Nails dig deeper into his skin as the boy sitting indian-style slouches slightly forward, eyes focusing on the beach towel under - and slightly in front of - him.
Shinn sighs for what seems like the hundredth time that day, wondering why in the world he had let Sekine, with the help of Hisako, drag him to the beach. Of course, he is relieved that Yui, Irie, and Iwasawa came too, as well as the rest of the Shinda Sekai Sensen, but-
Another sigh escapes his lips, his fingers tracing the several scars on his arms and wrists - the ones he had caused himself - before moving towards the ones on the base of his neck and shoulders, then to the ones around his abdomen and ribcage, before resting over his heart - all the ones his parents had caused.
But he feels a bit insecure about the faults and feebleness and slight discolorations unevenly adorning his skin. Because these marks show the world his weakness and imperfections and hatred for himself, and whenever he thinks he let go of his self-animosity, it grows back and metastisizes, and bleeds (blues) from his heartstrings. And he knows the not even the most well-trained of surgeons can fix this (because the only one who did isn't even a surgeon).
Cobalt eyes stare upward, locking with the cool - and slightly concerned - vermillions of his soul mate. She sits beside him, leaning into his shoulder, her fingers (unimpaired and smooth like silk) tracing over the several scars on his arms and wrists - the ones he had caused himself - before moving towards the ones on the base of his neck and shoulder blades, then to the ones around his abdomen and ribcage, before briefly hovering over his heart - all the ones his parents had caused - and interlacing with his own fingers (damaged and calloused and ugly).
He swallows the lump in his throat, hoping to find even a trace of his voice to stutter her name. He fails, and he cannot help but feel inferior.
Because she is so far beyond perfect, and he is so far below flawed.
She is pretty on the outside (and even more so inside), and when their eyes met for that first time - of many times - he knew that it would only ever take all his willpower just to look away. Because souls adorns her skin, and survival, her heart, and passion, her scars (something she has in every sense of the word but physical). Because even when he takes off the rose-colored glasses that permit him to see only the goddess in her, his vision stays in that rose-colored lens.
He inhales deeply - and releases slowly the pent-up breath.
There's no denying it (there's no way he could). She is a goddess; she is perfect (in every sense of the word) and he-
His fingers tighten their grip over hers, firmly enough to make sure she isn't a dream but gently enough to make sure she isn't hurt (he would never intentionally do that, nor even think of it).
And he is slightly lanky, and barely lean, and so scarred and out-of-her-league.
He doesn't deserve her, but he has her, and she has him, and he wonders why someone flawed to the point of perfection could ever be interested in someone like him.
A light sneeze shakes him from his thoughts, and he gives his cool beauty a sideways glance, which she returns. A small smile crawls onto his lips, and she returns one so much more graceful than he could ever imagine.
He doesn't deserve her, but he has her, and she has him.
She has him, scars and all.
A/N: I don't own Angel Beats