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Author: Amy the Evitable a.k.a. LunarGeography
Fandom: xxxHolic
Pairing: DoumekixWatanuki
Rating: R
Summary: Strange times, Strange dreams. Written for a 'give me a title' challenge.

Pull My Hair

Doumeki had known something bad was coming.
For the last three days, he'd felt the very edges of it himself, like the pressure system of a typhoon inexorably approaching. Today, the air prickled along his skin, and when he looked at the sky through his right eye, there was an ominous greenish cast.
But Watanuki been on edge for weeks. Had jumped at shadows, and his claims that he had, of course, done no such thing had been perfunctory at best. Had a pinched look to his face, and the shadows beneath his eyes had grown deeper each morning.
It was worrying. Maybe that explained the dream.
Last night, he'd dreamt he had woken up some time after midnight and felt a need to go outside. It hadn't, somehow, been a surprise to see Watanuki and that woman standing beneath the huge red shrine arch. Watanuki was silent, giving him a long, wide-eyed look, until Yuuko laid a hand a hand upon one thin shoulder. Then the seer took off his glasses and handed them to that woman. He spread a red cloth upon the ground, and knelt upon it in formal seiza.
The silence made the scene feel entirely unreal; when that woman handed Doumeki a silver comb and gestured toward Watanuki, it made a strange dream-logic kind of sense. He knelt behind Watanuki on the red cloth, and ran the comb through the seer's unruly dark hair. Long strokes, from the crown of Watanuki's head to the longest tufts at the back of his neck, and with each pull of the comb, the hair grew impossibly longer, down Watanuki's neck, then after a few more strokes, past his shoulders, and after even more strokes, the impossibly smooth, heavy mass of it hid the protruding shoulder blades from Doumeki's sight.
Caught up in a tactile enchantment – the cool, sleek strands flowing over his hands like satin, like pure water – Doumeki combed, and combed, and combed more. He used his other hand to gather the heavy mass, now almost to Watanuki's waist, and hold it up to meet sweeping caress of the silver comb. The flow of the silky, midnight-dark locks against the pads of his fingers, over the insides of his wrists, made him hard and aching  – or maybe it was the way Watanuki leaned into each pull of the comb, yielding to Doumeki's rhythm.
Watanuki's hair was long enough to pool in his lap, when it wasn't being lifted to be combed, and he could see the power within it, quicksilver ripples of silvery-blue in constant motion. The beating of his heart followed the pulsing of that power, as did the surging tides of the arousal that filled him. He buried his hands into Watanuki's impossibly long, impossibly perfect hair, and rubbed it against his face, against his neck, and never once let the comb fall still.
And some impossible time later, that woman's voice interrupted, halting his hands. "That's all he has to give now, Doumeki-san."
And Watanuki's head had fallen back, as though it was too heavy for his neck to bear the burden any longer, and his cheeks looked hollow, and the spaces under his closed eyes were dark – but when the mismatched eyes fluttered open, the expression was languorous and sated, and he stared straight at Doumeki's face.
"Watanuki," said that woman, and one of his fine-boned hands drifted up to offer Doumeki a pair of silver scissors as Watanuki's eyes fell closed again.
Doumeki took the scissors, and when he did, Watanuki lifted his head and let it fall forward onto his own chest. Doumeki stared at the scissors in one hand, and at the wealth of hair that was captured in his fist at the nape of Watanuki's nape, and fell, glimmering, to become a blanket across his lap,
He hesitated.
"It will be all right, Doumeki. It's freely given, and you will need it."
He came as the blades met, severing that impossibly long ponytail, and had woken to find himself in need of cleaning and new nightclothes.
Now he stood on the shrine grounds, bow in hand, and knew the air was too heavy and the sky too green and in the distance, shadows were gathering into a funnel of darkness.
Footsteps approached, running, echoing in a strange staccato manner in the heavy air, and Watanuki came to a stop, breathing in great gasps.
Was his hair just a little bit longer than it had been the day before?
"Here." With both hands, Watanuki offered him a coiled string, with loops at both ends – a bowstring. A black bowstring. Long. Sleek. Silky. When Doumeki strung his bow with it, grunting softly with effort, he saw a glimmer of silver-blue light run up the string.
Doumeki took up his stance. Somehow, it no longer felt strange to do this with no arrow in his hand. None that he could see, at least. And as he waited for the single moment when the target called for his arrow, he felt Watanuki step in close behind him, rest his head against Doumeki's shoulder.
They were ready.

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