Jean Moreau has made a very recent discovery; he has an absolutely infatuation with hands.

He finds his eyes lingering on people’s hands without him even catching it. His gaze falls onto a person’s hands, and suddenly all he can do is watch as their fingers move and twitch.

He used to believe he hated hands, but now he knows he hates the things the hands were doing. Hands attached to cruel bodies are bound to be cruel as well. Hands on their own are nice. Hands belonging to sweet gestures are sweet in a nearly sickening way; the same way you nearly gag when eating a delicacy with too much sugar.

Jean taps his finger mindlessly against his cheekbone, his head rested on his hand as he watches you wrap your hand after straining it at a practice.

He likes how soft they are. Their size. Their scars. The peach fuzz on the fingers.

Realizing he had been zoning out, he flicks his eyes back to you. “Repeat?”