No one ever touched the scars. Ever since the early days, before they were scars, when the wounds were painful to the touch. But even after they healed, it made him cringe. Steve never really thought about why and Derek never questioned the request. He just knew that this was a new start, a new life, and there was no room in it for burn patterns or flesh that stretched and twisted. It was a rule he never broke.

His parents insisted on therapists, and that was something he could do. It would be hard, he was told. But he had a plan and the resources to implement it. Journal, document, pull out the patterns. Know when to change routine, take a break, and avoid triggers. He charted his symptoms and had a corresponding chart for coping mechanisms. He kept track of what worked and what didn't what percentage of the time. From that he could determine which coping mechanisms were worth keeping and which ones he could discard.

He worked diligently to put it all behind him. University helped because it was everything he thought it would be and he loved it. His roommate was a laid back computer major named Solomon. Steve didn't think he'd ever met anyone so calm or open minded in his life. First Nations? That's cool. You're gay? Awesome. Weird looking scars all over your body? Hey, not my business. Never a cross or unkind word to or about anyone. Relax and smile and just take the world as it comes, that was Sol. Except, apparently, when he was pinned against the wall with his roommate's hands around his neck. Then he was liable to scream, "What the fuck, Steve!"

And Steve, seconds from reaching for the wand concealed in his pocket, released him and laughed rather shakily. "You can't sneak up on people like that. I was wearing headphones. How was I supposed to know you had come in the door?"

"That doesn't mean you have to attack me like a ninja!"

Steve snorted. "Yeah, Sol, that's it. I'm a fucking ninja."

And the whole thing was laughed off and never brought up again. The headphones went in the garbage. Relaxing music was a stupid idea anyway and he only said he would try. Steve added an easy startle reflex to his chart and extra workout time to his schedule. Exercise was good for stress management after all, and honing reflexes keeps the mind sharp. It didn't have anything at all to do with the voice in the back of his head that screamed, "Somebody's going to die because of that shoddy performance, you little shit! Suck it up and work harder!"

He never told Derek about that. Well, he never told Derek a lot of things. It was just that he was so far away and his letters were filled with news from England. It wasn't that Steve wasn't interested in his friends. He was still DA. He wrote to Tony sometimes and Sue liked to keep track of everyone, it was kind of her thing, and he wouldn't begrudge her that. But hearing news from "home", as Derek called it, sometimes made him feel sick and sometimes made him cry. He tried to write Derek about all the things he was loving about University, but it sounded awkward when he read it over and some letters didn't get sent at all. It was for the best really, he told himself as he sent that final letter. The best thing for both of them. It was a relief, he told himself, especially when Derek agreed. He cried all night.

Yes, there were setbacks, he was willing to admit. But he was moving ahead. Derek, the DA, England, that year and that night. It was in the past. He could focus on life, not death.

And Steve ignored his scars because they reminded him that he had almost died.

….

The first time a lover touched one of his scars, he had to bite his lip to keep from drawing in too deep a breath and wrenching away. To keep his composure and explain politely that he just didn't like to be touched there. It wasn't that it didn't feel good. It was that it did feel good. And deriving pleasure from something that had come from so much hate was something Steve could not reconcile. That all-consuming, heavy stench of evil had been beyond all logic and had broken some fundamental part of him that he could not identify. That the visual reminders of it no longer caused him either pain or revulsion, bothered him in a niggling, unspecified way. So hands were firmly redirected and questions deflected.

Classes were becoming increasingly difficult and frustrating. There was more than one professor, it seemed, who wasn't really interested in his opinion or his analysis, only that he regurgitate lecture notes on tests. After one subpar test grade from yet another snobby professor who seemed far more interested in his own high opinion of himself than the actual text of the material, he found himself assigned an extra credit analytical presentation on Macbeth, complete with visuals. It was the last thing he wanted to do but he dutifully and neatly copied out the bullet points and found sufficient corresponding pictures, taping them all artfully on to a display board. It was all there, perfectly put together.

But it was wrong. He couldn't put his finger on it exactly, but it just wasn't right. Something about the pictures maybe. He could never turn this in. He conjured a small blade and began to slice out the first picture. But he was frustrated and angry at having to redo the entire assignment when he couldn't figure out precisely what the problem was, and he sliced off too much of one picture. He had intended to reach for his wand. He had intended to painstakingly repair his mistake and start over. He had not intended on the second or the third slash across the picture or the blade cutting deeper and not so exact anymore. Jagged lines appeared across the whole thing from top to bottom and he kept going.

Because he realized what was wrong with the project. It was altogether pure and utter crap. There was no possible way to make it work because it was useless. A trivial literary analysis. Its only contribution was to contemplate meaningless deaths through the lens of a maddened mind. It wasn't a presentation on a dozen useful new spells. Another jagged line, fiercely slashed. It wasn't some amazing new advance in healing. It would never help any one walk again. Or talk again. Line after line, cut after cut through pictures and bullet points. Stupid, worthless, undeserving piece of shit. It would never be good enough. It meant nothing and it was so fucking wrong and it was so fucking unfair.

A loud knocking on the door jerked him out of his thoughts, but his hand slipped and the blade sliced across the top of his leg. The knocking came again along with the voice of his current boyfriend. It was only the drive of ingrained self-preservation that spurred him into action. He vanished the object of his rage and, with a wave of his wand, produced a rather demolished looking box held together with lots of tape. There was no time to heal the cut though, and he limped to the door.

