It’s a thing now. Davey doing his hair. It’s not bad – honestly, it’s heaven, because Davey’s fingers are long and gentle and kind as they ease out the tangles from his curls, and his thighs are hooked over each one of Jack’s shoulders, creamy skin just barely hidden by his sleep shorts pressing close to his jaw like a dream – but it’s also hell, because Davey (as usual) insists on talking all the while, which means Jack has to pretend he’s paying attention and not thinking about turning exactly one-eighty degrees and doing some very, very bad things to those aforementioned thighs.
“Too tight?” Davey asks, giving the braid he’s finished a questioning tug – Jack has to bite his tongue to keep himself from saying anything embarrassing.
“Nah,” he smiles gently. It’s a gargantuan effort just to say the word, but it fools Davey well enough.
“Chin up,” he says softly, pressing his fingertips to Jack’s jaw and pushing it just a scootch higher – that’s exactly the phrase Davey would use, just a scootch. God, Jack could cry. “There we are – perfect.”
“All you, man,” Jack chuckles – he’s not entirely aware of what he’s saying, he just needs to say something that’ll keep him from buzzing over how Davey says the word ‘perfect’, the soft ‘p’ that bursts from his lips, the light smacking sound of the ‘c’ against his soft palate, the echo of his tongue on the back of his teeth as he rounds out the ‘t’, all of it directed at Jack of all people. “Fuckin’ hate doin’ this part by myself.”
The nape of his neck prickles under Davey's scrutinizing stare.
"Your wrists acting up again?"
"I don't have carpal tunnel and I'll fight you."
(Jack would be proud of the way Davey laughs at that, if he didn't tug on Jack's hair again - just to be playful, of course, but Jesus fucking Christ-)
"S'just boring is all." Jack mutters, hoping his voice stays even. "I try watching shit while I do it, but I just get distracted."
"Ah, so it's your goldfish attention span that's the problem. Gotcha."
He can hear the little smirk wrapped around Davey's words.
“Like you can talk!" He scoffs - he almost leans back to look at him properly, but then the soft of Davey's inner thigh brushes against his cheek, and he has to weld all his bones into place to keep himself from doing anything stupid.
"You think I don't see you Wiki-spiralling under your sheets at four AM?" He manages to utter once he gets his voice back. "Fucking obnoxious, Jacobs, I swear, I think I'd actually prefer it if you were looking up weird shit, but no, it's always military dolphins, or the history of Velcro, or-"
There's a pressure against his scalp and a writer's callus against his jaw as Davey levers his head back into place, cutting him off entirely with a small, strangled breath.
“Chin down," Davey says softly, pretending to chide, but Jack knows he's smiling, the little shit.
God, he needs to start going to church. Or see a therapist, or - fuck, live on cornflakes or something. It's the only way he's getting through this year alive.
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