Touch
She wondered how he knew where each line came from.
Her fingers danced down the underside of his bicep. "What about this one?"
"Training," he murmured in reply. He wasn't asleep. Not even dozing. But he remained relaxed and she enjoyed that.
She found another pale line stretched across his skin, his upper shoulder. "What about this one?"
He sighed. "Match with Tala."
"How do you recognize all of them?"
"I just remember. My body knows."
She hummed. What a weird response. She didn't remembered where the bruise on her inner arm came from. Maybe from wrestling with Daichi, or from running into the door. Who knows? She sure doesn't.
The little slivers that crisscross his body distracted her again. She always knew he had scars. She'd seen his forearms and was aware of his past. But the amount alarmed her at the beginning. From a distance, he appeared perfect. Everything about his was perfect. It was only when she got closer that she noticed the flaws, saw where he'd been torn and stitched back together. Some scars were so faint they were almost invisible. Others stayed slightly raised, slightly discolored.
He didn't appear to mind when, in the quiet of a moment, she traced a small one on his hand. It was an impulse to ask where it came from. Scars meant blood had been spilt. Blood meant pain.
"Cat," he said, letting her sooth over the small mark.
She smiled, relieved by his answer. She wouldn't stay mad at a cat.
"I reached out for it too soon."
She laughed. "You should've known better."
"Probably."
Her hand tingled at the memory. It wasn't the first time she'd touched him. Not the first time she held his hand, either. Not even the first time they'd held hands when neither of them were in danger.
He rolled over, away from her, away from the light coming in through the window. But he didn't move away and so she traced the lines on his back.
"This one?"
"Training," he answered. At one point, she doubted that he really knew where each one came from – as most of his answers were 'training.'
But then she remembered he didn't train like others. And he'd been training for a long time.
His back was a map – a maze. She studied in small sections, determined to learn and know each one, until she caught up. His entire life lay bare before her.
Sometimes, they reminded her of what his mind would look like. Sure, he could process and compartmentalize like no other, but like the raised, discolored swellings, tripwires littered his mind, just waiting for someone to find them. His walls needed careful navigation. Plenty had tried and failed, and she knew those mental scars, the ones he hadn't let heal properly, were a part of that navigation process.
There were a few times she'd tripped one herself. You couldn't spend any time with him without coming across them.
It was a cool fall day. The team spent the morning talking strategy and the afternoon putting it into practice. A long day's work left them all exhausted. And somehow, between the good-bye's and the walk home, she ended up on his couch with a bowl of ramen in her lap.
It wasn't what she'd call a date, but they had already admitted that there was something between them. She wasn't sure what to call it.
He put a movie on and they talked little through it.
By the end of the movie, they'd abandoned the dinner bowls on the coffee table and she curled against his side, his arm wrapped loosely around her shoulder.
As the credits rolled, she breathed in deep, stretched, and smiled at him. "Thanks," she said. Her shoulder warmed from his arm, she hoped that her blush had faded from her cheeks. Or that he couldn't see her in the dark. "That was nice,"
"Hmm. Just let me clean up, then I'll walk you home,"
"Of course," she reached for the bowls but he swatted her hand. She stuck her tongue out as he chuckled and he walked away.
She focused on putting her shoes on and gathering her things together, waiting by the door when he finally returned from the back. Her startled gasp caused him to halt.
"What? You've seen my face before." He studied her reaction, brow furrowing, and lips pulling down.
"I know. I've just never seen you take them off before. The change…it's different. You suddenly look…younger. Not as angry." She reached out to cup his cheek and he moved away.
Her eyes widened, her mouth opened, just a little, but enough for him notice. Enough for him to glower.
She paused. It was a warning, a test for her. Maybe he wasn't aware he was testing her, but he was.
"Sorry," she whispered. Then, pointing to a place just under her own eye, she said, "Where'd you get this one?"
He held off. His steel eyes roamed her face. She tried to think good thoughts, and send them his way. Gentle thoughts.
"Russia," he finally answered.
"Oh." She left it at that opening his door and stepping outside. Either he would follow or she would leave by herself.
She rubbed the area just under her eye. The more she thought about it, the more his answer made sense. She could remember every important time he'd touched her. Now, even years after some of those moments, those places still burned.
Maybe it was the same for him. Every scar had a memory attached and memories sears the skin, the nerves, right down to the very heart of a person.
She felt him shift on the bed and opened her eyes. He was looking at her again. Her heartbeat slow, relaxed in his presence, in his sight. It was a privilege, she knew, to be this close. He wasn't above disappearing, taking his space when he felt like he needed it.
"What do you think of them?"
His question was unexpected. "What do you mean?"
"You touch them, ask about them, but you never comment on them. I thought I knew when you first…saw all of it. But now…?"
The first time – the very first time – she really got a good look was a few months before the fall night. She showed up late that evening, crying. And without asking, he knew.
He drew her into his arms and led her to his couch. She held on to him, imagining herself behind all of his shields and defenses, which was exactly where she wanted to be. She could've gone anywhere else. In fact, other places would have been better. Max would have had better advice, for one. He had no advice and no good cheer to spread.
When she calmed down, he offered her the bed.
"The couch is fine. I didn't come here to put you out,"
"Over my dead body."
He lifted her off his lap and stood, returning her smile with a soft pull of his lips. She followed him into the one bedroom, stopping at the doorway. Light came in from behind her, but it was enough to see the state of the room. The sheets were wrinkled and even though she already knew – she had been sitting on his lap for half-an-hour at least – she realized he was without a shirt.
"I'm sorry I woke you up. I should have thought about it,"
"It's fine." He replied as he stripped the bed.
