The Fine Art of Hairstyling

Akira was not irresponsible enough to drink on workdays.

Well, actually, she didn't drink at all, but the sentiment remained.

So when Amon asked her to join him and Takizawa for dinner, she went with them and allowed herself a glass of alcohol because the next day was a holiday and so she didn't have to worry about work. That turned into a disaster at the end, but it was a weekend—she could nurse her hangover in peace.

However, at the CCG, weekends were an illusion. They existed, of course, but due to the nature of an investigator's job, they could be called to the office at any hour of the day.

Like now.

After she had made breakfast for Amon, both their phones beeped with an official message asking them to report to the CCG in fifty minutes' time.

Biting back an annoyed hiss, Akira left Amon sitting there as she rushed around, changing clothes and taking the things she would need. Maris Stella smartly moved next to Amon, knowing better than to get in her owner's way.

It was while she was working on her hair that Akira realized her superior was watching her intently. It made her feel odd, almost self-conscious, but she didn't let it show. Rather, she waited until she had finished half her braid, then looked at him and said, "Good to know I'm so pretty that you can't keep your eyes off of me."

Heat rose to Amon's face as he sputtered, "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to stare, I was just—" he gestured to her hair, "That." He fixed his gaze on the floor.

She stared. Was he actually referring to...

"Have you never seen hair being braided before?"

"I have, but it was—I could never... um..."

"Planning to learn?"

She didn't expect a reply—she was just teasing him as usual, anticipating his flustered refusal—but as she was turning back to the mirror, she noticed that he was seriously considering the question. She sighed.

After the events of last night, Akira felt more pleasantly predisposed to Amon. That was the only reason, she told herself, that she said, "Come here."

He nearly jumped in surprise. "Akira, you don't have to—"

"Before I change my mind."

Amon swallowed then walked over, standing at—oh God, the man was nearly standing at attention, he was that stiff. Akira had to suppress a laugh.

"Watch carefully," she said as she undid her work and began again. "First you divide it into three equal parts, then hold it like this."

She demonstrated the steps slowly, squashing down the uncharacteristic nervousness she felt. Just yesterday, she would have scoffed at the idea of helping Amon with anything. But in the course of a night, so much had changed.

No matter how drunk she had gotten, she couldn't forget that she had begged him to stay—and he had.

Undoing the braid, she told him, "Try it out."

Amon hesitantly did so, while Akira stood still as a statue. She waited patiently as he fumbled with even splitting her hair, his too-large hands not suited for things requiring such care. Akira showed no sign of emotion on her face throughout, her erratic heartbeat only loud enough to pound in her own ears.

Her brain was definitely still addled by alcohol for trying to teach Amon how to braid, but now that she was doing it, her nature would allow nothing else but to make him learn it properly.

"It's still harder than it looks," he murmured to himself.

"Give me your hands," she said, stopping him.

"Akira, it's alright."

"I said I'll teach you," was all she gave in reply.

Placing his hands over hers, Akira guided him through the motions from the start, letting him get a feel for what to do. If her cheeks turned a light shade of pink, it was purely a trick of the light. Not the proximity between them.

She had to strenuously make herself believe that that was the case, because she could not yet bring herself to consider the alternative.

"Got it?" she asked once she was done.

"I-I think...?"

"Try again," she told Amon with confidence as she undid the braid.

He acquiesced to her, knowing that arguing with a determined Akira would get him nowhere. They still had twenty more minutes left before the meeting, after all.

This time, Amon was more gentle than hesitant. She noticed how he took his time, rechecking every step and concentrating just as intensely for something like this as he would for fighting ghouls.

"In the orphanage," he started out of the blue, "The girls tried to teach me once. I couldn't get it then. And later... they never got the chance again."

Akira froze, knowing exactly what that meant and unable to think of anything to say, but Amon didn't seem to be looking for a reply.

It suddenly struck her that this was the first time he had ever talked about his past with her—everything she knew about the orphanage she had found out from rumours and Donato Porpora's files. Even if it was such a small thing, Akira felt closer to him. There was something in his voice that resonated all too well with her: the pain of loss.

He was just as lonely as her.

After a minute passed in silence, Amon was finished with her hair, and he took a step back to view it.

"You should probably do it yourself," he said at last with a slightly disappointed tone.

Akira looked at his work critically in the mirror and lightly touched it. It was a bit loose, with a few strands poking out, and had nowhere near the same precision as hers usually had. She considered for a moment.

"It's adequate," she said, setting the braid into her usual style.

Amon's lips curved into a surprised but pleased smile, and Akira felt a sudden warmth. She turned away from him and tried to shake it off as she picked up her purse from the table.

"Bye, Maris Stella," she bent down and told her cat, before turning to her partner. "Let's go, Amon."

He nodded and Akira tried not to laugh as he waved an awkward farewell to her cat, who responded with a flat expression. Much like her owner, Maris Stella took her time to warm up to people. And much like her, Akira was sure her cat would also learn to like Amon.

No words were exchanged while Amon drove them to the office. They managed to arrive for the meeting just a few minutes early, taking their seats as the room quickly filled up. If people kept glancing at Akira for the difference in her usual picture-perfect appearance, she paid them no mind.

The only opinion that mattered was Amon's smile.