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They’re five. The classroom smells like glue sticks and graham crackers. The carpet is scratchy and loud with criss-cross applesauce.
Bob shows up late again. Hair a little messy. Shirt buttoned wrong. He sits beside Joaquín, like always, but keeps his arm curled into his side.
It takes maybe three minutes for Joaquín to notice. "You're hiding."
Bob shrugs, then holds his arm out under the table. Theres a think red mark along his forearm.
"I, uh.. I fell. Down the stairs."
He’s looking anywhere but at Joaquín, face stiff like he's trying not to cry.
Joaquín doesn’t ask anything else. Doesn’t say that doesn’t look like a fall. Doesn’t tell the teacher.
He just rummages through the box of markers and pulls out a hot pink highlighter.
"Hold still." He takes Bob's arm carefully, drawing two little dots above the scratch, then a big swoop underneath it.
“See?” Joaquín grins. “Now it’s a smiley.”
Bob looks down at the drawing. He can’t help but smile too.
☆
They're nine now, sitting on the curb outside a convenience store, a bag of spicy chips and a fountain drink sitting between them.
Joaquín licks his thumb and wipes dust off his pants. as he continues to watch Bob, silent. He;s got that look again. The one where he’s here, but not really. The one that makes Joaquín’s chest twist a little.
Finally, he shifts closer, squinting at Bob’s arm where the sleeves slipped back. A bruise blooms just above the elbow, deep purple, the kind you only get from something hard and mean. Joaquín frowns.
"That new?" he asks, already knowing the answer.
Bob flinches like he forgot anyone else was there. He tugs his sleeve down.
"Fell," he mumbles. "Off my bike."
Joaquín doesn’t call him out. Doesn’t have to.
He digs into his backpack and pulls out a black pen, uncapping it with a wiggle of his eyebrows. He takes Bob's arm without asking, holding it gently like he always does.
"Looks like a galaxy," Joaquín says as he starts to draw.
He draws little stars around it, following the shape of the bruise.
Bob watches his hand move, feels the little tingle as the pen glides over his skin, shoulders slowly relaxing.
“This one’s the heart,” Joaquín says, drawing a larger star in the center of the bruise. “Supernova. Boom.”
Bob chuckles, staring at the drawings as Joaquín moves on to another bruise.
"Thanks."
Joaquín shrugs like it’s nothing, like this isn’t the hundredth time he’s turned pain into constellations.
“Can’t let you walk around lookin’ boring,” he says, tongue poking out slightly as he adds tiny dots connecting the stars.
Bob doesn’t answer, but he doesn’t pull away, either. He just watches. Quiet.
☆
The hospital room smells like antiseptic and orange juice, and the TV’s playing some old cartoon with the sound off.
Bob's propped up in the stiff white bed, one arm in a sling and bandages running like tiny roads along whatever skin isn't covered by his hospital gown. There's a bruise under his eye, already starting to yellow.
Joaquín knows its not from the crash, even if Bob would never admit it.
"Hey," Joaquín whispers softly as he takes a seat beside the bed.
Bob blinks at him. “Hey.”
There’s a pause. They’ve never been good at silence, not between the two of them, but this one feels necessary. Sacred.
Then Joaquín digs into the pocket of his hoodie and pulls out a marker. A silver one. One he stole from art class last week because it looked like moonlight.
"Can I?" he asks, already reaching for Bob's arm.
Bob doesn’t say yes. But he doesn’t say no either. Just shifts so his scraped-up arm is closer, palm turned up like he’s offering something fragile.
Joaquín starts with a star near a stitched cut on his forearm, a few more around a bruise, and then one more cluster next to the gauze wrapped around his wrist.
He doesn’t say anything as he draws. Doesn't ask what happened, doesn't try to make him feel better. Instead, he just connects the stars, turning them into little constellations as usual.
“Looks like space,” Bob mumbles after a while, voice hoarse. “Like I got caught in a meteor shower.”
Joaquín smiles, moving the sheet so he can draw on Bob's legs. "You're the whole sky, man."
Bob turns his head away at that. Maybe he’s embarrassed. Maybe it’s too much. Maybe he just doesn’t want Joaquín to see his eyes.