She turned the light on and went to help him. She was his guest but an unexpected one and she wouldn't be any ruder than she already was. He didn't fight her help and left her to finished, pulling out a large shirt for her. She took it with a grateful smile, and headed to the bathroom. When she emerged, he had sent up his bed on the floor in front of the TV.
"Thank you so much. You don't know how much I appreciate this. Really."
He shrugged and turned away. His guard was down so she took a chance, hugging him from behind. He tensed, but quickly relaxed. She held him for a few deep breaths. He let her. It was as she was pulling away that she noticed.
All the boys had scars. It was a part of the game. But these were different. They stretched in every direction, at every angle. It was hard to see patch of skin unmarred skin.
He turned in her sight, but that didn't break her attention, because there was more. They climbed over his shoulders and wrapped around his arms. A puckered one cut through the left side of his chest. It was short, only an inch or so, but deep.
She hated them. She was horrified that anyone would do this to him, that he would do this to himself. Again and again and again.
Her hand hovered over it, as she moved closer, until it was the only thing in focus. "How did this happen?"
She barely breathed the words, but he must have heard the horror in her voice, because he never answered. He pushed her hand away and silently backed up until the spell was broken.
Now, familiar with the curves of his body, with the dips and bumps, and most importantly, his lines, she felt comfortable as she ran her hand up his arm and over his shoulder.
"You were revolted."
She shook her head. "I hated them," she admitted. "They were evidence of your pain and I hated your pain. But then I got to know them, and now I know they're actually evidence of your passion, your hard work, and determination." She took a deep breath. "They're evidence of your love."
"That's a very romantic view of it. Sick and a little twisted, maybe, but romantic."
She rolled her eyes. "Yes, well, it's how I feel about them now,"
"I guess that's better than hating them,"
She thought there was undertone to his voice, carrying the trace of relief. "Why do you ask?"
"Because you're so fascinated with them,"
"I've never met anyone whose –,"
He cut in, "– as damaged as me,"
"No." She replied without hesitation.
Is he damaged? Yes.
Did it worry her? Yes
Would it keep her away? Never.
"Everyone I've ever known has scars. It wasn't until you saw them that I thought they could be bad."
She blinked, considering his words, and then laughed. She laughed so hard that she fell back against the headboard. Her hands flew to her face, covering her tears and red cheeks.
"What are you laughing at?"
"Oh, it's just I felt bad that I made you feel bad about your scars. And then I realized…you felt bad…about your body. And, my god, the people who would kill for your body. And it's just like…" she couldn't finished. "Never mind, it's stupid."
He didn't respond. Instead he reached out, taking hold of her wrist and rubbing small circles, working his way up her arm. For a minute, she was startled that he'd notice the narrow, jagged scar about three inches long, so faint, no one anyone noticed it. It wasn't deep and the only reason the wound left a flaw was because she wouldn't stop picking at the scab.
But then again, of course he would know it. The prickling started in her wrist, where he'd grabbed her off the cliff. It followed his fingers now, the delicate path of a scratch, the only mark left from the first time he saved her.
As expected, he observed and cataloged all of her scars and markings too.
"Does it ever hurt you?" He asked.
"No. I hardly ever notice them," she shrugged, allowing him to study the small, minor blemish. Her eyes focused on the raised scar on his chest. As if it were a reflex, her hand drifted toward it. This time, he didn't move.
The scar itself was smooth, rounded on the edges. She didn't know what to expect – maybe that he'd hiss in pain, because it looked so excruciating – but not his trusting stare. "Do yours?"
He followed her gaze, watching as she gently zigzagged up and down the ridge. "Only when someone points them out,"
She immediately snapped her hand away, disbelieve and self-loathing coursing down into her gut. She was awful, always thinking he didn't mind, but who would want such horrible memories brought up so often. "If I had known-"
He cut her off with a sharp look. "If I had wanted you to stop, I would have told you to."
She hesitated, waiting for a change in his expression. After all this time, his air was still hard to read. For all his experiences and maturity, sometimes she forgot that he was a just a young man, trying to figure things out as he went along. He worked hard to find the proper balance of she needed, praise and support and intimacy, and what he needed, space and structure. A hard lesson learned by both of them, but once understood, both made strides to accommodate the other. Another wall, safely navigated, bringing them closer.
Finally, his eyes loosened, relaxing until his entire face softened for her. With the sunlight streaming in through the window, all but the worst lines faded away, leaving the complete person. While she loved hearing about his life, learning to appreciate the scars for what they are, even more than that, she loved seeing him. All of him, wholly, in one piece; like the entire image of a mosaic.
Now he waited, not judging, not calculating. She suspected that he too enjoyed the simplicity of just being together alone. Never having to think, 'what now? What comes next?'
So, because they didn't have to think about it, she stretched out her arm, sliding it under his and wrapping it around his torso so that she could curl against his chest. His arm fell over her waist, bringing her closer. Her fingers glided in wispy circles around his back while his thumb swayed in a soothing rhythm over her hip.
For a little while longer, they stayed there, revealing in the contentment brought on by the simple touch of another.
I've been gone for a while. I checked, my last update of any kind was over a year ago. In that year, I've worked on some of my bigger original stories, but this was a nice, uncomplicated, much needed break.
So, this is very different from my usual style. And I don't know where the idea came from. But it was handwritten in a very tiny notebook an hour before I started work. Typing it up, the story changed and kind of ran away with me, especially there at the end where it got really flowery, and now it's more like, meh.
I was working on going in and out of flashbacks. It's something I've struggled with in the past, and I'm not entirely happy with the flow of these. What do you think?
Sorry for any mistakes in the story. I tried to catch them all, but a few always slip through. Any feedback is much appreciated.