[Slevin is all too aware of the weight of Cassel's fingertips, confining rather than steadying, framing his head; the smooth leather is cool but warming, and just beside the rougher edge of frayed wool, the deceptive warmth of skin to skin contact. He doesn't let himself get distracted by it. He levels his anger on Chris and leaves it there, heavy and dark, meticulously controlled.
He sucks in a breath at the quick movement of his head, the bent pieces of his broken nose grating, his neck burning. He swallows it back at the sound of the drill -] Oh god, he's using my real name, I'm in trouble now. [- and shouts when the hair comes loose, not enough time to really process what's happening.
Panting in harsh breaths of air through his mouth, he squeezes his eyes closed, refuses to let the blur in them become tears. Successfully, this time. He opens them and finds Chris again, and sneers.]
That's what you've got? An amateur haircut? Pathetic.
Spam
He sucks in a breath at the quick movement of his head, the bent pieces of his broken nose grating, his neck burning. He swallows it back at the sound of the drill -] Oh god, he's using my real name, I'm in trouble now. [- and shouts when the hair comes loose, not enough time to really process what's happening.
Panting in harsh breaths of air through his mouth, he squeezes his eyes closed, refuses to let the blur in them become tears. Successfully, this time. He opens them and finds Chris again, and sneers.]
That's what you've got? An amateur haircut? Pathetic.