But he doesn't pull away. He doesn't move at all, not even when a nurse scolds them for drawing near his injuries. Not until Joaquín's mom come back to pick him up.
☆
Years later, they're sitting on the bleachers behind the school, their half eaten lunches in between them. The metal's hot under Joaquín’s legs, but he doesn’t move. He’s watching Bob out of the corner of his eye.
Bob's in one of their moods. Restless, jittery, tapping his knee in that too-fast rhythm. He hasn't eaten much, hasn't looked Joaquín in the eye all day. His sleeves are rolled up, and it's not the first time Joaquín's seen those pinpricks.
But it is the first time he sees them knowing what they mean.
He doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t breathe too hard. Just reaches into his backpack and pulls out a pen, the same one he always uses.
Bob doesn't even notice when Joaquín takes his arm. He doesn't look over until the pen touches his skin.
"What're you–" Bob starts pulling away instinctively, but Joaquín holds their wrist. Not rough, but steady.
"Just let me."
Bob doesn't speak again, but they dont pull away either. So, Joaquín leans in and starts to draw small stars, delicate and deliberate, around each fading mark, then connects them into a constellation with thin lines.
"This one's Orion's Belt." He taps one of the constellations. "Well, almost… Barely. Actually, I lied, its not similar at all."
Bob lets out a breath, one that sound a little too close to a laugh. His eyes are glossy when he looks away.
"You're weird," he mutters.
"You love it."
☆
The town he's in tonight doesn't have a name.
Or–it does. Bob just didn't care to learn it. They've been here two days. Or maybe three. Four? It doesn't matter. They'll be leaving soon.
Whats important is that theres a cheap motel and a gas station down the road with medicine they probably shouldn't have access to.
They wanter without purpose, hoodie pulled up despite it being the middle of summer. The sun's too bright. Everything's too bright.
Then he sees it.
A little store nestled between a flower shop and a dry cleaner. A chipped, flickering sign that just says 'TATTOOS' in bold red letters. The windows are dusty, but theres a light inside. When they step closer to the glass he sees a guy sitting at the counter, flipping through a sketchbook.
Bob opens the door, wincing as the little bell sounds from above him.
"You got cash?" the guy asks, not looking up.
Bob nods. “Yeah.”
“What do you want?”
They don't know what they're going to say until they're already speaking.
"Stars. A.. a constellation. On my arm."
The guy finally looks up. He looks over bob slowly, taking in the oversized hoodie, the sunken eyes, the slight tremble in his hands.
"You high right now?" he asks, tiredness clear in his voice.
Bob hesitates. "Not yet."
"Then sit down."
Bob blinks. For a second, it feels like the floor might fall out from under them. Then they nod and make their way to the chair, stripping off their hoodie. Underneath is just a thin T-shirt, some random companies design, they dont even remember getting it.
The guy eyes the pale, scarred skin where Bob motions. "Over here?"
He nods slowly, thoughtfully, then pulls his stool over. He grabs a marker and starts sketching on his arm.
The familiar faint tickle takes Bob back to a different time. A simpler time.
The pen strokes are light but deliberate, a ghost of sensation against skin that remembers pain better than anything else. Bob watches the guy’s hand move, the tip of the marker gliding over the inside of their elbow, weaving between the faded needle scars like he’s been there before.
“You got a reference?” the artist asks, not looking up.
Bob shakes his head. “Don’t need one.”
The guy hums like that makes sense. Like it’s not strange to walk into a place with bruised skin and half a soul and ask for stars. Like he’s seen this before.
And maybe he has.
Bob's eyes drift to the ceiling as the guy starts preparing his tools, finally letting their mind drift to places they've been trying to avoid. To warm summer afternoons and the taste of fountain soda. To 'Supernova. Boom.' To the feeling of cheap pen ink turning their pain into art.
They barely remember the bruises anymore, the events that caused them. But they remember the stars.
They remember Joaquin.
The thought comes sharp and sudden, as if summoned by the weight of ink alone. It hits somewhere deep. Deeper than the drugs ever reached.
God. Joaquin.
They wonder where he is, what hes doing. If he's found someone else who looks at him the way Bob always had.
