[Koby’s chest, his scars, are an odd mishmash of tickling and numb, sensitive and senseless, so the slow whisper of the brush keeps slipping from making him shiver to having no effect at all. But he sees what Louis is doing, the swirls of green and blue, his heart aches at how immensely, immeasurably kind it is. Veiling the ugliness that Koby carries like a brand, a sign of – survival, yes, strength and resilience and clawing his way past the caged, frantic misery he’d steeped in for so long, but also the way that misery tainted even something that was supposed to be his alone. There are books, few but present, and in them photos, and Koby knows at last that he isn’t the only one.
But the pictures are of smooth, neat, well-healed scars, and the clinical medical advice recommends avoiding strenuous activity for a week or two, at minimum. And Koby remembers the day of, light-headed and dizzy and sweating, blood seeping through the bandages, through his shirt, sealing it to his open, torn stitches as he scrubbed the deck on trembling hands and knees and tried to keep from passing out or screaming in agony. The memory sears itself across his mind like a hand touching a hot stove, and he scrambles back away from the memory with a quick hitch of his breath.
Louis says just the right thing, though, again, pulls Koby’s thoughts away from then, from there, from her, settling instead on that morning, on waking up in the rising sun creeping through the sheets, with Quentin’s curly dark hair tumbling over the scars on his chest, cheek pillowed over his heart. The smile on his face goes soft, helpless, smitten.]
Yeah. I – really do. [There’s a sort of haunted, gulping wonder in it, in how true it is. He likes this guy. He loves this guy. He’s weak in the knees and red in the face and butterflies in the stomach about this guy.] I know he does. I mean – he’s said it. And I believe him. [Louis probably knows Koby well enough by now to realize what a bit deal that is.]
cw: dysphoria, transphobia just in caaaase, also unsafe surgery/blood~
But the pictures are of smooth, neat, well-healed scars, and the clinical medical advice recommends avoiding strenuous activity for a week or two, at minimum. And Koby remembers the day of, light-headed and dizzy and sweating, blood seeping through the bandages, through his shirt, sealing it to his open, torn stitches as he scrubbed the deck on trembling hands and knees and tried to keep from passing out or screaming in agony. The memory sears itself across his mind like a hand touching a hot stove, and he scrambles back away from the memory with a quick hitch of his breath.
Louis says just the right thing, though, again, pulls Koby’s thoughts away from then, from there, from her, settling instead on that morning, on waking up in the rising sun creeping through the sheets, with Quentin’s curly dark hair tumbling over the scars on his chest, cheek pillowed over his heart. The smile on his face goes soft, helpless, smitten.]
Yeah. I – really do. [There’s a sort of haunted, gulping wonder in it, in how true it is. He likes this guy. He loves this guy. He’s weak in the knees and red in the face and butterflies in the stomach about this guy.] I know he does. I mean – he’s said it. And I believe him. [Louis probably knows Koby well enough by now to realize what a bit deal that is.]