Dying and Dying

Rowan hadn't thought anything of it, at first.  Kalmar's requests were a refreshing blip in his days; they got him  money, got him out of the house, and they were, generally speaking,  things he already enjoyed doing. Kalmar got tequila; Rowan got whiskey.  Kalmar got weedkiller and a lighter; Rowan got cigarettes and the  knowledge Red was making bad decisions. They both enjoyed blowing up  some cars. So Kalmar would get a fresh dye job, and Rowan would get Kal  to pay for his.

But when Rowan found himself standing before the  dye display, a strange feeling wormed in his chest. He glanced at the  purples and the pinks. A brief, flittering idea--no. He still hadn't  even talked to Nat yet, and at this point, he suspected they were  avoiding him as much as he were them. They had been asleep when he--during Red's brief overnight visit--came down to check their room for stray plants. 

He'd shaken off the feeling by the time he got back--opening the door with a slam and a grin, "Ready bitch?"--and  was plenty spirited shooting jabs at Kal while they got him moved into  the bathroom and made him wait while they applied bleach to their own  roots.

But the time had finally come. They sat perched on the  bathroom counter as they pulled his wheelchair as close as it could get,  but the handles meant he was still a solid six inches away--not ideal  with a bastard this tall. "Brakes on?" They didn't wait for an answer as  they hooked a leg over his shoulder. There, that would give them the  maneuverability they needed. "Stay still."

With that, he set to  work, but he had scarcely begun when that uncomfortable, worming feeling  returned. This time, he could pinpoint its origin far faster. It was  the familiarity of it all. The crinkle of the cheap plastic  gloves, the tingling of the bleach on his scalp, the scent of the dye,  the meticulous search for virgin roots, the warmth of the body beneath  him--all of it. He remembered the last time he had done this.

Golden  afternoon light danced across the pavement. All they'd been able to  find was the public pool--outdoor showers--after hours. It was enough.  She sat on a bench with her legs wrapped around them--the only thing  keeping them from wiggling--and they looked up at her and said  something. (Their lips moved silently. Why couldn't he remember?) She  answered (what was it?) and they laughed, a bright sound like sparkles  on the water.

But, no. As much as they wanted to believe it,  that wasn't the last time. A bathroom, dark and dirty. Dripping water.  Cold hands. Silence. Silence. Silence.

Rowan had stopped applying  dye and hadn't noticed. He began again, silently hoping Kal would keep  any comments about the pause to himself. What were they even doing here,  anyway? Why hadn't Kalmar asked Nil to do this, or that boyfriend of  his? Surely, there was nothing about hair dye in his health plans.  Evidently, he was starting to trust them, but Rowan knew better than to  believe that being a reliable errand boy ever meant anything more than  that.

"Hey. Turn on some music. It's too quiet in here."