It's how he used to put himself at ease back when he was a child. Apparently wasn't normal but this seemed a lot better of a behaviour to encourage than turning to alcohol, or cigarettes, or getting the knife out and slashing away at his arms and inner thighs.
Whether Lucas had heard everything that Brandon poured out over the phone was irrelevant. The fact that he had gotten it out made him feel more at ease. Winding himself up and then letting it all go also allowed him to be tired.
Lucas' hand had tamed some of Brandon's hair. The taxi driver didn't comment on his just-got-fucked-and-I-don't-give-a-shit hairdo when Brandon got in but in reality he'd just been sitting there with his hands in his hair and they were trying to rip all his hair out.
It was a strange thing to admit to himself but if Lucas had slapped or backhanded him like he used to, he'd snap out of it. It might not be for the right reasons but his head would be in a different space all the same. One that was more focused and less lost.
Brandon sat the bear down on the bed and turned to look up at Lucas. The Englishman was tall and if there was light behind him, he would have cast a long shadow across the bed.
Not for the first time that night, thoughts of a straightjacket, padded cell and syringes crossed his mind.