By now, Kira is well used to acclimating himself to Credence's presence. He closes his eyes and waits out the spiral of shame-fear-confusion-shame, the way Credence assesses himself at all times, and always finds himself wanting. The kind of life he had before is sometimes so obvious that Kira thinks he must really be from the last century--some period where the absolute abuse of one's children was nodded at like the state of the weather, and that child could go out into the world expecting it from new sources.

Or make up a source, carry it on their back like a shadow.

Opening one eye, he peers at Credence perched in the chair, his cowlick, his clasped hands: "You watch me sleep, Credence; am I not supposed to come to your room?"

It's gentle teasing, and he knows he shouldn't even do that much--but he can't see how coddling Credence ever gets him to any kind of balanced place. Kira softens it with a smile, at least.