The living room was dim, lit only by the pale light leaking through the curtains. It smelled faintly of books and something warm—the usual scent that clung to Victor’s home.

Satanick had taken up residence on the couch behind him, a brush in hand. Victor sat still, though his brows furrowed slightly, his expression caught between confusion and resignation.

“What’s this all of a sudden?” His tone was dry, the kind used when he already knew arguing would do nothing.

Satanick only hummed softly, the kind of sound that didn’t ask for an answer. He grinned—wordlessly—and waved off Victor’s complaint as if it were trivial. “Don’t think about it too hard,” he said instead, the brush gliding through Victor’s hair, “Just let me handle this.”

Victor sighed. There was no winning against him. And so, silence filled the room—the sound of the brush moving back and forth, steady, almost rhythmic.

For a while, neither spoke. Victor’s shoulders loosened little by little, and Satanick’s grin faded into something quieter, something softer.

Strands of Victor's hair caught faint glints of white beneath the lamplight. They hadn’t been there before. Or maybe they had, and Satanick simply hadn’t wanted to notice.

His hand paused mid-motion.

Victor blinked, turning and tilting his head slightly to glance back at him. “What’s the matter?”