ambiencespectrum:

the scars spread across his whole body, numerous as his freckles. some are mere flecks of whiter than white tissue, and others span longer and wider than her finger.

he has muscle, but it’s lean, drawn thin. he eats as much as she does, spreading meals out long as they can last despite having the alchemeter’s unlimited supply.

“there wasn’t much food, sometimes,” is all he’ll answer with when she asks.

“there was always food, but never any meals,” she replies, sharing her own familial experience. they’re taking turns. it’s almost a year and a half into their journey, and they’re bored beyond belief.

tedium has finally pushed them to share the more intimate pieces of themselves, handling each shard with perfect care lest one of them be cut and bled out. his hands follow the thinness to her waist, only brushing fingertips like he’s scared to properly touch. her approach is both bolder and far more timid- she traces the thin line up his bicep, one of many, without hesitation, but can’t bring herself to examine any lower with her wandering hands.

she lifts them instead to his face, arguably a far more treacherous action than drifting south. his cheekbones are like hers, his eyes more almond shape- their irises are bloody red and make her think of death and wine and the color of sickly sweet valentines.

he’s gone still, letting her hold his face. her thumb finds its way to a scar that nearly nicks his eye, dangerously close and suspect to past terror of almost being half blinded. he flinches away, minutely, at the touch, eyes blinking rapidly and chest hitching with breath- and she draws back, sitting herself further away again and hugging her bare midriff, save for the bra she’s kept.

“sorry,” she says, and means it.

“…sorry,” he echos, and only speaks again after a lengthy pause, rubbing the back of his neck, his scarred arms, skin that’s been marred by someone who deserved what he got. “it just- for a moment, was too much, you know? like, fuck, lalonde. i think we can both agree lettin’ you near my tender strider flesh is like askin’ to get flayed, grilled, and served with garnish. you’re kinda risky business. frisky risky business.”

“a sword, in opposition to a needle, does have a sheathe i suppose,” she replies when he speaks his mind of why he drew away. “it’s natural to fear a sharp object pressed to one’s jugular.”

“been there, done that, experienced what comes afterwards. not fun.”

“then our ‘show-and-tell’ session has reached it’s end. your cooperation of frittering away a void’s evening was appreciated.”

she doesn’t hurt, she doesn’t want for more. they aren’t like that, no matter what jokes and satire they spin of themselves. it’s just. there’s so much time left to keep waiting for the life and death dramatics to resume. so very much time, and it festers in her, like the grimdarkness did, like the loneliness of her house did, like the relationship with her mother did. he bears and bared a hundred markers to her, showcasing the abuse he’s lived and survived. she is just a petty, needy creature, grasping for light in a place where there is so very little.

“didn’t say i wouldn’t just deal with it, lalonde,” he says, his trembling touch on her shoulder betraying his tentativeness, his nerves of asking for more, for her.

(he doesn’t think she’s awful for the neediness, the pettiness- she’s like him, a little, in a different way. she had everything except anything resembling attention. he had nothing except unending vigilance to his every move. they’re both fucked up in the head, in their hearts, in a similar enough fashion he can look into her brilliant violet eyes and see a slightly warped reflection of himself. it pains him as much as it comforts him to not be alone in this.)

she aches so fiercely inside, sometimes. in places the woman who has her eye can’t reach, can’t fill. the emptiness that’s built around by glass and mirrors, reflecting endlessly the intangible light that she passes off as her soul and self.

dave can reach there, simple and easy as his knuckles touching hers as they pass in the halls. with an offhand phrase in the dead of night as they drink more coffee rather than sleep. a whisper quiet admission of trust spoken only behind locked doors. soft and scared and comforting, because it forces her to remember that she isn’t the only one with no idea how to love another person without expecting them to hurt you for it.

rose leans into his hand, reaches back with her own, and they sink into one another again.