Warm light, hurt in the overwhelming cold blue fluorescence he was used to, warm hands, strong, the first time he had been touched in friendship in ten years, the first touch that didn't hurt, the first touch meant to heal, to calm, to be kind and to be loving. Unexpected. Rough, clumsy fingers traced the lines of his scars, cradled his face, sought his eyes but not his words. They were beyond words, there was a sense of understanding, of mutual need if not mutual feeling. He hadn't been kissed more than once, at best, and awkward lips covered his, he tried to remember how to kiss back. Those same clumsy hands loosed his tie, pushed his jacket over his shoulders, while they learned again how to kiss. Scarred and hurt and maybe just a little bit desperate, they found solace in each other and in need. Kissing traced past awkward they learned what they wanted from it, heated, matched the warm light of the room. His partner smiled knowing, and untied his hair, moved a hand through it, and he didn't realize until his head sunk into a pillow that this world was real, the same hotel room he had been sleeping restless in for a month, a strange man he wished he knew better unbuttoning his dress shirt. Knew full well he would leave when he saw how bad the damage was, knew he would wonder if he was even capable of the love he wanted. If love was even what you called it, lust, desire, want rather than love. He didn't leave. Calloused, thick fingers moved over his scars, followed suit by warm breath this new lover examined too pale, too torn skin. Both players in this game too often violent to be comfortable with this sense of intimacy, ashamed to meet each other's eyes, a strange sense of necessity kept them going, he knew in the end it could turn out best for them both to know something other than bliss in taking life.