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Usually, it wasn't this bad.
Sword is used to it. When he looks in the mirror, his eyes skim over it. His fingers brush everywhere except it. And everytime it twinges with a leftover, never-truly-gone pain, he does his best to ignore it. But no matter what he does, it is always at the back of his mind, tucked away in a little box with all the other things that were no good to think about.
(He half-wishes that one day, he'll forget everything that happened. Even if Medkit's included. Is that bad?)
Today, the feeling is worse. Sword doesn't really know why.
What he does know, though, is that it's difficult to tear his eyes away from that spot in the mirror. His fingertips trace the outline of it, constantly rubbing at the edges like he can erase it if he presses hard enough. Sword finds it hard to truly hate anything, but gods, he hates it. Hates looking at it, hates touching it, hates being forced to feel it at any given moment. He digs his fingers into the skin and watches the way the scar's shape distorts. His insides feel far too raw and his throat feels far too tight to be staring at it so hard. Stop thinking about it.
Maybe it's because Medkit's gone. Off on a work trip, whatever that means. Those were getting more and more frequent, and it always left Sword with a pit in his stomach. He really needs an excuse to get away from training today. If he sees Venomshank like this—
No, no. He's got to train, doesn't he? Can't let some icky feeling throw him off his game. Sword knows this. Sometimes, he wishes he had his own mask, like his father—it would be much easier to stop looking at it that way.
"Sword?" His mentor's voice echoes through the halls. Sword's heart jackrabbits in his chest and his palms grow clammy at the sound of Venomshank: his thunderous steps up the crumbling stairs; his deep voice, sounding corrupted by the echo. Sword can hardly hear him over the deafening sound of blood rushing past his ears. "Are you ready?"
No, he wants to say. Sword glances in the mirror and meets foreign eyes, round and shiny with the hint of tears. He's reminded of how he looked when he was a kid. The realization curls in his throat, tugs on his vocal cords with cruel hands and makes him stifle a whimper. No, he wants to say, but instead he warbles—just barely loud enough, "Yeah. I'm ready."
Venomshank lets him go early, anyways. Sword is too slow and too sluggish for him to not notice—and again, he wishes he had his own mask, because he knows Venomshank had taken one look at the poorly-concealed fear in his face and knew he wasn't fit to fight today. Maybe it was a blessing. His fingers are still trembling from when they'd blocked Venomshank's blade earlier that morning. His scar aches.
When he is free, his feet carry him everywhere and anywhere around Crossroads. It's a little hard to avoid looking at himself when he's hyperaware of every reflective surface around him. His face itches and he ignores it by picking at the end of his cape. A little juvenile, sure, but he's taking what he can get.
Rocket's chatter buzzes in his ears as a pleasant background noise. At some point, Sword stole him on his lunch break. Rocket knows something is off.
Not many people pick up on it, but Rocket is perceptive. He's adept at cataloguing people's body language—second nature, habits from a younger him—but he doesn't usually act on it. With Sword, he does. He always does.
So, it's no surprise that when they finally get inside Zuka's apartment, Rocket flicks his ear.
"Ow!" Sword whines. He's in the middle of taking off his shoes by the doorway, but turns to throw an offended glare at Rocket. "What was that for?"
"For tuning me out the whole damn time," Rocket huffs. He twists his key in the apartment's door to lock it and then lifts his head to glare at Sword. There's no true heat behind it: his frown's too soft and his words aren't as snippish as they would be otherwise. "What's going on with you? You drag me from my shift and then go radio silent the whole time we're walking. For a second, I thought you were fuckin' sleepwalking."
"Nothing's going on!" Sword cries.
"Really?" Rocket crosses his arms. "I had to drag you by the wrist so you wouldn't run into street poles. Or walls. Or people."
Sword's expression sours. His lip pulls into a deep frown and his head ducks in a childish act of defiance. That tightness in his throat worms its way back in—and no matter how much he tries to come up with anything else, his voice comes out wobbly again. Just like it did that morning.
"I'm just…" he tries, but the words aren't coming and there's a lump in his throat and his scar is still itchy and—"I'm just… distracted."
It's a bad argument, but Rocket seems to understand regardless—his face softens and his shoulders lower from where they were hiked up with tension. And all he says is, "…Okay."
They walk up to Rocket's room in silence. Thankfully, Rocket doesn't say anything about Sword keeping the helmet on indoors—usually he would take it off, but Rocket knows he's got some weird hang-ups with it. He just… feels safer with it on. Venomshank's gift was a blessing on these kind of days.
The silence stays as they maneuver about—conversation isn't really needed when they're familiar enough to work in sync: Rocket grabs his laptop, Sword snags some extra blankets, and they curl up in the hammock to watch a movie. Sword's helmet gets in the way of leaning on Rocket's shoulder, so he instead satisfies his need for touch by playing with Rocket's fingers. Strangely, Rocket doesn't seem to mind.
