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“Annoying…”
An abrupt, irritated grumble cut through Dahut’s practiced routine; his gloved hand paused midway through its reach toward a lump of what was once stale bread that had been discarded on the floor. Still, after the second it took for the initial shock to pass, Dahut picked up the not-bread and rose to his feet.
“What’s annoying?” He asked with a glance over his shoulder.
Behind him, lounging on a sofa in a way that could only be perceived as lazy, the director of the country’s National Research Institute was no longer studying the holographic systems that floated around him. Rather, he was focused on something tangible that cascaded softly between his nimble fingers.
With a click of his tongue, “Hair,” he said, before he shifted only his gaze to meet Dahut’s own. “Bring me scissors,” he added his command with the same unimpressed inflection.
For a small moment in time, Dahut merely stared back, blinking once. Letting the words, the implication, the thought — the image — sink in. And then—
“Scien, you can’t!” He shouted perhaps a tad too enthusiastically.
A thudding sound followed Dahut’s cry; belatedly, he realized it was the loaf of not-bread he had picked up off the floor that was bound for the trash.
Paying it no mind, Scien’s eyes narrowed, but he said nothing. Dahut understood the cue without needing words: state your reasoning.
And if my answer isn’t good enough for him, he’ll cut my pay for wasting his time! Dahut lamented silently. Explaining his perspective in a clear and concise manner was crucial if he wanted to dine on something more than cold soup for the next few months; Dahut knew that all too well. And typically, he would have next to no problem countering Scien’s tests.
Somehow, defending the topic of hair— specifically, Scien’s hair was a different beast entirely. Not that Dahut was ignorant to the reason why that was the case, however.
There were two ways to approach this argument.
Method One: lie. Lie, and come up with a passable reason as to why Scien should never, ever be allowed to brandish sharp objects near his hair with the intent of cutting it off.
Hair is annoying? Nonsense! Just appreciate its beauty! Or something along those lines...
…Needless to say, the result of Method One would no doubt result in a pay cut. Scien appreciating beauty? Only after Hades froze over would such a thing come to pass. Actually— scratch that. That would never happen; Scien didn’t believe in Hades, after all.
That left Dahut with Method Two: tell the truth, which was… perhaps even less desirable than watching his paycheck meet the guillotine. The bugs known as “emotions” — humanity’s fatal flaw, according to Scien — being involved in this line of reasoning was not the root cause as to why Dahut held his tongue. While he knew it would mean nothing to Scien, the thought of sharing such a personal piece of his own history with him was… what he would describe as “embarrassing.”
Hey, Scien! For all that you are — a rude, ungrateful, incorrigible slob — I can’t help but admire your appearance! Your hair colour is so similar to my lost mother’s that I feel at ease working alongside you! Please refrain from damaging it!
Yeah. Right. No way was that conversation going to come to light, with Scien or anyone else.
Thus, it seemed Dahut had reached an impasse. Lie, and suffer the consequences. Or; tell the truth… and suffer the consequences, on top of the inevitable shame that would follow.
Ah, damn. What was he supposed to do?
In error, Dahut redirected his sights that he had subconsciously let wander back to Scien. What greeted him was an icy, multi-coloured glare.
“Dahut,” Scien prompted.
It looked like his time was up.
Using his best judgment, Dahut took a silent breath and plastered a trained smile across his lips. “Y-your hair really is nice. It’d be a shame to saw it all off!” He started clumsily, and when Scien’s mouth curved into a threatening frown, Dahut continued in haste, correcting his warbly tone. “If you cut it now, you’ll just have to keep cutting it again and again. Instead—” Improvising as he was, Dahut twirled on the spot, allowing his own long hair to trace a circle around him. “You should tie it back, like I do!”
A second passed. Then two. Finally, ten seconds had passed since Dahut’s bold declaration, and a deadly silence captured the room.
Nooo… my paycheck… was all that Dahut could think. But at least he had fought valiantly to protect it, right?
Slumping his shoulders, Dahut struggled to not fiddle with his shorter, shoulder length braid in anxiety. However, cleaving through the quiet without a shred of restraint—
“I see. Get to it then,” was what Scien said.
Like a reflex, Dahut straightened. “Yes?” His voice was a squeak.
Not noticing, or perhaps not caring, Scien adjusted his reclined position against the sofa’s armrest. In a grace that seemed to come naturally to him, Scien raised a hand and pointed to the open space behind him. “Tie it,” he said, and then his indifferent expression changed to something more concrete, eyes resuming their scanning of the Institute’s systems.
It seemed that the opportunity to refute had passed before Dahut had even caught sight of its beginning.
Really, this man was such a nuisance!
But I guess I can't complain if I'm not getting punished…?
