i'm left scarred, proudly, pg. smellerbee, longshot. the scars ache, inside and out. alone, they sink; together, they swim (or float, just barely, but it'll be alright, it'll be alright.) title from a dan beirne quote.
it's worse when it rains. the scars ache, inside and out. they trudge in the rain, through the mud and the memories and the pain. smellerbee is soaking wet and hurts, everywhere, hurts and hurts and doesn't know anything else but hurt.
longshot takes her gloved hand even though she doesn't need him to, even though he didn't ask. she says,
there is a girl in the rain. longshot can make her out, but just barely. jet murmurs something next to him, more feeling than words. a thick tree with spreading branches hovers over her, embraces her. she is tiny and wet and younger than him. her eyes are dead and her hair is matted. jet asks her what her name is and she doesn't answer.
"longshot. please," and tries to pull her hand out of his. but it is never that easy. he has learned to never give up.
smellerbee hates the rain because it makes her feel so small, so finite. she wants to be taller than the trees but in the rain she is only a girl with smudged kohl around her eyes and bandages wrapped around her chest. longshot stares at her with his dark eyes, judging, measuring.
he says so much without saying a word, tells her
he'll learn the sound of tears like it's an old lullaby. at night, when they don't have to face each other and can't see themselves, they cry. they are freedom fighters, but they are children, too. everything they've ever been was burned. so he'll learn, one day, one night, but not this night. no, not this night.
he understands her better than anyone can. they walk with their hands at their sides but still close, still lingering. it's the thought that counts, the knowledge that if one stumble the other's hand would be there faster than blasting jelly exploding. smellerbee needs that more than words. they both do. they would be nothing without it but children crouched under trees, with hats pulled over their eyes or grass sticking out of their mouths, soaking wet.
"i'm fine," she says after moments and years. "just tired."
he does not say
the bandages slip between his fingers as he unravels them from around her. every strip of cloth pulled back is another thing he doesn't want to see, her skin seared angry red. down her chest and to her stomach, up and down her arms, skin mutilated crimson. he swallows quickly to keep the bile from rising up in his throat. he spreads salve over the scars with his young hands like they should be doing this without shaking.
anything. he watches her next to him, chin stuck up defiantly.
it's worse when it rains. the anger boils up inside of him. the hate is familiar. it turns his stomach, his loathing for the people who did this to her — to him. the remnants of memories and dreams come back to him more easily and get stuck in his throat. there are so many secrets he could tell, resting on his tongue. but they've taken so much from him already. he's not giving them anything else.
but he'd give her everything, even though she'd never ask.