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John’s hands were braced on either side of the sink, his elbows locked tight. He’d gotten as far as to unknot his tie, leaving the thin strip of fabric draped over his shoulders. But then he’d gone to undo that first button, at the hollow of his throat, and felt bile rise in his esophagus.
He was being ridiculous. He knew that. But he already couldn’t look at his reflection. He didn’t want to see any more of himself than he had to.
He didn’t want anyone else seeing more of him than they had to.
“Hey, Johnny boy!” Merle knocked heavily on the bathroom door. “You done with all your pretty-boy stuff yet? Mavis and Mookie got tired of waitin’ on ya.”
John winced, glancing in the mirror at the pair of swim trunks that Merle had been… er, kind enough to buy for him. They were an impossibly bright shade of orange, with a repeating pattern of (also orange) cat faces on them. The one benefit was that they were so garish, maybe everyone would be too distracted to notice anything else about him.
He picked the shorts off of the lip of the bathtub. They wouldn’t even reach his knees.
“I’m… I may still be a—a minute,” John said, his throat hoarse.
“Y’know, if you need some help in there…”
He flushed at the teasing lilt in Merle’s voice.
“I’m fine. I’ll be fine. You can—you can go on ahead. With your kids. You shouldn’t waste the nice weather.”
“Geez, you make it sound like you’re gonna be locked in there all day. You sure you’re alright?”
This time, there was nothing in his voice but concern. That was even worse than the teasing.
“I… no,” he finished quietly, sighing.
They may no longer be in a “Zone of Truthfulnessosity,” as Merle put it, but John wasn’t in the habit of lying to him. Not when it mattered.
There was a moment where all he could hear was the quiet hum of the air conditioner. Then:
“Are the shorts really that ugly?” Merle asked.
John let out a surprised laugh.
“Yes. Yes, they are. But, that’s not… that’s not the issue, here.”
He ran a hand through his graying hair, and finally braved a glance at his reflection.
Black scars wove rippling lines up and down his face. The widest one sliced through his left eyebrow before curving around his cheekbone, stretching down to the corner of his lips. The scars shimmered like oil when he grimaced—as if the marks needed to draw more attention to themselves. They carved their way down his neck, burrowing underneath his collar. His torso was a mess of them. His legs, too.
Baring all of that to the open water, to the salty air, to the gaze of strangers and friends alike… it wouldn’t just sting the old Hunger-induced wounds. It would chip away the last bit of pride he had left.
“Can I come in?” Merle asked, his rough voice unusually soft.
“...You already used your question,” John replied dryly.
Merle laughed.
“You kinda signed up for more of those when you moved in here, buddy.”
John knew that. He was just prolonging the inevitable. Either he had to rip off the bandage—or in this case, his clothes—or Merle would come in to make sure he wasn’t dying.
“Yes,” he finally murmured.
“Yeah, so, are you gonna answer—”
“Yes. That was my answer.” He unlocked the door and slumped back against the sink. “You can come in.”
“Ah—oh. Right.”
The doorknob turned. John heard the creaking of hinges. He didn’t look up.
“Woah. You really do need help,” Merle said. “You haven’t even got your shirt off.”
Despite everything, a smile tugged at John’s lips.
“Some things never change, do they?”
“Sure they do.” Merle stepped over and squeezed his hand. “They might just need a little help.”
John bit his lip, looking up to meet the gaze of Merle’s reflection. He was smiling a little sadly.
“I’m not supposed to need any more help,” John murmured. “You’ve already—I mean, I’m alive, because, because of you. Because of your Bond. And, I’m living in your house, eating your food—”
“You can use it more than I can, buddy.”
“That’s not the point,” he huffed. “The point is, you just wanted one thing. You wanted to have a nice day at the beach. And I—I can’t even give you that, because—just look at me, Merle!”
He gestured to all of him.
“That’s what I’m tryin’ to do. Your shirt’s not really helping me out.” Merle patted John’s abs—the part of John’s torso at his eye level.
John blushed. Right.
“You know what I mean,” he muttered. “You can see my face. It isn’t any prettier below.”
“Hey, I think you should let me be the judge of that.” Merle wiggled his eyebrows.
“N—not what I meant, Merle!” He covered his face. His scars felt even hotter, almost painfully so, as if punishing him for even considering—what he wasn’t considering.
“I know, I know.” Merle chuckled. “I thought you told me you weren’t vain, though.”
“I’m not—”
“Yeah, you are. Mister fancy shoes.” He kicked the tip of John’s shoes, which he still hadn’t removed, either. He’d hardly seen the point when he couldn’t even manage to undo his shirt. “You’re lucky you got put back together with all your nice clothes. Don’t know that I could afford to dress you otherwise.”
“You—you literally saved the world. Lord Sterling gave you this whole town.”
“Yeah, and this town doesn’t come with a… where would you even buy stuff like that? Fantasy Costco?”
“Fantasy—? What would—nevermind.” John shook his head. “I would have dealt with different clothes. That would have been preferable to…”
“To lookin’ like you lost a fight with an oil tanker?”
John winced.
“Sorry, sorry. I just—I mean, you’re alive, John!” Merle took his hand again. His thumb traced one of the scars that snaked over John’s knuckles. “So what if you got a little roughed up? You’ve got all your limbs. Your eyes. Your sexy hair.”