Bob hadn't meant to think about him. They try not to most days.
"You good?" the guy asks, glancing up briefly.
Bob clears their throat. Nods. "Yeah."
"Alright," the guy mutters, "this'll sting a bit."
Bob offers a humorless smile. “Good.”
Buzzing fills the room, a low hum that vibrates straight through his ribs. And when the needle touches their skin, Bob doesn't flinch. They just breath, steady and sharp, as the ink sinks beneath the surface.
It hurts considerably less than they'd been told it would.
They wonder if Joaquín has any tattoos. Probably not if he stuck with the military thing, Bob's pretty sure they're not allowed to have tattoos there.
The buzz fades after a while, or maybe Bob just stops noticing it. They've gotten pretty used to this type of pain.
The guy works in silence, steady and methodical. Bob doesn't ask his name. He doesn't ask Bob's either.
Time drips by in pieces, marked only by the pauses where the guy wipes at their arm and adjusts the angle. Bob stares at the ceiling tiles, yellowed from too many cigarettes or years of neglect, and lets their mind wander.
Joaquín used to draw the stars fast, like he was afraid he'd lose the shape if he hesitated. This guy's slow. Precise. Its not the same, but Bob's pretty sure its better that way. That was then, this is now.
When it’s done, the guy leans back with a grunt and wipes his hands on a stained rag. “There. Constellation,” he says, not unkindly. Bob doesn't remember when they started feeling the need to tell themself that.
It’s simple. Just a loose scattering of stars across the inner bend of their arm, inked right over the web of old puncture scars. It's not anything that matches a real chart, something that's only ever existed on their skin.
"Looks good," Bob says, voice hoarse.
The guy shrugs as he wraps it up. "Yeah. It does."
Bob digs a crumpled wad of bills out of their pocket and sets it on the counter without counting. They don’t care. Whatever the cost, it was worth it.
☆
The hum of the chopper is steady, rhythmic. Comforting in a weird, jarring kind of way. Joaquín sits strapped in, helmet resting in his lap, the desert wind still clinging to his uniform. Sams on the other bench, already on call with Bucky.
They've got a couple hours left of flying, nothing to do but sit and let the adrenaline drain from their veins.
Joaquín stares down at his hand, flexes it slowly. The cut's shallow, more like a scrape, but it stings. He doesn't even know how he got it. Just noticed it a couple minutes ago.
His uninjured hand goes to his pocket automatically. He pulls out a pen he keeps clipped to the inside of his jacket. Standard issue. The same kind he's always carried around. Ever since he was six.
Without thinking, he uncaps it with his teeth.
He moves the helmet onto the seat beside him, lifting his knee to rest his hand on it.
He starts with a dot. Then another. Then starts adding some stars. His hand moves with practiced ease, mapping constellations over his skin like muscle memory. He adds a small starburst at the edge.
Supernova. Boom.
The memory slams into him all at once. Bob on the curb, legs crossed, eyes soft. The way they always froze just before laughing, like they weren't sure if they were allowed to feel the joy. The weight of their arm in Joaquins hands.
He hasnt thought about them in weeks. Months, maybe.
Liar.
He thinks about them everytime he sees a star. Everytime something happens and he wants to tell someone. Everytime he sees a missing person report.
"Everything good?" Sam asks, voice raised just slightly over the engine.
Joaquín startles, shoving the pen back into his pocket. He nods, too quickly. "Yeah. Just bored."
Sam watches him for a beat longer than necessary. Then shrugs. “We’ll be back in DC by morning. You can be bored in air conditioning.”
Joaquín nods, looking out the window.
He presses his thumb against the still wet ink on his skin, feeling it smudge.
He wonders where Bob is right now. If they still remember all those afternoons sitting outside shitty gas stations. If they still draw stars when they hurt.
If they're alive.
The thought's one hes had before. And it's just as unwelcome as it always is.
Joaquins looks back down at the constellation he's drawn, watches it blur at the edges.
He leans back, closes his eyes, and lets the hum of the helicopter drown out the ache in his chest.
Just a few more hours. Then he can head home and look again.
And probably not find anything.
Again.
Not that thats ever stopped him.