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Her fingers thread gently through his hair.
He's sitting on the floor of her room. She always insists they go to hers instead of his cell.
It makes him happy that she's so welcoming towards him.
She's kneeling on her bed and humming a melody under her breath, all the while carding through his tangles. At times, the hairs are a bit tough to pull apart slowly, so she pulls them harder. It… hurts, and the stinging sensation left throughout his scalp reminds him of her attention, of her patience, of her love.
He had looked for it. He had begged for it. He had killed for it.
He must have been right, because he wasn’t wrong. If he were, he wouldn’t have been forgiven. If he were, she wouldn't have acknowledged him, she wouldn't be playing with his hair, she wouldn't be whispering to him about her favorite foods, the outfits she wanted to try once they got out, and the places she'd like to visit again.
It's a relief she never asks about his own ambitions; he's afraid to tell her he wants to stay here, with her. Not that it really matters, because wherever she goes, he will follow.
Suddenly, a weight rests on his head. His breath hitches. Her elbows dig at his shoulders a bit, but the proximity is making him dizzy.
He has never been this happy.
He fidgets with his hands, careful not to dig the nails she had just painted for him into his palms and soil them with his blood. It's a good thing she's not currently talking to him, he's not sure he would have been able to focus on what she was saying. Her arms hold him in a safe, protective lock. He can hear her breathing.
She's alive.
He exhales shakily, tries not to twitch, tries not to whimper, tries not to break this precious moment. He waits… For what, he's not quite sure. He wishes he were a better friend, it's still hard to predict what she wants from him sometimes. He's getting better at it, though.
He smiles.
"Are you smiling?"
He doesn't flinch, doesn't recoil. Her voice is as soft as ever, even when it contains the edge of something sharper, even when it's so close to his ears, even when it feels so loud and the buzzing won't stop- it will always sound like music to him.
He wants to answer her, but her arms are still around him, and her head is still resting on his, and it's a bit hard to speak because her hair is tickling his nape, her fingers rest on his collarbones, her voice echoes through his head alongside the sounds of chattering in the air and in his thoughts and the seemingly ever-present whirring in the prison and- he hears her inhale.
"I-I… I am," he stutters.
She lets out a drawn out ah and lifts her head, pushing on his shoulders before tapping them. He turns around, hair falling over his face now that she isn't there to pull it back. He stares up at her, like she always wants him to. Looking people in the eye has always been a nauseating endeavor, but never for her, never with her. When she directs her fingers to his chin, and gently encourages him to look her in the eye, he does. He always does.
Her head is slightly tilted to the side, her eyebrows furrowed and her lips pouting. She looks…pensive. He taps his feet, he's getting better at this.
"Huh, I can't see it well…” she pushes forward one palm in his direction, “Wait." She shifts over to the other side of the bed, twisting around to put her legs on the floor, and pushes herself up.
He already starts feeling a bit cold, and lets out a sigh of displeasure. She giggles, and it’s enough to distract him from the anxiety settling in his mind begging her not to leave. She walks over to a shelf. He watches patiently as she tiptoes and reaches for something, then walks back towards him.
She kneels in front of him, and his lips quiver at how close she is. Her fingers stretch towards his fringe. He doesn’t move. He doesn't want to close his eyes.
She brushes a part of his hair to the side. Something scratches against his scalp, stinging an already sore spot.
She isn't looking at him. She isn't looking at his eyes. He doesn't know whether he should look away as well.
He doesn't. She has long eyelashes.
She meets his gaze and smiles.
Standing up once more, she stretches over her bed, picks up a hand mirror, and hands it to him. "It looks good, doesn’t it?"
There are two new pins holding the hair on his right side in place.
"It does... It does!" He tilts his head. The unpinned hair on his left swaying up and down as he bounces with excitement. A gift from her.
"And now, I can see when you smile like that." For him. Only him.
She sits besides him, and when her hand lightly coaxes his head to her shoulders, he complies. She starts to hum again. His voice isn’t as smooth as hers when he follows her lead, but it feels right to do so.
She pats him on the head.
He won't cry.
"There, there. Haruka."
His throat tightens. People cry when they're sad. He's not sad.
He won't cry.
The words echo in his mind, and his vision blurs against his will. He closes his eyes, his mind latching onto the hand currently caressing his head. He suppresses a hiccup, his nails digging into the fabric on her arm, and hides his face on the crook of her neck.
He won't cry.
"Are you smiling?"
He unclenches his hand, and lets out a weak sob.
She goes back to humming.
"...I am."