The laptop plays at a low enough volume that Rocket can murmur, "You sure you're okay?"
It kind of guts Sword. He feels exposed, like his skeleton's on display. He doesn't mind it as much in here, nestled comfortably against Rocket and buried under blankets with his helmet still on. Sword moves his hand so it fits against Rocket's palm and gently twines their fingers together.
"…Kind of," he admits. It's a little easier to breathe like this. "I just don't feel good."
"Don't get me sick," Rocket huffs with amusement, and it brings a smile to Sword's face. He squeezes Sword's hand and they continue watching the movie.
Despite the distraction, Sword's now-free hand grows restless. He's trying not to think about it, he is, but he only realizes when the laptop screen goes black and his blurry reflection shows up that he's scratching at his scar again. His nail scrapes over the skin and the itch doesn't get any better—none of that pleased, satisfying feeling. It just lingers.
"I'm going to get a soda," Rocket announces, squeezing Sword's hand before sliding the laptop over to him and swinging a leg over the edge of the hammock. "Want anything?"
Sword pulls at a stray thread of one of the blankets. His cape is downstairs, by the door. It takes a good amount of effort for him to drag his eyes from his reflection in the laptop's screen (only semi-blank now, rolling credits) and to Rocket. He manages to curve his lips into a shy smile. "Do you still have that red flavor?"
Rocket snorts. "I'll check, but probably." His footsteps recede as he walks down the stairs and Sword is alone.
Silence pervades the room. It's uncomfortable. Sword—against his better senses—pauses the credits when it is blank enough to see his face again. It's the kind of dread that churns in his gut—like he's watching a car crash in slow motion, unable to stop it. It's dissonance in the way his mind says, No, no, I shouldn't, but his hand reaches up and his eyes can't drag themselves away, like an instinct.
He squints at the screen. Drags his fingertips around the edge of his scar again—over the stitches, following the curve of it—and again. And again. And for a moment he wonders if he should hum to fill the silence, but thoughts bubble up involuntarily, one after the other, like a gate opened for a dam close to bursting.
Sword isn't obsessive about his appearance. Not in the way that he'll turn his nose up at getting dirty, or spend hours picking something to wear—but he likes being presentable. He likes polishing his gear, his helmet—he likes giving himself a once-over and approving of what he sees. But it just sits there. It sits there like a stain. A scuff on otherwise polished metal. A crack in the mirror. Sword is kept together by a needle and thread that loosens every day—because of all the injuries he had to suffer, it had to be one doomed to never close. It had to be one splitting his face. It's the first thing people see when they look at him: the nightmare he keeps under wraps.
Does Rocket look at it like that? Does Rocket hate it like he does?
Does everyone?
"Sword?"
He recoils from where he'd been leaning close to the screen. Rocket stands in the doorway, clutching two cans of soda. His brow is furrowed, eyes wide and bewildered, like he stumbled onto something he wasn't supposed to.
Sword swallows past the lump in his throat. He yanks his hand back down into his lap like it burns. "Oh. Hey."
Rocket sets the drinks down on a dresser next to the door in silence. He takes the laptop from Sword in a similar fashion, closing it up and setting it aside. His expression is solemn as he sits down on the edge of the hammock, as if he's worried about encroaching on Sword's space.
"Sword."
Sword doesn't answer.
Rocket sighs. His hand wipes over his face, as if he's exhausted, and the sentiment stings. He takes a breath—emotional things aren't Rocket's forte; he's made that quite known ever since they met—but for some reason, he says, "Sword. We've gotta at least talk about it."
Sword picks at the loose thread. He refuses to meet Rocket's eyes.
"I'm serious."
Sword only sneaks a quick glance at Rocket—and the pained, worried expression immediately makes his resolve crumble. "…I don't want to."
"You've been acting weird all day. I tried not to push it, but you've gotta give me something to work with. I don't know how to help you if you don't tell me what's wrong."
Sword draws his lips into a thin line. He manages to pull another thread loose from the blanket. "I don't…" He starts thinking about the itch on his face, thinking of it reopening while Medkit's gone, thinking of being alone—
"I don't know how," he admits.
Rocket's flailing with the morsels Sword's given him. It's nothing, really. But somehow, Rocket treads the line just right.
He opens his mouth in Sword's peripheral and hesitates before settling on it. "…Is it your scar?"
Sword stiffens. His fingers twist the thread so hard it almost hurts. And somehow, that is what unlocks his voice.
"…I hate it," he whispers, hoarse, the words that have not once passed his lips. He's surprised by the disdain he feels roiling in a cavern deep inside his chest, from a box he never opens in his head—where everything else remains. "I hate it."