To his credit, the guy accepted the excuse (an accident, trying to open a box from home) and grabbed a towel to put pressure on his bleeding leg. But it was with a wary look that he suggested that Steve should be more careful because, "Geez, don't you have enough scars?"

No, he thought. No. Not nearly enough.

And Steve hated his scars because they reminded him that he had lived.

….

"He's an asshole Steve."

"Really? You think?"

"It was a racist stereotype, you can't let him get to you like that."

At that, Steve spun around, his eyes flashing dangerously. "Correcting an ignorant assumption is not 'letting him get to me'. Did you hear what he said? I'm an exception to my race because I succeed in school? I'm lucky to have a white boyfriend who's looking for a social justice status upgrade? I have every right to challenge that!"

Russell raised his hands in a placating gesture. "Of course you do," he said. He moved behind Steve, tugging him closer and sliding his hands up the front of Steve's shirt to caress the toned muscles there.

"It's just…you know that's not true right? I'm not with you because you're native. And I'm not trying to get social justice points for dating you. I like you. It's not your skin color I'm attracted to."

And Steve sighed and turned to kiss him because Russell was sweet and sincere and considerate He listened, he really did, and he genuinely tried to understand. He kissed him because Russell said all the right things that were still somehow all wrong. Steve didn't have the words to explain why and sometimes it was just easier not to. He kissed him to drown out the faint but insistent voice in the back of his head that told him, in a teasing British accent, that he looked so incredibly edible. There was no point in dwelling on memories. It would do him no good to live in the past.

The news came a week later. It was Jimmy's seventeenth birthday and a bunch of the gang had gotten together. No one could remember whose idea the tattoos were, but everyone had agreed. Steve had put down the letter and made an appointment. There was no question what he would do. It was the DA and it was the right thing to do, to remember this way.

He felt an odd sense of loneliness, getting this tattoo by himself. His mind went to Derek who was, he knew without a doubt, doing the same thing. Steve missed him in that moment like he hadn't in a long time. But it would be weirdly awkward to contact him after all this time. He had no right to impose himself on Derek's life right now but it felt equally wrong to do this without him.

The tattoo looked perfect, though, the letter design was just right, the numbers stamped neatly below. It felt right, more right than anything had in a long time. He had spent so much time trying to forget, cursing the memories that wouldn't let him. But in that moment, it felt so good to remember. He wanted to. They deserved it, every single one of them deserved not to fall forgotten into history. They were more than just a bunch of kids who got caught in the crossfire. And they were not just a group of attention seeking wannabe heroes who stupidly thought they could make a difference. Steve could never properly explain how eighty teenagers came to the conclusion that they needed to make a suicide stand. All he knew was that they were DA and they mattered. A tattoo on the arm of every survivor may not be enough, or nearly what they owed to those who had fallen, but it was what they had to offer and there was never any doubt that he would be a part of it. They deserved this, and so much more.

He ran his fingers over the ink. "Do you think you can do one more?"

Russell never said a word about the DA tattoo. They had talked about the DA only enough that he knew when not to push. But his eyebrows went up when he saw the second one and he blurted out the question.

"Why would you get a tattoo that looks like a scar? I thought you hated your scars."

Steve gave a shrug and didn't comment. Russell slid a hand over Steve's other arm.

"I mean, it's not important, I just wondered. You know your scars don't matter to me."

The tattoos were avoided just like the scars and Steve was grateful. Both the scars and the tattoos seems to serve a purpose that he could not adequately explain with words. But it seemed disrespectful to treat them like just another patch of skin. Because they did matter. They meant life and they meant death and they were there every single day and he was glad.

And Steve respected his scars because they reminded him to remember.

…..

Steve ran his hand over the blond hair and down across massive shoulders, tracing the rippling muscles that shivered under his touch. And it never occurred to him once to say anything to the man who was currently tracing every one of Steve's scars with his tongue. He was lost in sensation, caught in the rush that propelled them from awkward coffee date to door fumbling, tripping over shoes, kicking off clothes, want you, want you, want you.

Arms came around him and he reached up to catch Derek in a kiss. It had been so long that it felt brand new. But there was something so achingly familiar, as Derek moved down his body, thoroughly outlining each scar, gently, reverently, as if each one had a story to tell. And he pulled back at the most maddening moments just to look, drinking in every inch of skin with hungry blue eyes, darkened with desire. He let his eyes linger over the sweat glistened skin just long enough to tease, until Steve, laughing, pulled him close again. The curl of tongue against his, brought the memories flooding back to him. Memories of all the times they had taken refuge in one another through a sea of doubt and fear.

"Shut up so I can find out what you taste like."

"You Derek. Whatever else, I would die for you."

"You can say anything but goodbye."

"Welcome home."

Steve didn't know if a shared past was enough for a shared future. At that moment, though, as hands became rougher and his breath quickened with his mounting need, he didn't care. They whispered their desires. Can I? Would you? Show me… And nestled in between the whispers were "I missed you" spoken rushed and covered with kisses, and "I love you" underneath that and not spoken at all. It still wasn't real, even though it felt more real than anything had in a long time, and it seemed dangerous to speak it.

Before, it felt like their love was all that mattered in the world and they drown themselves in it, desperately holding on. Now it just felt right. Right like it never had before. Right like some elusive feeling on the edge of his mind that he was finally able to grasp. Right like a barely audible song that he was now able to hear clearly.

Steve buried his face in Derek's neck, his mouth finding the line of twisted flesh that ran along one side. He was engulfed and fully embraced now, their bodies falling together into rhythm. And the words ran understood between them, unspoken, in unison, the promise thrumming through them. Never forget. Never forget. Never forget.