"Feather mites," Laszlo 'elaborates'. He stops with his hands up, trying to determine his next move. There are certain boundaries he shouldn't cross. But sometimes the context can make it acceptable. There's a reason for him to do this. The impulse has already settled in.

"Wait," he interjects before Tybalt can muss his curls any further. "I can—" He doesn't want to give any warning, just in case he's stopped. Laszlo reaches out and brushes his hand through Tybalt's hair.