Chapter 11
part four

Shirayuki finally wraps up with the bandages and leans back, wiping at her brow. "Well, you're all done."
She's fashioned a sort of sling, to hold a snow bottle in place at his side, and the rest of his chest is lightly bound.
"And I know it hurts, but you have to breath normally or you could fall ill."

"I won't, Miss. Fall, that is." Obi examines her handiwork, humming in approval. "It's been a while since I've had such a colorful bruise, though."

"Really?" She's not sure with what frequency he got himself into trouble—he's never been forthcoming on the details of his past, and she had never tried to pry.
But that didn't mean she wasn't curious.

"Yep!" he grins at her. "Not since that time a horse kicked me!"
And there's something about the—the casual air of his tone, when he says it, that clashes with the severity of that revelation.
She's at a loss, how to respond. So instead, she fixes him with such a look.

"I—I got better! I also...deserved it," Obi trails off, glancing away. He wasn't sure what to make of this new look. It didn't shake him to the core like her angry glares did, but... It was somehow unnerving—a reminder that reckless bravado was no longer an acceptable course of action.

"Just… Be careful, all right?" Shirayuki stands, to gather up the supplies scattered across the table.

"I can help, Miss," Obi insists, rising to his feet, but she waves him away.

"You need to rest. I'll handle this."

He remains on his toes, tired of sitting still—he never was any good at that—but not sure with what to occupy himself. He spies the leftover snow, half melted, and grabs for the bowl with his uninjured hand.
"I'll...make more tea?"

"Oh, thank you. That would be nice."

"Is that the one from the abandoned manor? When you snuck out on us?"

Obi jumps, glancing quickly to his left. Miss stood there, at his side. Studying his arm. Behind her, the table was tidy, supplies nestled back into storage.
He didn't notice her approach.

"Ah—yeah," he stammers, turning back to the stove. Had Miss Kiki taught her to sneak, as well? Or was he still that out of it? That distracted?
He was certainly...aware that he'd left his blanket back at the table.

"It's barely visible," Shirayuki continues, oblivious, "if I didn't already know where to look, I wouldn't be able to tell."
If she'd carried more than rudimentary supplies with her that day, if might not have left a mark at all.

"That's, because you healed that one, Miss." he manages, with a small smile.
And then his voice turns…distant. Quiet. Aloof. And...something else, that she can't quite place.
"Unlike, well."

For the story of his life was right there, written plainly, for the entire world to see—spelled out in the marks that criss-cross his flesh, in crooked limbs and creaking joints, in the aches of wounds new and old—echoes of his past, still resonating, within his present.

Scars that told a tale long and painful. But that wasn't the only story Shirayuki saw there. Because it was his presence, the fact that he stood here, next to her—that spoke volumes.
He was alive. He picked himself up and survived.
And so would she.

"I'm sorry. I—I should have realized..." she glances at her toes, pushing back the hair that slipped into her face.

"I've had worse, Miss," he reminds her, softly. Ignoring the persistent twitch of his fingers.

"Obi...just because you've...you've lived through worse, doesn't mean..." she struggles, with her thoughts. "It doesn't mean that..." Wrestles with them. "...that..."
Decides to take another approach.

"If, if that's—" she wraps her arms around herself, "—if that's your way of saying don't worry, it's not—it's not working, Obi."
And somehow this conveys many things at once. Guilt, concern, anxiety... Frustration, tempered by—not pity, but empathy.

Shirayuki jumps, then. And lifts her chin, wonder blooming in her eyes. Because while she wasn't paying attention, wasn't looking—he reached out and touched her.
Touched her face, brushed his fingertips against the scar.
Her scar.

"Um," she starts, flighty, "scars...scars are a, a part of the healing process! Medicine can—minimize it, but a lot of injuries leave one, e–even if you can't always see—"

"Don't," he says, in a pinched tone—an octave too high, like he just barely managed to give the word voice.

And Shirayuki is at a loss, again.

Obi gently traces the scar's path across her cheek. "Don't..." he tries a second time, voice lower. Still straining.

"But Obi, I don't blame—"

"I know. I...know. But, I still..."

He's silent for a moment, averting his gaze, brows furrowing deep in thought. And then he turns his eyes back to her.

"Miss, don't...don't tell me what to think. How to feel."

Shirayuki watches him, searches his face, looking for—something, and so they stand, in silence once more.

"...Will you keep covering it?" Obi finally asks.

"I..." the question catches her off guard and she pauses, really considers it. Safeguarding her secret had been one thing, but... After tonight, after everything that happened—could she really just continue the ruse? Pretend that nothing had changed?

"I... for now, I think? People would... talk, if I suddenly wore a scar where yesterday there was none."

But at the same time, that problem was entirely of her own making—she was the one who chose to conceal it.

"Mm."

"Is...is that selfish of me, do you think...?" she shuffles her feet, suddenly nervous.

"Some people are... uneasy, around scars, Miss." He brushes his thumb across hers, as he says it.

"I—it's not that it bothers me—I mean, I've...I don't consider it a blemish. And I—I want to wear it, eventually. Out in the open. Like you wear yours."
She was hesitant at first—but the words, they give her strength, as they tumble forth into reality.

Obi blinks, slowly. Before giving her cheek a playful squeeze.

"...Who else knows, Miss?"

"Ah, Kiki does. And Zen."

"But not Mitsuhide?"

"I...don't think so? He...he would have worried..." Shirayuki glances away, flushing red all over.

"Well," Obi replies, "he might have figured it out. He's sharper than people think. Not as sharp as Miss Kiki, but..."

"Or my elbow?" she offers, wry.

At that, Obi drops his hand to her arm, hooking his fingers just above the joint in question. He pulls, gently raising the limb to peer at her elbow. A bruise was growing there, just barely beginning to bud, but it was the sort that started to fade again, before the day was done—vanishing completly after three.

Obi slumps back into his chair, tea in hand. He tries to slouch, to bend and twist into his usual horrid posture, but the rib won't allow it. Pain resurges each time comfort seems within his grasp.
So he begrudgingly gives in, and yawns.

"Are you tired?" Shirayuki glances over, taking a seat beside him with her own cup.

"Mmmphh...yeah," he scrubs at his face, at his eyes.

"I can read to you," she gestures to the 'The Founding,' banished to the far end of the table to make way for more important matters. "That might put you to sleep."

"More like bore me to tears," he snorts, derisive.

"Then what do you suggest?" she huffs, feigning insult.

Obi smirks.