Locus is still, throughout. It feels...strangely pleasant, the steady stroke of his hands, the care he takes, even the sound of the brush moving through his hair. Things he doesn't often notice when he does it himself, because he's preoccupied with getting it done and over with.

York doesn't appear to be in the same hurry. His pace is a steady, lulling thing, and Locus finds his shoulders going a little lax.