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Another lazy morning in their home. Just months ago, had one asked Aleks if he believed he'd get to sleep in with a wonderful man in their shared bedroom in Georgia, where the sun only warmed them without melting their flesh off their charred bones, and the strange visitors epidemic stayed far behind them, he wouldn't reply. No, he'd only laugh in their face.
Yet, here he was, half asleep, his cheek pressed against Lasha's hip, comfortably smushed between his stomach and thigh while the other man sat up in bed, wearing tiny black sport shorts and his beloved orange sweater. Aleks gracefully sported a loose, long-sleeved white shirt, his boxers, and socks that were dangerously close to sliding off his feet, earning him a fond look from Lasha and a gentle hand in his short hair.
God, he could fall asleep right then and there if his internal clock wasn't so stubborn. He had the perfect pillow, so plush and warm. He could hear him breathe, feel his nails scratch lightly at his scalp. His own hand raised and was placed on his thigh, relishing in the feeling of his flesh beneath his, the soft hair underneath his palm…
His thumb brushed over Lasha's skin, and felt some sort of line.
He opened his eyes, curious. This didn't feel like the usual stretch mark he found on him, no. And as he looked, he was proven right.
This was a scar, surrounded by a few others, placed on his upper, inner thigh. They were short and pale, but protruded from his skin enough to be noticeable.
"What's this?" Aleks asked. He was curious, yes, but also concerned. There was a pit forming in his stomach, his heart threatening to drop.
Lasha was brought out of his own little world as well, blinking a few times and smiling down at Aleks.
"Hm? What is what?" He asked. Aleks repeated, pointing to the marks, and his fond and serene gaze became colder, as if accused of a shameful thing.
"Nothing. Don't worry about it, Lyosha." He told him, gently forcing his head back down. While he'd usually never complain, this wasn't the time.
He sat up, facing Lasha, placing a gentle hand on his knee.
"No, hey. What's wrong..? Tell me, gtkhovt.." He told him, voice quieter, more worried.
(Please..)
He shook his head, purple curls falling from behind his ears, not as a no, but more as a way to shake out bad thoughts from his mind.
"They just from a bad time in my life, Lyosha." He admitted with a sad smile. "From a while ago… I'm better now."
The confirmation of his worries made a lump form in his throat, but he was unbelievably relieved to know his love was in a better place.
"Okay… I'm glad." He murmured, hand moving to cup Lasha's cheek, forehead resting against his temple.
The knowledge that he had hurt himself before hurt. It hurt more than he once thought he could feel, because to him, Lasha was the most perfect person in the world, who deserved nothing but the best. Seeing those lines forever engraved in his flesh made him want to go back in time and comfort the man, even if he knew firsthand that mere comfort did little to break such a habit.
As a child, one of his punishment was burns. His father's massive hand would grab his tiny, skinny arm, squeezing him tighter than a grown man should squeeze a kid, and dig the ember-y tip of his cigarette into his skin. Press it harder and harder, making sure it marked. He never stopped when Aleksandr screamed, sobbed and thrashed around. Every time he didn't act how his father wanted him to, every time he felt angry and wanted to make him suffer for it, he'd smoke and snuff out his cigarettes into his own flesh and blood's arm.
When Aleks got older, his father stopped caring. And when he died, surely, those circular scars would stop accumulating, right?
Except, they didn't. That old man's voice screamed in his ears even from his grave, criticizing his every move, spitting hatred and acidic bile, and he found himself needing those burns. He needed the punishment, the thing he'd fear the most. And so, when he felt like the world's biggest fuck up, when he thought he deserved nothing but shit, when he wanted it to hurt, he'd smoke, and snuff up the butts into his forearm.
It took years for him to stop. Vera helped the most, made him feel loved, and when she died he started up again, but not for long. All of his and Vera's work wasn't for nothing, he thought. She didn't deserve that, and neither did he.He fought tooth and nail against his own thoughts, and now, burning himself was at the very back of his mind. It wasn't his first thought when he felt like he messed up. He didn't feel like he needed his pathetic excuse of a father's punishment anymore, he stopped believing his cruel words.
…
He supposed Lasha's story could be similar, in some distant, messed up way.
Part of him wanted to share this side of him with the purple-haired man who he still held close. He wanted Lasha to know he understood, he knew how it felt, he didn't judge, he loved every single part of him, perfect imperfections and all.
And now that he knew, Lasha wanted to show him, the faded lines on his arm, the pinker ones on his ankle, to show him that he struggled, that some days were still hard, but that he was better now, so he could be comforted.
Both refrained, though. It would be conversations for other days.
For now, they just held each other, all the words left unsaid conveyed through their touch.