John flushed again—both from the compliment, and from shame. Merle was right: John was vain. Because of John, Merle had lost an arm and an eye. And here he was, worried about—about cosmetic appearance.
He made himself sick.
“No. Uh-uh. None of that, that self-loathing stuff. You’re gonna give yourself an ulcer. You don’t wanna ruin your perfectly good stomach.”
Merle poked him in the stomach. Normally it would’ve made him smile, but not now. Merle cursed.
“I’m just making this worse, aren’t I?” he muttered under his breath. “Guess it’s just hard for me to have a lot of sympathy when you’re still the hottest tamale around. ‘Sides me, at least.”
John’s head jerked up. He opened his mouth, fumbling for words.
“You don’t, don’t have to—don’t lie. To make me feel better.”
Merle gently tugged on both ends of John’s tie, prompting him to lean down closer to his eye level.
“John. Johnny boy. John Bon Jovi.” Merle pinned him with a flat stare. “You really think that I, Earl Merle Hitower Highchurch, Zone of Truth enthusiast, would lie to you?”
John licked his lips, dodging Merle’s gaze. They were close enough now that Merle’s breath tickled his neck. It smelled faintly of chocolate and marzipan.
“No.” John swallowed. “No, you wouldn’t.”
“Hell yeah I wouldn’t.” Merle grinned. “Now you say it. Say you’re one hot tamale.”
John snorted, a faint smile tweaking his lips.
“You’re… one hot tamale.”
Merle let out a bellowing laugh. This close, John could feel it buoying him up like a life preserver.
“Well, you’re not wrong, but we both already knew that. C’mon, try again.” Merle tied John’s tie in a loose bow as he talked. “‘John is one hot tamale.’”
“What’s the, ah, significance of, of tamales?”
Merle blinked.
“What, did ya not have tamales where you’re from? You’ve had a tamale before, right? If not, we gotta—” He cursed. “You gotta quit distractin’ me. You’re not getting out of this that easy.”
“It was worth a try.” John chuckled. “But alright. If it will make you feel better.”
“It’s to make you feel better, but sure.”
John took a deep breath through his nose. This was ridiculous, but it was the least he could do.
“I, John, am… one h-hot tamale.” He blushed. “There. Happy?”
“I’m freakin’ ecstatic.”
He stood up on his tiptoes and kissed John on his chin.
John straightened suddenly—so suddenly the back of his head banged against the wall. He groaned.
“M-Merle…” If there was any benefit to being this mortified, it was that his face was so red, his scars might be less noticeable.
“What? Can you blame me for wantin’ to get a taste of this hot tamale?”
John covered his face. The other benefit to being this mortified, he supposed, was that there was hardly any emotional room left to be self-conscious about his scars.
He… he didn’t need to be self-conscious. At least not with Merle. Merle wasn’t disgusted by him—and John had known that. It had just been difficult to believe it.
He had to admit, it was easier to believe now.
“A-at least, give me,” he mumbled, “give me a warning, next time…”
“Next time?” Merle perked up.
John tugged on the inside of his collar.
“Don’t we need to get to the beach?” he changed the subject.
“We do! Does that mean we’re finally getting you out of that shirt?”
“Before I change my mind,” he huffed through a smile.
He hadn’t intended to change in front of Merle—he still definitely wasn’t—but. He could unbutton his shirt. Just so… so Merle could see. So John could make absolutely sure Merle could handle it.
John turned his back to him, undoing the bow in his tie. Fumbling with his buttons. He half expected Merle to teasingly ask to help, or to chant something borderline obscene. Possibly both. But instead he waited patiently, humming some jaunty tune.
…John should probably stop imagining Merle undoing his shirt buttons. Merle would barely be able to reach the top ones, anyway. Unless John was sitting or lying down—
He backpedaled out of that thought, and slipped the unbuttoned shirt from his arms.
Merle wolfwhistled. Despite his embarrassment, John couldn’t help hamming it up a little. He turned around, spreading his arms wide.
“Well? Am I everything you imagined?”
John’s smile stayed static as Merle stepped forward, slowly raising his wooden hand to brush John’s side. John shivered, but didn’t pull away this time.
“Y’know, I kinda imagined you’d have another, smaller shirt underneath.”
John laughed. “That’s a good one. I’ll have to keep that idea in mind.”
“Long as I get to undo at least one of them.” Merle wiggled his eyebrows, again.
John could get used to that expression.
“Thank you, Merle,” he said, placing his hand over Merle’s on his bare skin. “Sincerely. I… this means a lot to me.”
“Hey, it means a lot to me, too. Seein’ you happy.” Merle smiled. “Plus we sorta match now.”
“Match?” John’s brow furrowed.
“Yeah. Me and this old thing—” He flexed his wooden fingers, tickling John’s stomach, “—and you, and those driftwood-pattern beauty marks of yours.”
“Driftwood?” The scars did look somewhat like a wooden pattern, with their waving lines and gnarls. “Maybe that’s fitting. Considering I got these marks from being… discarded.”
“Nah.” Merle gave him one last pat before stepping back. He smiled over his shoulder as he turned the doorknob to leave.
“It’s fitting ‘cause you washed up exactly where you needed to be.”