Jonathan Sims

John takes his time rinsing Martin's hair, both for the sake of being thorough and just because it's nice: the methodical dip and pour of the cup, the gentle curl of his fingers through Martin's hair, the gradual dispersal of the suds as he works.

He probably ends up continuing on a little longer than he has to, though it's not hard to justify; the cup method is more pleasant than efficient, and he doesn't want that first scrub with the towel to end up working up a lather that has to be dealt with. But the real reason might just be the way Martin smiles up at him, content in a way his illness would've otherwise discouraged. How can he be in a hurry to wrap things up?

Of course, there's only so much rinsing he can do before it becomes ludicrous, and he eventually concludes that the job is done and sets the cup back on the rim of the tub. "There you are," he says, smoothing back Martin's hair so it won't drip into his eyes. He should probably ask if Martin's ready to pack it in — the bathwater won't stay warm forever — but he looks so happy that John instead finds himself asking, "Is there anything else I can do?" He doesn't think Martin typically bothers with conditioner, and he isn't sure he'll have the wherewithal for a proper wash (or the inclination to let John assist to that extent). But he can't quite bring himself to suggest breaking the cozy little spell they're under, not just yet.