Chapter 13: The Braid Ascent
"I'm going to lose my mind," Rosa announced to the ceiling. She was propped up, her hands idle for once, unable to reach any of the ongoing projects from the bed. "A person can only stare at the water stain that looks like a disapproving frog for so long."
"It's more of a mutated newt," Roy called from across the room. "See the elongated tail?"
"Don't encourage it."
A small, warm laugh buzzed from the direction of the desk, where Roy sat on the edge of a stack of notebooks, legs dangling. The harness hugged his torso, the tiny carabiner glinting at his back. He'd been practicing clipping and unclipping himself from various objects all morning, testing the limits of his new independence. But now his attention had fixed on Rosa, on her hair lying in its thick braid over her shoulder to her chest.
"You know what I haven't tried?" he said.
"What?"
"Your hair. Unbraided."
Rosa's eyebrows rose. "Unbraided."
"Yeah. The braid was a challenge, sure. Tight weave, fixed strands. But loose hair? That's a whole different game. Think about it, every strand moves independently. It's like climbing a rope that's made of a thousand smaller ropes, all shifting in different directions."
"That sounds like a nightmare."
"Exactly."
Rosa stared at him for a long moment, then huffed a laugh through her nose. "You want to climb my hair."
"I want to conquer the terrain of my sister's hair. It's a matter of honor now."
"You're an idiot."
"Learned from the best."
She shook her head, but her hand was already moving to the tie at the end of her braid. She pulled it free, working her fingers through the woven strands, loosening them a section at a time. The hair fell in thick waves across her shoulders and down her back, dark brown, sun-streaked at the edges. She combed her fingers through it, wincing at a snag, then let it settle.
"There," she said. "Happy?"
Roy was already scrambling off the desk, crossing the vast plain of the floorboards toward the bed. His movement was quick, assured, the harness giving him a confidence he didn't have a week ago. "I need you lower."
Rosa shifted, sliding down and rotating herself in the bed until her head was laying on the edge. Her hair spilled over the side, a cascade of dark strands that reached within a few inches of the floor.
From Roy's perspective, it looked like a waterfall frozen mid-fall, thick and deep, with individual strands. He'd climbed the braid. That had been a fixed, structured thing. This was something different entirely.
He reached the edge of the spill and touched a strand. It was soft, fine, smaller around than his finger. He gripped it and it slid, loose, giving no purchase.
"Here's the problem," he called up. "I can't get a grip on just one. They're too slick."
"Then use more. Take a handful around each hand. Or use the old rope climbing trick: pin a bundle between the top of one foot & the sole of the other, use it like a step."
He tried a single strand first, then two, then a fistful. The hair slid against itself, individual strands slipping and separating, offering no fixed purchase. He grunted, frustrated, and looked up at the vast cliff of her profile. "Pin a bundle between my feet? That's insane."
"It's how you climb a rope without knots. The pressure holds it in place."
"That's for ropes. This is hair."
"Hair is just a bunch of ropes, you just said that."
Roy muttered something unintelligible and gathered a generous handful of strands in each hand, wrapping them twice around his palms. He hoisted his feet up, trying to wedge a section between his feet as she'd suggested. The strands slipped at first, silky and uncooperative, but when he pressed his feet together harder, they held. He tested the grip, shifting his weight, and the bundle of hair stayed pinned.
"Okay," he said, more to himself than to her. "Okay."
He climbed. Two hands, then the feet, inching upward with careful, deliberate movements. The hair shifted beneath him as the strands slid against each other, the whole mass of it moving with the rhythm of her breathing. It was like climbing a slope of loose gravel, each grip requiring constant adjustment, constant pressure, constant attention. He'd take three steps up and slide back one. His arms burned. His calves ached.
Above him, Rosa had tilted her head all the way back at an awkward angle. "You look like you're fighting the world's smallest mudslide."
"I'm winning," he gritted out.
"Are you though?"
He was, actually. Slowly, incrementally, but he was making progress. The trick was to keep moving, keep the pressure constant, never allow the strands to settle into stillness. The moment he paused, the hair would relax and slide beneath him, undoing his progress. He had to flow with it, ride the texture like water. He was two feet up now, maybe more, her hair cascading past him in a dark river, the individual strands glinting in the pale light from the cracked window.
"You're at my shoulder," Rosa said, a note of surprise in her voice.
Roy didn't answer. He couldn't spare the breath. His hands were cramping, the hair wrapped so tightly around his palms that he'd lost feeling in his fingers. But he could see the top now, the crown of her head, her scalp visible through the parting of the strands. He climbed up to the top of her head.
"I need a different approach," he panted. "The top's too steep."
"Use the braid trail."
"What?"
"The strands that still have the kink from the braid. They're stiffer, they grip better. Follow the line."
He looked down, scanning the terrain, and saw what she meant. The hair that had been woven into the braid for hours had a texture to it, a slight crimp that made it catch and hold against his weight. He shifted his course, veering toward the kinked sections, and immediately felt the difference. The strands gripped back. The slide slowed.