Sword ducks his head. Deep, hot embarrassment burns over his face and prickles at the back of his neck. Gods. It feels so stupid to admit, hating such a small thing.
Rocket stays silent for a moment. Sword knows he is the type to struggle with words—Rocket hates being put on the spot. He hates the way his words come out sharp without meaning to and he hates how natural it is to him. So Sword know how hard he's trying when he says, carefully, "…Can I ask why?"
Sword chokes up. He understands Rocket is trying. He understands, but it only reminds him of the way Rocket doesn't know. Rocket doesn't know the wound never truly closes. Rocket doesn't know how his eyes skim past it in the mirror. Rocket doesn't know that he cries every time Medkit has to clean it out and redo the stitches. Rocket doesn't know. And he might never know, if Sword can help it.
(Because that was how they did things. Venomshank would cradle him, would shelter him, would sweep him away to a new house and a new life and a new friend and give him a gift like it never happened. Venomshank would double down, would peek through the blinds, would hiss dangerous words to Darkheart, and when Sword asks, he acts like nothing changed.
Sword doesn't know any other way. If he can't have a mask, at least he can have this: his own, private wound—bleeding past his fingers and haunting his days.)
"Hey." Rocket places a gentle hand on his shoulder, squeezing it. "Come back here. You don't have to say anything. It's fine. I've got shit I don't tell, either."
Sword nods. His lip quivers without meaning to, and he hates it. He hates crying about it.
Rocket speaks up anyways, dismissing his silence. "I thought it looked cool, you know." He shrugs. His eyes avoid Sword's gaze, lingering somewhere on his shoulder. "When we were younger. Figured it was one thing we had in common."
Rocket brushes his fingers along the side of Sword's face. Sword trembles when Rocket traces a thumb over the slope of his cheek—where his scar still itches. He can't help himself from blurting, "It doesn't—It doesn't heal. It just…" he hesistates, voice trembling, "…stays."
Rocket only blinks. A few seconds pass, and it feels like the ground is collapsing beneath him until Rocket mutters, "Damn." Then, his lips curve into the smallest of grins. "I underestimated you. If you told younger me that, we might've been friends sooner."
The statement punches the breath out of Sword and he's left reeling. "You don't think it's—weird?" He asks, words stumbling over one another as they rush to get out. "Or ugly? Or—"
"Sword, stop." Rocket cuts him off. "I promise you I don't care about that. So what, it doesn't heal? It makes you a little badass."
Sword can't help the ugly, wet sniffle that comes out of him. His eyes are cloudy and hot with tears afraid to fall. "…Really?" He croaks. "You're sure? You don't mind?"
Rocket huffs. He still cradles Sword's cheek with his hand and draws his thumb over the skin with such reverence Sword has to stifle a sob. His eyes are so soft, the way they look at Sword—at the scar, like it's not something to hate so viscerally he wants to tear his skin off. "Yes, I'm sure. I like you the way you are."
His scar still aches. It still sits there and festers into the surrounding skin, into him. But to be seen like that… to be seen, Sword crumbles. A sob wrenches its way out of him. And once the tears start falling, they are unable to stop. Sword throws himself into Rocket's chest and clutches desperately onto him, choking on his own breath and sniffling in between sobs. He doesn't know why he's crying so hard he's lightheaded. Maybe he's been waiting for it all day. Maybe he's been waiting since he moved to Crossroads. Maybe he's been waiting ever since that child wandered the streets all alone, warm blood dripping from his face and nauseating, foreign pain burning up his arm.
He cries until his voice goes hoarse, and Rocket sits there with him. By the time he's done, his body is drained and weighed with a bone-deep exhaustion. All he wants to do is sleep. Sword lies against Rocket's chest, boneless, debating whether he should just close his eyes and leave Rocket with the mess he's made. I shouldn't.
Tearing himself away from the contact makes a brand-new ache radiate through his chest, but he does it anyways. "…Is it okay if I sleep over?"
Rocket hums. He's leaning into Sword's space like he misses the touch. "Sure. I'll nag Zuka to call ahead and let him know you're staying."
Sword nods. Everything's kind of floaty and blurry after a good cry. He pushes himself to sit up properly and his fingers tremble where they hook underneath the edges of his helmet and lift it off. Sword sets it on his lap, keeping it close. He doesn't think he has the energy to do anything else. The absence of the helmet exposes him, strips him bare and vulnerable for anyone else to scar him—but at this point he doesn't think he minds the feeling all that much. Not here.
He meets Rocket's eyes—mind probably the clearest it's been that day—and smiles. It probably comes out a little strained. "Could you stay?"
Rocket glances to the helmet, cradled on his lap. His eyebrows raise in slight surprise, but he nods and scoots himself more into the hammock. He mirrors Sword's smile—eyes crinkled with a rare look of contentment."Sure."