Something in Kavinsky's stomach shifted as Lee looked away from him, walls isolating them from each other in a way that was wholly different from the manner in which Kavinsky regularly isolated himself from people. He watched the side of Lee's face, tried to puzzle it out, tried to figure what he'd said or done wrong with his body language that had slipped things strangely. He didn't know how to ask if he'd done something wrong.

Tentatively, as Lee stroked him, as he sank to his knees, Kavinsky touched his short hair. He ran his nails over his scalp gently, adventured the shape of his head and down to the back of his neck while he leaned against the counter and closed his eyes. His toes curled against the linoleum and he tried his best to not seem too eager, but also not too hard to get, that fine line of wanting it--he did, the feeling of wanting it coursed through him--when he had to direction.