He climbed the last stretch in a burst of renewed energy, hauling himself up and over the crown of her head, making it to the crest of her forehead. He collapsed there, breathing hard, spread-eagled on the warm skin.
"Made it," he wheezed.
Rosa couldn't see him from that angle, but she could feel him, a warm, tiny pressure against her face. She grinned at the ceiling, a wide, unguarded grin. "You're on my head. You climbed up onto my head."
"Your hair is the worst terrain I've ever climbed."
"You made it."
"I made it," he agreed, and there was a note of wonder in his buzzing voice.
He sat up, surveying the new landscape. Everything looked almost normal.
"Okay, this is actually incredible," he said. "You have no idea what the view is like from up here."
"Tell me."
"The frog stain looks like a newt from this angle too.”
“You're leaning too far into the mutation interpretation." Rosa laughed, the sound vibrating up through her skull, a deep, resonant thrum that tickled the soles of his feet. "You need to come down before you get a hair up your nose."
"I'll take the express route."
He turned, approaching the edge of her head where it rested near the edge of the bed, judged the distance, then jumped, tucking and rolling as he landed.
Rosa's hand came up, brushing over the spot where he'd been standing. She found him a moment later on the mattress, scooping him up with careful fingers and bringing him up as she sat up and returned to her previous position. "That was seriously impressive."
"Told you. New challenge."
"You're not going to be insufferable about this, are you?"
"Extremely insufferable."
She snorted, lowering him to the blanket beside her. "I need to brush it now. You made a rats' nest of my part."
"I did not."
"You absolutely did. There are sections that look like you braided them with your feet." She reached for the comb on the bedside table, a wide-toothed thing she'd had from before, and began working through the tangles. Roy watched, sitting cross-legged on the blanket, as she worked the comb through the dark mass in slow, patient strokes.
"You want to know what it looks like from my angle?" he asked after a moment.
Rosa paused, brush mid-stroke. "What, messy?"
"Kind of. But also kind of beautiful. All these strands, moving together. Like a forest in the wind."
She was quiet for a moment, then resumed brushing. "You're getting philosophical on me."
"Climbing does that. Focus your mind on one thing for long enough, the universe starts talking."
"The universe told you my hair looks like a forest?"
"It's not exactly a hard metaphor to reach."
She huffed a laugh, finished the last stroke, and set the brush aside. Her hair lay in a smooth, dark wave over her shoulders. "Alright. You've had your fun. What's next on the conqueror's list?"
Roy looked around the room, his eyes bright, his harness still snug against his chest. He was buzzing with the afterglow of the climb, with the pride of accomplishing something that should have been impossible. But he also felt something else, something quieter: a deep, steady warmth. She'd let him climb her. She'd let him stand on her head. She'd trusted him not to hurt her, and he'd trusted her not to drop him.
"Maybe the curtains next," he said. "They've got that rope-like texture, and the tiebacks look like anchors."
"The curtains are covered in dust."
"I'll bring a mask."
Rosa shook her head, but she was smiling, that same soft, unguarded smile from the pillow that morning. "You're going to get yourself killed doing this one day."
"Probably. But I'll have really good grip strength when I do."
She reached out, gently tapping his head with one finger, a gesture that was almost affectionate. "Come on, conqueror. Let's get you some water before you attempt the curtains. You sound like you've been smoking a pack of cigarettes."
He laughed, and the sound was full and free in the quiet room.
Rosa set him down on the bedside table, next to a thimble she'd filled with water. Roy drank deeply, the cool liquid easing the burn in his throat, then leaned against the base of the lamp, letting his muscles unclench. He could feel the climb in every part of him, a pleasant ache in his arms and calves, the kind of tired that meant he'd actually done something.
"Alright," he said, pushing himself upright. "I'm ready for the curtains."
"No."
"What?"
"You're swaying." Rosa was watching him from the bed, her head tilted. "You're going to get two feet up that curtain and your grip's going to give out and you'll fall onto the desk and break something. Probably yourself."
"I won't fall."
"You just climbed a mountain of hair and you can barely stand."
Roy opened his mouth to argue, then closed it. She was right. His hands were still trembling slightly, the muscles in his forearms twitching with overuse. He'd pushed himself hard, harder than he'd realized in the moment, and the rush of adrenaline was wearing off, leaving a deep, bone-weary exhaustion in its wake.
"Fine," he said, grudgingly. "Curtains tomorrow."
Rosa nodded, settling back against the supportive backrest Jason had built for her. She reached for the book on the bedside table, a battered paperback that had made the rounds through the dorm's small library, its spine cracked and its cover creased with use. She flipped it open to a marked page and began to read.
Roy sat on the table for a few minutes, watching her. The light from the cracked window caught the edges of her face, the sharp line of her jaw, the slight furrow of concentration between her brows. Her hair lay loose around her shoulders, a dark spill of waves that moved with her breathing.
