Scissors? Hakkai turned towards the washroom door with confusion written over his face.

"Any towel," he offered, "just leave it on the floor and I'll put it with the laundry...." Gojyo's hair was soaked, the strands clinging to his cheeks and throat darkened from blood-red to wine, and half of his shirt wet from the splashed water that had otherwise mostly ended up on the washroom floor. He was here, he was unhurt -- he was beautiful, and Hakkai found himself abruptly aware of the subtle scent of Gojyo's skin, without its usual tobacco smoke overlay.

He averted his eyes with guilty haste.

"... why do you need scissors?"