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think of cinnamon

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"I don't need a haircut," Rust says, but he sits in the chair in front of Marty.

"Shut up," Marty says cordially. "Let me get rid of that rat's nest you call a ponytail, handsome you up some."

The air hangs awkward and silent between them for a moment. Then Marty coughs and Rust hears the scissors clink and slide against nothing.

"I don't even know if you know what you're doing," Rust says, gruff with awkwardness. "Maybe I should go to a salon or something." He smirks.

"I got two girls, you think I never cut hair before?" Marty is laughing at him, Rust can hear it. "What, you worried you gonna look bad? I thought you transcended such physical mortal whatever."

"Maybe I got someone to look nice for, you ever considered that?" Rust says. Marty, silent, begins working the hair elastic off, slowly and carefully so it doesn't pull. He gets it all the way off and Rust's hair falls, warm, across his shoulders. 

Marty's hands slide through Rust's hair, and Rust forgets to breathe.

"Shaving the soup strainer was a good start," Marty says, now finger-combing Rust's hair, "but you still look like a serial killer. Little less like a pedophile, though." Rust can hear Marty's voice shiver a little with restrained laughter. He rolls his eyes.

"Least I still got hair," Rust says. Marty is still laughing.

"Hold still now," Marty says after a moment.

The scissors make gentle snip sounds. Long strands of hair fall all around onto the floor, on Rust's legs.

He falls into a kind of contended daze for a few minutes, or maybe longer, the soft clash of the scissors and Marty's warm, firm hand on his neck and head, tilting him this way and that.

"Alright," Marty says after a while.

"Mmm?" Rust says, soft.

"You're done," Marty says, coming around to face him. "Wanna see?"

Short bits of hair tickle his neck. "Nah," he says. "I trust you."