Ronins husbanf

After all, he's taking time out of his afternoon to dye your hair to begin with. The two of you are in old clothing; he's wearing an already bleach-stained NIN t-shirt and a pair of basketball shorts. You're in a ratty tank top and jeans with more holes than fabric. 

Music plays from his bedroom, the door to the bathroom left open. There are no windows in his place, so it reeks of chemicals, but you don't mind it. Being at Ronin's always makes you more comfortable than anywhere else. 

You're propped up on a stool, feet tucked between one of the bars as he smothers more dye on your treated hair. He hums along with the music, methodically going through the process of adding the raccoon stripes you asked for. 

Technically you could have done this yourself, but it would have taken double the time and triple the amount of stress. Ronin has plenty of experience, and beneath that, you like the feeling of his fingers in your hair as he works. 

It's oddly domestic, all things considered. 

"So is the red to please the Devil?" He asks, reaching for more foil. 

If you tell him the truth, his head isn't going to fit through the doorway, but then that's what you like about him. "Maybe." 

"Tsch, maybe." He grunts and tugs at a strand of your hair. "Maybe my ass." 

You laugh, looking toward the mirror. Normally this is something you make a point to avoid, but you want to see him in the reflection. He's got dye on his fingers, clearly unconcerned about it. It's cute the way he squints at the spot he's working at like it'll help him focus better.

The sight of you, however, sort of dampens the view. There's a delay, a disconnect when you meet your eyes. It's you, but it's not you. That's how it's always been. Once you look, it's hard to stop looking, getting caught on that delay, focusing on it. Trying to speed up so it matches. It never matches.

Ronin meets your eye through the reflection and tugs on a strand of your hair again. "Feel that?" 

You glare at him. Yes, obviously you felt that. It hurt. 

He giggles, finishing the last section of your hair, pulling back to let it sit. You stay dutifully in your spot as he rinses the excess dye on his hands down the drain. It still leaves his fingers reddish-pink, stained for the time being. 

Your eyes track him in the mirror as he flicks water at you, feeling the droplets collide with your cheek. He sticks his tongue out, piercing glinting before he takes up residence in the spot he vacated. 

Instead of your hair, his hand loops around to your throat, palm to where your adam's apple should be, fingers on the underside of your jaw. He bends down, cheek against cheek, getting more dye on himself.

His hand slides up to your cheek, puffing your lips apart in a way that makes you look like a fish. You laugh. He smiles. 

"And all is right in Hell." He murmurs, turning to kiss your squeezed cheek. "When you see yourself and smile."