Allowing himself a sigh, Dahut accepted his small victory and made his way behind Scien as instructed, discarding his cleaning gloves onto the floor as he went.
For a moment, he considered asking if Scien had a particular style he would prefer trying out, but Dahut quickly remembered who he was dealing with. Whatever is most convenient, would surely have been the answer.
So, with a nod to psyche himself up, Dahut raised his hands and got to work.
Surprisingly, given how slovenly he could be, Scien’s hair was smooth to the touch and quite shiny upon closer inspection. Putting its familiar rosy gold colour aside, Dahut found himself becoming entranced with it in a new way. The ease in which he was able to control it with each gentle pull and twist into the style he envisioned was calming.
Tasks given to Dahut by Scien were normally of the irritating variety — cleaning his room and ensuring he had food within arm’s reach at all times were among the most obscene — but tying back his hair instead of cutting it into sad, little bits was… well, more enjoyable than he would like to admit.
But that doesn’t mean I'm his caretaker who will do this for him on the daily! Definitely not!
With that thought, Dahut’s fingers stilled just above the base of Scien’s skull.
Huh. That seemed to be enough; two simple braids, one along the left side of his head and another from the lower right side coming together and flowing off into a single ponytail over his shoulder. Not plain, but not particularly fancy either. It was a good, clean look for a god who didn’t care about appearances, Dahut thought.
Grinning naturally, pleased with the result of his hard labour, Dahut nodded a second time. “Okay, looks good!”
At his announcement, Scien responded brusquely. “Return to cleaning.”
Wow. Your welcome, Dahut thought at the same time he rolled his eyes. Only— hold on.
Dahut looked at his hands. At his fingers, to be precise. Stared at what they were holding in place with a reverent care.
Uh. Oops?
“Dahut.” Seeming to have already lost his patience, Scien began to turn his head.
“AH!” In a panic, Dahut strengthened his hold on the soft hair, pulling it tight in an effort to keep it in place.
Of course, Scien grunted when pain shot through his head from his delicate hair being yanked. “Hey, what are you—”
“Please, stop moving!” Dahut pleaded, frantically looking around the useless, filthy room. Of all the things that Scien’s lab was eternally littered with, of course it wouldn’t have the one thing Dahut needed in that very moment: a hair tie!
Distantly, Dahut’s woeful thoughts cried out, I’m getting a pay cut after all! but he forcefully silenced them, prioritizing a calm mind and a careful eye above all else. Think; what could he use to substitute a hair tie? There had to be something in this godforsaken landfill!
By a stroke of good luck, or perhaps a miracle from on high, Dahut caught sight of something most peculiar. Something he had held in his very hands only minutes prior.
Laying abandoned yet again in the center of the room was the lump of not-bread.
Bread…
“Wah!” Dahut let out a shocked noise, inadvertently pulling his hands towards himself at the genius idea that struck him.
Meanwhile, “Dahut!” Scien yelled in response to his hair being tugged once more.
Wincing in fear at the punishment that was sure to come to him now no matter what, Dahut secured Scien’s hair in only one hand and reached behind him with the other, in the direction of Scien’s desk. “P-please wait a few more seconds!” He begged, searching with his eyes for what he could only pray was within his reach.
For all of the damn bread that this man ate, there had to be one of those things!
And, truly, the stars must have aligned for Dahut and Dahut alone that day. Centered perfectly beneath his raised palm was the object of his desire, as though calling for him, beckoning him to use it for what was most important in that very moment.
Dahut did not hesitate. Silently thanking the inanimate entity for its brave sacrifice, he slammed his opened hand down on top of it before he swung his torso back around to face Scien’s hair. Deftly, masterfully, Dahut maneuvered the hair in his hands with the substitute tie between his fingers, securing both in place in mere heartbeats.
…Well. It wasn’t so much a substitute tie as it was a twist tie used to seal bags of bread.
All Scien eats is bread anyway, so what’s the difference?
The spontaneous battle to tie Scien’s hair having concluded, Dahut stepped away with a breath. “Okay,” he exhaled. “Now I’m done.”
Much like earlier, a second passed by in silence. Then two.
By the third second, Scien brought himself to a stand, his height towering in an even more imposing way than ever before. Maybe it had something to do with his updated look?
Nevertheless, in his blind spot, Dahut shifted towards the door.
“Um, how do you like your hair?” Dahut tried asking innocently, though he knew his efforts to avoid divine judgment were futile.
In a manner that was both beautiful and grotesque, destructive and calm, Scien turned to face Dahut. And, with a mirthless grin he reserved only for those he planned on never encountering again, whispered in a haunting drawl, “Sixty year pay cut.”
It took every ounce of Dahut’s will to not fall to his knees. “I’m sorry,” he whimpered pitifully.
Scien was right after all. Hair sure was annoying.
