"They're the worst kind of thieves. They steal lives," he snarls, still agitated despite the hand settling on his. "They steal experience and knowledge that may not be replaceable."

And they stole his career, didn't they? In a way, his very identity.

He sort of-- wavers for a moment, poised at the peak of a familiar precipice. How easy, how comfortingly painful it would be to fling himself off, to fall into his habitual self-loathing. But there's a hand on his own and a man with beautiful hair beside him and--

And Koumyou thinks he did the right thing.

He closes his eyes, and bends to press his forehead against Koumyou's shoulder for a moment. "Thank you," he says finally, straightening back up.

Taking his hand back, he resumes combing.