"You gonna stare at me all day?" she asked, without looking up from the page.
"Maybe."
"You're a creep."
"Learned from the best."
She snorted softly, turning a page. Roy studied the terrain of the bed. The blanket was a rumpled plain, the pillow a soft mountain, and her hair lay sprawled across both. He'd climbed it once already. He knew the texture now, the way the loose strands slid and shifted, the trick of using the kinked sections from the old braid to find purchase.
But he didn't want to climb it, not right now. He wanted to be in it.
"Rosa?"
"Mmm."
"I've got a weird request."
She looked up at him, one eyebrow raised. "Weirder than climbing my hair?"
"About the same, actually."
"Go on."
He took a breath. "Can I... sit in your hair? Like, up on top, where it's flat. Just for a while. I'm tired, and it was warm up there, and it felt... I don't know. Safe."
The eyebrow climbed higher. Then, slowly, something soft and unguarded crossed her face. She set the book down, open, on the blanket beside her.
"You want to take a nap in my hair."
"It doesn't have to be a nap. Just a rest. I'll be out of the way. I promise."
Rosa was quiet for a long moment, studying him with those sharp green eyes. Then she sighed, a sound that carried more fondness than exasperation.
"Climb up, then. But if you drool in my hair, I'm revoking your climbing privileges."
"I don't drool."
"You snore."
"I don't snore either."
"You've got a whole new set of lies going today."
Roy laughed, a tired, buzzing sound. The climb up her hair was easier this time, muscle memory guiding his hands and feet. He found a thick section of the kinked strands, gripped a fistful, and hauled himself upward, hand over hand, feet pinning smaller bundles between them. The texture gave him purchase now, the hair shifting and adjusting to his weight like a living thing.
He crested the top and paused, breathing hard. Her scalp was warm beneath him, the hair lying in a soft, thick mat over the curve of her skull. He turned in a slow circle, surveying the terrain. The strands here were shorter, softer, they didn't slide the way the long ones did. They formed a kind of nest, a shallow bowl of dark silk that cradled him perfectly.
He sat down, then lay back, letting the hair rise up around him like a shelter. It was warm. It smelled clean, faintly of soap and something else, something that was just Rosa. He could feel her pulse through the bone beneath him, a slow, steady rhythm that vibrated through the strands like a heartbeat in the earth.
He closed his eyes.
A moment later, he felt a shift, a subtle pressure, and then the sound of a page turning. Rosa had picked up her book again. The quiet scratch of the paper was a small, intimate sound, close and clear from his position on her head.
He lay there, floating in the warmth, letting his muscles unknot. The climb had taken more out of him than he'd wanted to admit. The harness was snug against his body, a familiar pressure now, a second skin. He let his mind drift.
Time passed. He wasn't sure how long. A minute, an hour, somewhere in between. He was half-asleep, suspended in a haze of warmth and the gentle rhythm of her breathing, when he felt something else: a hand rising, moving toward his position.
Rosa's fingers came up, absently, reaching for a loose strand that had fallen across her temple. She swept it back, tucking it behind her ear, and missed him by a fraction of an inch. The fingers brushed past, ruffling the hair beside him, and then withdrew. She turned a page, lost in her book.
Roy opened his eyes, watching her hand disappear. A small, quiet thrill ran through him, the adrenaline of near-miss, the strange intimacy of being so small, so close, that she could touch him without knowing.
Her hand came up again, a minute later. This time her fingers combed through the strands near her crown, smoothing them down, and the tips brushed against his leg. He felt the pressure of it, the immense, gentle touch of her fingertip against his calf. It was soft, barely there, a whisper of contact.
Rosa paused. Her fingers stilled.
"Roy?" Her voice was a low rumble, vibrating through her skull.
"Yeah?"
"I thought I felt something."
"You did."
Her fingers moved again, more deliberately this time, parting the strands. He felt the cool air on his skin as the hair shifted, and then her face appeared before him, enormous and upside down, her green eyes blinking at him from a foot away.
She stared at him for a long moment. Then her mouth curved into a slow smile.
"Comfortable up there?"
"Extremely."
"You're a weird little man."
"Learned from the best."
She huffed a laugh, the sound warm and close, and her fingers gently smoothed the hair back down over him, tucking him in like a blanket. He felt the strands settle over his body, warm and soft, and heard the rustle of her book as she returned to her reading.
He lay there in the quiet, wrapped in her hair, feeling the vast, slow rhythm of her breathing beneath him. The warmth settled into his bones. His eyes grew heavy. He thought about the curtains, about tomorrow, about all the things he'd climb and conquer and fail at and try again. But for now, just for now, he was still. He was safe. He was home.
Her hand came up once more, absently stroking through the strands. This time, it found him, and her fingertip rested gently against his back for a long moment before withdrawing.
"Sleep," she murmured, her voice barely above a breath. "I've got you."
He did.