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“Soft” wasn’t a word Max got to use very often. Nor was it one he usually felt.
Softness was reserved for the monochromatic world he saw on his pa’s television. The old-fashioned sitcoms with loving families, pearly white smiles, and the joyous laughter of children. The world where parents held their children tight while he watched from his cell, alone in the dark.
It was reserved for the freshly laundered clothes Ma folded while she sat on the couch, ignoring the occasional rattle of her son’s chains in the other room. Her hands, milk-white with long, stick-thin fingers, always looked so small from his peephole. Easily swallowed up by pa’s shirts like a bunch of snakes wrapped in a blanket. Max had often wondered if it was as comfy as it looked; all wrapped up in clean, warm clothes.
Not that he ever got to know.
Then he finally broke free.
Blood had coated his hands like hot, viscous paint as he trudged home– body heavy yet his heart alight. He silently passed the bodies of slaughtered police officers, hardly sparing them a glance as he limped his way home.
Max had found Pa closest to the porch. Mouth agape and eyes blank. Pa’s hair, once a shiny strawberry blonde, was matted with dirt, blood, and broken bits of bone. The sight was enough to bring Max to a brief pause. Then, with a low whuff through his nose, Max turned away.
Calmly, Max limped inside– leaving the crows to caw and peck at what remained of Pa’s head.
He had been happy that he had the home to himself now. That no one was around to hurt him, insult him, or starve him like his family. That he could finally watch the TV in the living room as freely as he wanted. He no longer had to survive off scraps.
He could finally sleep in a bed.
Time went by. The high of freedom fades away like the scent of fresh flowers; gone before he could truly savor it. He’s left behind with a house filled with bad memories. Awful, awful memories that refused to go away.
Anger soon dug and burrowed into the squishy meat of his grey matter, consuming every moment with agony until all he could do was cry and wail. Wail and wail until broken furniture piled up around him.
Even Pa’s old tv wasn’t enough to distract him from years of stolen childhood. The actors behind the screen with their gleaming smiles and pristine skin– were utterly free of the hell he had been forced into since birth.
Max had shattered the screen without a second thought. Glass shards had bit and torn into his hands. He had felt blood– hot and wet– ooze out of the marred flesh of his knuckle; every movement, every twitch of his finger accompanied by a sharp sting.
For a moment, the world was silent.
Then a cry– shrill and high– broke the man from his stupor. A pig’s squeal.
Max snapped.
By the time he had come to, Max was standing over a dead hog and holding a bloodied hammer.
He stared at the pig’s lifeless eyes, brain matter smattered against the ground.
No. Soft isn’t a word befitting of him. Far from it.
You, on the other hand… You were everything he wasn’t.
Smooth, plump, and rounded cheeks that looked as soft as a peach. Eyes befitting of a baby doe, thick lashes and all. And your hands, unblemished and uncalloused, always seemed to remain clean despite the blood and grime of the fog. You reminded him faintly of the lace doilies Ma would occasionally use– delicate and pretty.
Truly, you had no business being anywhere near him.
Yet here Max was– nestled under the sheets of his parent’s old bed (well, a copy of it at least) with you beside him. His hands nervously fist the thick quilts beneath him, pulse skipping a beat as you rest your head against his shoulder.
The pads of your fingers were feather-soft as you absentmindedly drew circles into your stomach. Each brush and stroke was slow and gentle as they quietly explored the twisted flesh beneath; curious yet tentative. All Max could do was lay as still as possible.
He’s highly aware of his heavy, ragged breaths, a side-effect of his birth defects, and how painfully loud they were in the tiny room; of the dirt and grime that always seemed to coat his skin, as he could never wash them off thoroughly by himself; of the strange webbing of flesh between his fingers and toes. By all means, you should be disgusted by him. Not handling him as if he were made of glass–
A sudden brush against the side of his stomach startles him, pulling out a surprised, rumbly noise from his lips as he flinches. You stiffen beside him, lifting your hand as you look up at him with concerned eyes.
“Sorry, hun. Did that hurt?” you ask.
“No. Far from it,” Max wanted to say. It felt... Nice. He didn’t even know he could be ticklish.
Instead, he settles for a garbled, inarticulate noise and shakes his head. And thankfully, that’s enough for you. A smile settles on your lips.
“Thank god. Lemme know if I ever hurt you, okay? Especially out of trials.”
You resume your idle skinship, nuzzling into his shoulder. All Max could do is stiffly nod and let out a ragged chuff. A blanket of silence envelops the two of you once again.
No. Soft isn’t in his routine. But he’ll fight tooth and nail if it means he gets to keep the one shred of warmth he’s ever had.