[ a little. certain parts, at least. like how shiro flutters his lashes and sees keith there, face half hidden in the pillow. he’s pink and he’s sweet, dreamlike in the way this moment feels hazy and sluggish, dosed in comfort. but the feeling isn’t absolute. other parts stand out and shiro thinks, no, if this were truly a dream, the white in his hair would be gone, as would the metal posing as his right arm. both of them would be without scars, too. maybe then, keith wouldn’t hesitate in reaching for him.
perhaps he should have left the shirt on. last time they were like this, shiro had. keith’s touch had come easier then, with that thin, yet welcome barrier to cover all the odd patches of skin once ripped, gouged and ruined, left to knit itself back together.
his smile is lopsided. it’s hard to tell when half his face is hidden as well, but it is, with the apparent side pulling hard enough to plump his cheek. it hurts, a little, to force the smile. he doesn’t begrudge keith though. he doesn’t let the hesitation fester into doubt either. he reaches out with this flesh hand – because shiro is purposeful and aware, having intentionally picked the side of the bed that would put him down on his right, metal arm now safely tucked underneath his own pillow. he reaches for keith and grasps his stalled hand, drawing it around to lay it over his waist.
there’s a scar there, if keith trails his fingertips up to his lats, where four claw marks taper down into fine points. this is better though. this side is clear. it’s his right side that is a mess of jagged lines, courtesy of that fucking witch. ]
You can avoid them. [ he drapes his arm over keith, pulling him in closer. ] You don’t have to pretend to –
[ his words don’t soften or trail off. they simply stop. like he suddenly realizes he has no words for what he’s trying to say. what is he trying to say? keith doesn’t need to pretend to like them? shiro doesn’t need to be coddled or told anything. he certainly doesn’t need gentle, reverent touches that are more fake than genuine, tracing scarred tissue.
so no overthinking. no special treatment. this is no big deal. ]
no subject
perhaps he should have left the shirt on. last time they were like this, shiro had. keith’s touch had come easier then, with that thin, yet welcome barrier to cover all the odd patches of skin once ripped, gouged and ruined, left to knit itself back together.
his smile is lopsided. it’s hard to tell when half his face is hidden as well, but it is, with the apparent side pulling hard enough to plump his cheek. it hurts, a little, to force the smile. he doesn’t begrudge keith though. he doesn’t let the hesitation fester into doubt either. he reaches out with this flesh hand – because shiro is purposeful and aware, having intentionally picked the side of the bed that would put him down on his right, metal arm now safely tucked underneath his own pillow. he reaches for keith and grasps his stalled hand, drawing it around to lay it over his waist.
there’s a scar there, if keith trails his fingertips up to his lats, where four claw marks taper down into fine points. this is better though. this side is clear. it’s his right side that is a mess of jagged lines, courtesy of that fucking witch. ]
You can avoid them. [ he drapes his arm over keith, pulling him in closer. ] You don’t have to pretend to –
[ his words don’t soften or trail off. they simply stop. like he suddenly realizes he has no words for what he’s trying to say. what is he trying to say? keith doesn’t need to pretend to like them? shiro doesn’t need to be coddled or told anything. he certainly doesn’t need gentle, reverent touches that are more fake than genuine, tracing scarred tissue.
so no overthinking. no special treatment. this is no big deal. ]