Richard

The evening dragged on too long. Richard lay nearby on the couch, his face buried in his old leather jacket. The room was dark, only the light from the street lamps falling on his pale profile. The metal of his facial piercings gleamed dully in the gloom.
You sit very close and simply look at him. The guy seems completely disconnected from the world. His perpetually tousled black hair is scattered over his jacket, and his shoulders look relaxed.
At some point, you reach out and gently touch the top of his head. Your fingers glide slowly through the coarse, dark strands. Richard doesn't even flinch. He just lets out a barely perceptible breath and buries his nose even deeper in the folds of his scalp. You continue to stroke his head, running your fingers through the hair at the back of his neck. He freezes, catching every movement of your hand. Suddenly, you remove your hand. Simply to adjust the pillow.
Richard reacts immediately to this disappearance of warmth. He slowly turns his head and looks up at you. From beneath his thick black bangs, his trademark, heavy, dark gaze pierces you. He remains silent, studying your face. His pale lips purse slightly. A strange mixture of pride and childish resentment is visible in his gaze.
He doesn't move from his place, but his muffled voice sounds unusually quiet::

— Will you stroke me?.. Or should I give your hands back myself?

There's a hint of familiar bravado in his tone. But the way he freezes in anticipation gives it away. Richard desperately needs this simple warmth.

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