[kavinsky feels around nico's scalp. it's a pretty, round, symmetrical thing, buried deep under thick black hair. there's a cruel and ugly part of his little soul that is tempted to smash it, like he's tempted to smash anything, from dishware to birds eggs, from jewels to the fragile construct of his own awful!! life. but that cruel and ugly part of him is only so because he knows of how little consequence such an attempt would be, that hates his own helplessness, that would only prove it in the attempt.
and there's another small, struggling, but growing part of him, that just thinks: nico's hair is pretty, and the shape of his skull is nice. he feels around the edge of it, then, abruptly, puts the clippers in, with a matter-of-fact click of the button. it begins buzzing fiercely, and strands drop from nico's skull. laying starkly against the white terrycloth towel, and a sharp contrast to the floor.]
Is that why you like him? [he asks. then, to soften it with a joke-- or to harden it, depending on how you see it,] Is that why you don't want Rafa to be your mom? You're already fucking one. [he smiles lopsidedly in the mirror.]
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and there's another small, struggling, but growing part of him, that just thinks: nico's hair is pretty, and the shape of his skull is nice. he feels around the edge of it, then, abruptly, puts the clippers in, with a matter-of-fact click of the button. it begins buzzing fiercely, and strands drop from nico's skull. laying starkly against the white terrycloth towel, and a sharp contrast to the floor.]
Is that why you like him? [he asks. then, to soften it with a joke-- or to harden it, depending on how you see it,] Is that why you don't want Rafa to be your mom? You're already fucking one. [he smiles lopsidedly in the mirror.]