[The dedicated hunch is hard to keep at the sudden cool tickle of paint on his cheek, so quick that Koby doesn’t actually see Louis move, just feels the shift in air and then there’s green smudging his fingers when he reaches up to touch his face. There’s a laugh, instead, air rushing out of his lungs, giving Louis an incredulous look.]

That’s – not funny at all, that’s actually a terrible joke. [But he says it with a sort of wonder, as if completely amazed that Louis would even say something that dumb. There’s a touch of hesitance in his face, so visibly unused to being teased, being treated playfully that he doesn’t quite know what to do.

Still, there’s a raw, aching sort of hunger too, the child he’d been somehow closer to the surface around Louis, starved for affection, for something to soothe the old hurts from nineteen years of loneliness. It’s again, different than the warmth he’s found elsewhere in Saltburnt, but no less longed for. So, with a slow, deliberate inhale, Koby slowly squares his shoulders, sits up taller and uncrosses his arms, eyes flicking briefly, anxiously, to Louis’s face.] You’re supposed to use the brushes, otherwise you’re going to end up all – multicolored. Like sprinkles. [He reaches for one brush, dipping it in blue, then gesturing for Louis’s arm.] Here, give me your hand.