Jonathan Sims

"Good," John replies, his smile small and bashfully lopsided. He squeezes a bit of shampoo onto his palm and then rubs his hands together for a moment before he begins working the shampoo into Martin's hair. It's odd, at first, both the angle of approach and the desire to be extra gentle making it rather unlike washing his own hair (something he generally accomplishes in a few brisk minutes, without giving it a moment's conscious thought). But odd isn't the same as awkward; it's not as if he's a stranger to mucking about with Martin's hair. It's just that the purpose has never been quite so practical, before.

He ends up working up an impressive lather, wanting to be thorough but also increasingly enjoying the sensation of scrubbing little circles against Martin's warm scalp. "Might have enough material up here to do a little bubble-sculpting, if you're interested," he remarks, drawing one hand back so he can show Martin his suds-covered fingers. "Could give you a great big Santa beard."