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There’s a weight to the night; it’s thick and sticking to his skin like molasses and he feels bands of moonlight snap against his skin as he tries to make his way through. He swallows - hesitating, tip-toeing on the edge of guilt and the need to just be held by you.
But what would you say, if the devil were to visit you?
He’s not sure he wants to find out.
Sitting outside your apartment feels like being ripped in half, his mind telling him to get up and run away and by god, he’s close. He’s this close . But his heart is tethered to yours and there’s a soft tugging on it as you make the decision for him, opening the window and he stumbles inside like a heap of cuts and bruises but you don’t judge. You never do.
Hands steady as you strip him of clothes and this culpability, and he can’t help a hiss as even the very air feels sharp against his skin and when he inhales, it turns into shrapnel in his lungs. You take him in, and there’s a fresh surge of guilt in his heart when your breath hitches, fingertips outlining a deep cut against his ribs.
But your touch feels tender like the petals of a flower and for each bruise blooming across his body, you press your lips to his skin feather-light, and it makes him want to cry. For the world breaks him into a myriad shards every night, but you’re there to kiss him back together again.
Piece by fragile piece.
He’s faintly aware of the warmth of the water as you wash the blood away, scrubbing at each layer of dirt and self-condemnation until you find him hiding underneath and it feels like being born again. Your touch is so light it grounds him; makes him shiver even though it’s searing-hot against his soul.
Every inch of him burns, and screams, and aches as if he’s been chewed and spat out, whole body trembling for affection, half-sobbing when you pull away even minutely.
But gently, you kiss the panic away. Tuck a promise in the whisper you brush against his lips and with tears rolling down his face, he believes you.
How could he not, when your tender hands spin moonlight into silk threads to carefully stitch up his wounds, and with each dip of the needle it feels like you’re injecting yourself underneath his skin.
The bandages are scraping him coarse and raw and incomparable to your touch. But he swallows the complaint.
He couldn’t speak, even if he wanted to, afraid to open his mouth lest something soft and vulnerable would tumble out and break into a million pieces on the floor.
Like a confession.
So he swallows it down, too.
Sighs happily into the soft clothes you wrap him in, embraced in your scent while collapsing on the couch with exhaustion while you carve a space for yourself next to him. And he falls asleep curled up around your pulse.