[ Adra shuts his eyes, forcing himself to relax. After a few strokes of the comb, he doesn't have to work for it; his muscles naturally turn liquid, and he sinks down a little in the chair. He likes having his hair brushed. The gentle, scratchy pressure of his scalp, the sensation of ordering and symmetry--it satisfies, both in a tactile and figurative sense.
no subject
He murmurs, with a sigh. ]
Red. Scarlet.