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“It’s not that I have a problem with hitting girls,” Matt says, “It’s just that I’m not a huge fan of hitting my girlfriend. You realize how it would look, don’t you?”
Elektra shrugs, “That’s what makeup is for,” she says.
Still, Matt tries not to leave a mark when they spar. It’s a fun challenge. Matt’s a boxer, it’s in his blood and it’s always been his go-to, even when he was training with Stick, but he can hit a bag any time. Sparring with Elektra, trying to get the upper hand without landing a hit anywhere visible, relying on pressure points and holds, forces him to innovate and learn in ways he hasn’t before.
Elektra is under no such compunctions, and between the spars and various other escapades, Matt is covered in scrapes and bruises. He doesn’t mind.
Elektra manages to land a punch square on his cheekbone, and Matt knows it’s on purpose. She wants it to be seen there, wants to mark him as hers to anyone who’ll look. Matt grins at her, feeling the hot pain begin to dull as the expression pulls at his cheek, and blocks her next strike. He should complain, maybe, about how she uses him as her canvas, paints him purple to invite people’s assumptions. But he doesn’t, honestly he thinks it’s hot.
He knows that everyone is staring at him in class, everyone is pitying him. Look at the poor blind boy whose girlfriend beats him, they all think. Matt hates pity, but he doesn’t care what they think; their pity feels like an inside joke he’s having at their expense. Nobody else’s opinion matters because he has Elektra and she sees all of him. He smiles to himself and remembers last night when he had her pinned to the floor, remembers the way she laughed as she conceded defeat. The bruise on his face is warm, heat rising gently beneath the skin like a piece of her he carries with him. It’s evidence that he doesn’t shatter, that Elektra knows he won’t.