“Hey.”
“Hey.” Johnny grunts back.
Edgar pauses, pushes farther into the bathroom. “What are you doing?”
“Fixing my hair,” He says. He’s hunched shirtless over the sink, electric razor in one hand, mirror in the other. Shaving cream speckles his back like icebergs. Icebergs with dark fur.
“But that’s my razor,” Edgar says, somewhat irrelevantly: they both know that the concept of personal possession doesn’t even warrant a dotted line on Johnny’s mental map.
“Yeah,” Johnny says. “It’s kind of crap, too.”
He shoves the razor behind his ear some more and it makes a sound like an angry digital kitten. Johnny curses as it sucks in a tuft of hair and nicks his ear.
“For god’s sake, Nny, here,” Edgar says, grabbing the razor away and clicking it off. “Why are you even-”
“It was there! Get off!” Johnny grabs the razor back, but it won’t click back on properly. It growls.
“You’re bleeding, cut it out.” Edgar goes for the medicine cabinet. “I thought you shaved your head all the time. You can’t use electric razors like that.”
“I usually steal disposables.” Johnny fusses with the razor. His ear is dripping blood on to the floor, but he doesn’t seem to notice. Click, Grrrnd. Click, Grndd-click click-grr. “Shit, look, I think I can get it to talk.”
“Here,” Edgar says, and soaks a handful of toilet paper in disinfectant. “Come on, stop staining the floor.” He trades it to Johnny for the razor and begins to work the snarl of hair out from the little round blades. Johnny touches the paper to his ear, swears, and shakes his head violently, spattering the mirror and walls with tiny red dots.
“It hurts!”
“Life is pain,” Edgar says.
Johnny snorts. Edgar clicks the razor on. It makes a smooth whirr.
“You know, I kind of expected you to be better with-” He catches himself. “I mean, better than…”
“You. With blades. Blade-related things. Right?” Johnny said flatly. “Maybe your bathroom just cancels out my godly talents.”
“I guess you’ll have to cope like the rest of us mortals.” Edgar says, and waves the razor at Johnny.  “If you want, I can…?”
Johnny regards him. “Yeah,” He says. “Yeah, okay.” He turns back to the sink and places his hands on either side, his nose almost to the glass.
Edgar approaches runs his fingers through the uneven, bristly mess at the back of Johnny’s head. “We need to cut this, first. There’s scissors—over there, I think.”
Johnny grunts. Edgar fetches them himself, then reorients. “I think if we cut it—shaved to the top of your ears, maybe, and then longer at the top?” He draws a line with his thumb, one lobe to the other. “Your hair is really fading. Is it—it’s gone green, almost. Back here. How can that even happen?”
“Quit your bitching, I’m gorgeous.” Johnny smirks.
“Is that what they’re calling it now?” Edgar asks, and begins to trim at the mess. In no time it’s evened out, and he touches the buzzing razor to the nape of Johnny’s neck. A shiver runs through Johnny, his thin brown shoulders drawing upwards, together. He breathes in, sharply, bares his teeth. His hands are tight against the sink. 
“Relax, Nny,” Edgar tells him, working to keep the shave even. He puts one palm along Johnny’s shoulder, almost around his neck, twists him a little. Johnny makes a deeply unhappy face every time the razor gets near his ear, until Edgar puts it back down and trims the area flat snip by snip.
“There.” Edgar blows along the side of Johnny’s head, clearing the hair particles away and prompting another shiver-and-grimace. He puts one hand along Johnny’s jaw, one hand threading through the top of his head, the long messy bangs. “You want to keep this mess?”
“Yeah,” Johnny says, and tilts his head against Edgar’s grasp. “Maybe I’ll dye it red, or something, this time.”
Edgar looks in the mirror at them both. Johnny’s face is sallow but dark against his fingers, and his hair is almost black in the sterile white fluorescence of the room. He feels something he can’t put words to, something like falling, or being about to, something sick and anxious in the pit of his stomach. Johnny’s eyes are as dark as the hair dripping into them, and utterly humorless for just this one moment.
“I don’t think red suits you,” Edgar hears himself say, and he touches his thumb to the cut on Johnny’s ear.
Johnny’s fingers flex and tighten around the rim of the sink, and he looks up at Edgar through the mirror. His dark eyes are distant and more than a little preoccupied, and he pulls away from Edgar’s fingers.
“I don’t…” He says. “I think I just… I thought of something. Maybe. Remembered.”
“Oh?”
“I don’t know. You were…” He focuses harder, intent on Edgar’s face, and Edgar feels himself heat. But Johnny just looks down and away. “No. It’s gone.”
“Oh.”
Johnny wipes the last of the shaving cream off his shoulders and walks away, trailing his shirt behind him.
“I’ll go find some more blue.”
Edgar looks at the hair and blood on the floor, and tries to recapture the feeling.