Work Text:
You do not want them to touch you like this anymore.
You do not want to suck up Asuka's bruises or your father's stabs in your head, inflicting with his eyes what his words do not say, where you can only nod and bow, yes, Father.
You do not want Misato to cry anymore. You do not want Kaji's voice message on repeat at night between her hiccups.
Your skin is too soft for these red spots and your wrists are too fragile for mottled blue. It is so cold in this bed you are in and you always smell like LCL and the walls are so foreign even though you've traced their cracks and repairs through unendurable nights.
You want someone to cradle you and tell you pretty things. Kaworu does those things for you sometimes and you don't know how to react to that yet because all you've done is melt into his chest and sigh.
He will always smile and he will always be warm, and he will come home with you and sneak into your bed before you come back. His feet are always chilly, though, and you let him rub them up and down your legs, static crackling little hairs against a pale arch.
Kaworu likes it when you lay on top of him, listening to his heartbeat like a cassette, twining hands weary with practice, calloused tips, playing with your short brown locks like notes on a keyboard, and you'll close your eyes because someone is touching you kindly.
Someone is touching you softly like your skin deserves to be touched, and is kissing the marks on your arms and holding parts of you that have wanted to be held for so long. Your bed feels warm and your bed feels like a home.
Your father has not talked to you in two months, Misato is crying, Kaji is retelling his final testament and Asuka still leaves you bruises, but in this room, for minutes at a time, blood dries and blue fades to yellow.