to me or thanking me. Do you do this with everyone you talk to?"

"No. Just you."

Nezumi's breath catches in his throat.

"Well," Shion amends with a chirp of a laugh, "I don't really know, actually. I never talked to many people back in No. 6, besides my Mom and Safu…and I didn't do that with them, I don't think. I never felt the need to…"

"So I'm a special case to you, huh?"

Shion smiles. "You're a special case for a lot of things, Nezumi."

Nezumi doesn't think he particularly likes whatever happens to his heart right then. It feels as if a hot spotlight has been shone on it, bringing every drifting flicker of dust to stark focus, calling all attention to the stupid beating thing until it's nearly impossible to ignore. The crowd gasps; they want more. Swallowing, he keeps his eyes rooted to the water stain on the ceiling and puffs out an irate breath that borders on a disbelieving laugh. This guy. This kid. What the hell is Nezumi going to do with him?

After a quiet moment, he eventually murmurs, "You've really gotta stop talking like that, you know. You sound creepy."

But even as he says that, his hand flutters up to run a fingertip along Shion's clavicle, feeling the fragile bone poking up beneath paper-thin skin. His fingers fan out along the side of the boy's neck; so warm, everything about Shion is so warm. It makes Nezumi's stomach ache, makes his blood rush ten degrees hotter as he gently rakes his nails along Shion's pulse line. Shion shivers and breathes out a shy laugh. "That feels nice," he says softly.

He doesn't even ask why Nezumi's touching him. What's wrong with this kid? Blinking, Nezumi looks back at him, not retracting his hand but freezing it just below Shion's ear. "There you go again," he mumbles, "being a creep…"

"Really?" Shion closes his eyes, shoulders jumping in a chuckle. "I'm just being honest. Your hand is nice and cool. It could put me to sleep."

"Lazy," Nezumi accuses, his voice more gentle than need be. It's frustrating, the effect Shion has on him in these still, silent moments, but he makes no attempt to alter it as he runs his fingers through white hair, feather-light and silken at his touch. "You could sleep for a century and not even notice, I bet."

"Mm, that'd be nice." Shion squirms closer to him, nuzzling his head just so into Nezumi's hand. Kittenesque – that's the word for it, Nezumi thinks. Too much thought; Shion's too close. "Can you…keep doing that?"

The pad of Nezumi's thumb strokes along the ridge of Shion's ear, fingertips deftly weaving through his hair to tip his head back a fraction. "What if I said no?" An entirely rhetorical question at this point, given that Nezumi's still touching him for whatever reason (he'll blame it on the boy finally being awake; yes, that makes sense), but he wants to hear Shion's answer all the same, however ditzy and stupid it's bound to be. Staring at the clean sweep of his throat, Nezumi finds himself shifting forward, either to strike or to cave in – to bite or to kiss? God…

"That'd be alright, too," Shion murmurs. "You don't have to keep going if you don't want to. It's just…well, you'll probably laugh at me for saying this, but…" Shion's cheeks flush again, and his laugh is little more than a winded tide of breath pooling over Nezumi's wrist. "I like…being this close to you. That's all."

That's all. An innocent enough confession; and yet Nezumi's hand freezes in the middle of its idle petting, fingers stiffening in the cool crash of Shion's hair. He's so close he can feel the other's breath as it puffs out in soundless little laughs; such an airhead, this one, but Nezumi can't look away.

No – no, it's more disturbing that he doesn't want to look away. Because Nezumi can do anything he damn well pleases without any hassle, without obstacle or effort, without hesitation or fear; it's how he's managed to survive in this place, after all, ages before Shion flounced on in with his dreamy eyes and aloof grins as he flipped through classic texts, murmuring stories of love and tragedy to the mice once the sun went down.

Nezumi doesn't – and can't – understand this boy.

But glancing at the budding Adam's apple of Shion's throat as it bobs in a swallow, Nezumi thinks he's probably better off that way.

"I don't see why." Skimming his thumb lightly down the narrow bridge of the other's nose, Nezumi's eyes lid in vague concentration as he drags his touch down to Shion's soft, parted mouth to stroke the bottom lip in a slow circle. Shion's cheeks flush a shade darker, but he doesn't move away; if anything, he moves closer, his slender body wriggling and his head burrowing deeper into the pillow. He seems to consider speaking, until Nezumi softly dips the tip of his thumb into his mouth, resulting in a shaky gasp and a timid flutter of his eyes as he opens them to look at Nezumi like some virginal prize.

This needs to stop.

"You're a really weird kid, you know that?" Nezumi muses beneath his breath. He feels the hard ridges of Shion's teeth beneath his thumb, testing them for sharpness and getting nothing but bluntness in return. "You're like some character in a stage play, lit up beneath the spotlight and dressed in fineries but not understanding why you're wearing them. It's like they decked you in aster flowers and told you to put on a show, but you just stood there looking pretty because you didn't practice your lines enough." Nezumi's eyes soften, shadowed with concentration as he feels the very tip of Shion's tongue drag over his nail. He bets Shion didn't even notice he did it on his own; somehow, that makes it even better.

"And yet," he goes on, voice husky and quiet, "everyone came to watch you anyway. They wanted something beautiful to look at. They didn't care if you stuttered or tripped over your words. They just wanted something soft to sink their teeth into, because they're all animals."

Shion's eyes lid, tranquil and ethereal as he stares up at Nezumi. Not once does he try to move away, to wriggle himself free, to save himself from the monsters that lurk beneath Nezumi's hushed words; all he does is lie here, curled up on his side as strands of white hair fall over his cheek, obscuring Nezumi's view of him but not enough to lose sight of him completely. A haunted half-smile ghosts over the corner of Shion's lips. Everything is quiet.

"You're such an easy kill," Nezumi mutters on a breathy laugh before dropping his hand away from Shion's face. He scoots off the bed, stands up, and easily ties his hair up again, consciously avoiding whatever lost eyes Shion is surely sending him as he lies there like something craved after and consequently hunted.

"Where are you going…?"

Nezumi's eyes widen, but he doesn't turn around. The winded tone of Shion's voice paints a picture of his face without having to look at it – anxious, eager, unsullied even in this place of ashes and dust. Nezumi's brow furrows as he pockets his hands, shoulders rounding as if to fend off Shion's gaze. "Nowhere, geez. I just stood up to stretch my legs. Watching over you for hours on end, it's boring as hell."

"You didn't have to."

"Yeah, well, I did, so shut up." Without another word, Nezumi slinks off to the bookcase in search of something he hasn't read one hundred times already. Oedipus Rex is the closest thing he can find, and with a glance back at Shion, he decides it's his best bet. "Go back to sleep, you look half-dead."

"Won't you come back over here?"

"Bad idea." Nezumi lets the tired paperback flop open in his palm, spreading itself out for him and exposing nothing but pretty words. His toes curl on the cold floor, teeth gritting until his jaw aches.

"Why?"

"Go to sleep, Shion."

He feels Shion's eyes on him for a moment longer before the soft creak of the mattress paired with an even softer sigh tells him that Shion actually decides to listen to him for once. Nezumi isn't sure how he feels about that – it's too easy, there's no fight - and so he sinks down to the floor and reads until the mice tell him that it's morning. He only checks on Shion seven times during the night. That's something, he guesses.

Truth is, Nezumi kind of likes him this way – a pale little lamb curled up on a bed far away from home, far away from that disaster city made of delusion and deceit. He could keep him here. It wouldn't be too bad. Not really.

But he's not leaping fences to admit that any time soon.