[Smoothly, slowly, he works the comb through Kakyoin's hair, not with any particular finesse or skill, but just with simple thoroughness — using it as much as an opportunity to feel the strands running along the lightly calloused skin of his fingertips as actually to straighten it out and set it back into place.
Stroke, stroke. There's a rhythm to this, too. It's lulling, pacifying. He can settle into it easily enough, and let the praise wash over him like a warm saltwater wave.]
I. Want to be good.
[He treads carefully, gingerly. Good boy is off the table, he knows that, but this much should still be all right.]
no subject
Stroke, stroke. There's a rhythm to this, too. It's lulling, pacifying. He can settle into it easily enough, and let the praise wash over him like a warm saltwater wave.]
I. Want to be good.
[He treads carefully, gingerly. Good boy is off the table, he knows that, but this much should still be all right.]
So if I do it wrong...then you should tell me.