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Barry noticed, of course he did, it was hard not to. The way Rafe always had a hoodie or jacket on over his little polos, the way he would hide himself from Barry's gaze, the way he would always fight to keep all of his clothes on in front of anyone else, especially the hoodie, always the hoodie. Even in the North Carolina summer heat, it'd stay stuck to his body like it was glued on, no matter how much he sweat.
Rafe was confident, arrogant, stuck up and mean.
Rafe was broken, hurt and mangled inside.
Damaged goods. Too much. Not enough. All his life, he'd had labels attached to him by people who didn't even know him. People who'd glimpsed the ugly truth and turned away in disgust. But not Barry, never Barry.
The first moment Barry saw his snooty Kook princess, the air was knocked out of his lungs, his senses suddenly assaulted by the uncomfortable feeling of butterflies dancing around in his stomach, and he knew he was gone. He was still gone when Rafe broke down for the thousandth time, still gone when they fought, still gone when everything seemed to be pulling them apart yet they fought tooth and nail to stay together.
Barry loved Rafe more than life itself, and he wanted him in every way. Unlike other people, he wanted to see the real Rafe, he needed to know all the twisted and gnarly parts of him that he kept hidden under lock and key. It wasn't so that he had power over Rafe, ways to manipulate and use him, but it was so that even when all the bleeding and torn pieces of him were exposed, he could show Rafe that all of him was loved.
Even from the first time they kissed, Rafe was pulling away. He made up some excuse about his dad needing him for something, which obviously, he'd completely forgotten about and now he was late. Barry never let it upset him though, he knew what Rafe was like, and he knew that Rafe would come to him in his own time.
The first time Barry had tried to push a zip up hoodie off of Rafe's shoulders, he'd pulled back like he was burned, complete and utter fear and panic in his eyes. Barry had simply kissed away his tears, pulling the hoodie up so it sat back where it was supposed to, and held Rafe until they both fell asleep.
No matter what, he always let Rafe come to him, like some terrified stray cat, wary and distrusting of everyone and everything. Barry's worn, calloused hands were useful for more than just violence, they knew how to cradle and hold his boy like the precious thing he was, his rough palms cupping his face gently while his thumbs swept away his tears. His mouth could do things other than shouting and spitting hate, he could kiss Rafe's worries away, whisper soothing words and praises against his skin. His body wasn't just built to fight, it was made to hold Rafe, comfort him with strong arms wrapped securely around him, conveying more than words ever could.
Barry was hard, strong, battered and ruthless.
Barry was soft, gentle and patient, but only for Rafe, only ever for Rafe.
The first time Rafe takes off his hoodie, Barry cries. Rafe tries to pull away immediately, just like he'd always done, just like he'd taught himself to, too many bad memories of people's disgust ensuring that he kept his protective walls up at all costs. But Barry never let him pull away, and would never. He wanted to kiss every hurt Rafe had until they turned into something beautiful, until Rafe believed they were worth loving, because they were.
Barry doesn't cry because of Rafe's scars, he cries for the hurt that his boy has gone through, because of the vile people that made Rafe believe there was something wrong with him.
The second Rafe tries to pull away, Barry is lacing their fingers together, pulling the younger man to their bed, settling Rafe on his lap while he leans against the headboard for support. First he lifts Rafe's left arm, Barry's fingers wrapping around the delicate skin of Rafe's wrist, a loose and gentle hold so Rafe could move away if he needed to.
The fingers on Barry's spare hand reverently trace the silvery scars that litter perfect skin, some of them light and some darker, fresher. The tears that fall onto the exposed skin don't burn Rafe with the sting of shame and rejection, but act as a soothing balm, a physical representation of Barry's love, of his overwhelming acceptance, and by the first tentative brush of Barry's lips against the skin, Rafe is trembling like a leaf in his arms.
After that Rafe hesitates less. He still covers up, still hides himself away, but when it's just him and Barry, the darkness of the night a protective shield around them, hiding them away in their own little world, Rafe slips off his hoodie. Barry never mentions it, just kisses Rafe until they're both gasping for air and holds him tight in strong arms until the younger man's breathing evens, both of them drifting off wrapped up in each other, trying to be as close as possible even in sleep.
It's never perfect, it never is. Rafe has days where his fingers itch for a blade, and his mind begs for the calm that only the feeling of blood pooling on his skin can provide, and on those days he takes it out on Barry instead. He yells at his boyfriend, screams, shouts, hurling insults and threats, crying until he's hoarse, asking why Barry would throw away his blades like that, why he hated him.
"Baby boy, you know I ain't hate you," he'll murmur against Rafe's hair, holding him in his arms until he stops fighting and scratching, until his violent shaking subsides into gentle tremors, until he leans into Barry's hold instead of struggling against it, "could never hate you."
The routine is always the same after that: Barry carries Rafe to bed, wrapping him up on his lap, getting his princess settled on his favourite throne. He'll let Rafe cry in his arms for however long he needs, whispering words of praise and comfort in his ear, a litany of sweet nothings murmured against his skin. He'll kiss each and every one of Rafe's scars, from the ones he gave himself to the ones he didn't, each just as beautiful as the next.
Worshipping Rafe comes easier than breathing to Barry, after all, he's never met anyone more deserving of love than this bratty, spoiled Kook — his Kook.
Letting Barry worship him was a struggle at first, Rafe fighting hard against it to begin with, it having been conditioned into his brain from a young age that he didn't deserve care, that he didn't deserve anything.
But they were the exceptions for each other — Barry became all of the soft things he swore he'd never be, Rafe making him want to actually try for someone, live for something other than himself. And for Rafe, Barry was everything. He was the care he'd never had in his life, the gentle hands that held him instead of hitting him, piecing him together instead of tearing him apart. He was the person that allowed Rafe to open up for the first time since before he could remember, letting him speak and not shutting him down.
On the days where a sharp object made its way into Rafe's hands and he was left bleeding and shaking, the older man was there before he could even register it, cleaning his fresh wounds and calming him down like it was second nature.
"Barry, I-I didn't mean to, I—"
"Shh, shh, I got you, 'm right here, baby." And Rafe was on him before he could finish what he was saying, gangly limbs wrapping around Barry's sure, steady body, the hard tile floor of the bathroom uncomfortable where it was digging into Barry's ass, but he didn't care.
"You promise? You're not gonna leave me?" Rafe's voice got quieter towards the end, it always did, panic and fear getting the better of him no matter how much reassurance he got. But still, Barry never minded. Although he wasn't a patient man by nature, he would try and he would learn for Rafe — he would do anything for him.
"Never. It's me 'n you, always."