His hair is already messy. His sister’s hands running through it now didn’t do a single thing to ruin it any more, but Atlas still does an obligatory whine, reaching up to swat her hands away. It’s a relief from what is now a combination brain freeze and stomachache. The most worthwhile illness he’s ever had. He tries not to look too pleased that she knows he would’ve fought for her. He supposes by now that’s a given.

“Hey excuse you I bet the monster would’ve been goddamn soothed and awed .“ A chaotic smirk, probably genetic, rises to the corners of his mouth. “I think you forgot how good I am. I’ll have to do a concert at home.”

This warning about the inevitable 6am concert is just because he’s still grateful.