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The anxious scratching returns once more. It happens when you can’t escape the constricting feeling in your chest. When you’re in a meeting and have nothing to fidget with. You bounce your leg and wish for the hands on the clock to move faster so you can retreat to your quarters. You can’t help but begin to scratch your hand—the skin between your thumb and your index finger. The feeling of blunt fingernails against skin soothes you and you can’t stop. Its only when you notice the wet feeling along your fingers do you realize you’ve gone too far yet again.
He notices it too. Notices your tells—when your leg goes and you shift in your seat. Occasionally sit on your hands or fiddle with the cap on your water bottle. Sister Imperator glances in your direction with clear distaste and you excuse yourself.
****
Copia calls you his little dove, when he is worried for you. Though it's more grounding for him than it is for you. You don’t find the nickname patronizing, for Copia says it out of the kindness of his heart. He knows that despite your smaller stature, you’ve the courage of a lion and the strength of a bear.
At least.
That is how you wished to describe your ideal self.
You’re just below average height for a man and fairly certain that anyone could snap your arm in half if they so pleased. All bark, little bite, but if challenged in a fight you’d give it your all and go down swinging. For the weight you’ve slowly gained and built up on HRT, redistributes to your belly. There are times in which you look in the mirror and feel as if your arms are too thin and hips too wide. Your chest's budding breasts caused more trouble even in your adult years and you were in need of a new chest binder that wasn’t ratty and sweat stained.
For now?
For now, Copia calls you his little dove in a somber tone whilst he creams up your hands and tuts to himself. Wonders why you had to go and cut up your hands the way you did with blunt fingernails and a burst of self destructive behavior.
You let him massage your hands and clean your wounds. To see his naked hands is a privilege in of itself, for Copia is never seen without his gloves. Leather gloves decorated with the Ministry’s insignia. His hands, like yours, are littered in scars but the palms of his hands are taught, and a little leathery—not because of age, but because of the abuse they suffered.
The thrashing from Papa Nihil’s ruler (along with those of other senior members and teachers) left biting scars. Painful reminders of his youth.
If he wasn’t so fixated on healing you, you’d haven taken his hands in yours and kiss each and every scar. Worshipped his fingers, his knuckles. You would gently soothe your thumb over his wrists and tell him that he is a good boy, a good man. You know how praise riles him up, but now is not the time.
With a jolt you realize…
That is what he is doing to me.
That you shared your pain in different ways and healed one another in order to heal yourselves.
“Please,” Copia says. “Do not do this again.”
The sight of your hands is a grizzly one. You've reopened scabs along your fingers and left an inflamed patch of skin from the spot you had chosen to focus on the most. Copia looks up from where he is knelt on the bathroom floor. A few bandages and bloodied tissues lay scattered around him having cleaned up the mess you made. His brows are knit and his bottom lip wobbles. You can’t help but pull your hands away from his so you can cup his face and kiss his forehead.
He gently lowers your hands and you tuck them in your lap.
“When you feel that itch…” he taps your knee fondly. “And I am not around…” he reaches into his dress shirt and pulls a silver chain hidden behind the collar. A ring dangles from it and you watch quietly, as he unclasps his necklace and slips the ring from the silver strand. He places the ring in the palm of your hand. It is a simple black band with an emerald in the middle. Upon closer inspection, you realize the emerald is rounded with a splint of obsidian to mimic a slit pupil—a black band with the eye of a goat.
“When you feel that desire to hurt yourself, run your finger along the ring. Fiddle with it if you must. Let it ground you and remind you that I am always here.”
You swallow thickly and nod. The both of you know that it is not that simple, but a reminder, almost like a ribbon tied around your finger, is a good place to start.
“Of course, Papa.”
Something flashes beneath his eyes his breath hitches. The recognition that he so desires distracts him enough for you to lean forward and capture the side of his mouth in an attempt at a sneaky kiss. You lose your balance and fall from the stool, the two of you landing on your sides on the bathroom floor. You hadn’t meant to knock him over, but you can’t help but laugh at your clumsiness. It is usually Copia stumbling around.
With the ring around your finger, you nuzzle Copia’s cheek. His sideburn scratches yours and the two of you sit with your backs against the bathtub, ignoring the mess of tissues and the first aid kit splayed along the floor.
For now, you enjoy each others warmth as the itch ebbs away.