Skin and Scars

They lay side by side on the grass under the partial shade of a tree with Yuuri’s head pillowed on Conrad’s firm chest. There is the sound of leaves rustling above, the fresh scent of spring swirling around, and Conrad’s warm hand in his, fingers tangled intimately until it is impossible to tell where one ends and the other begins.

“Your hands are so warm,” he whispers into the cool breeze.

Conrad merely mumbles back contentedly and lets Yuuri continue his caresses. In these moments, words are unnecessary.

Softly stroking his beloved’s hand, Yuuri contemplates their relationship. He loves a lot of things about Conrad, but he especially loves the feel of their hands clasped together. It is better than when they walk down the halls and their shoulders “accidentally” brush. It is even better than when Conrad sneaks up on him and wraps his arms around him from behind, though those are pretty good times, too.

Examining Conrad’s hands had become a routine for him. He stares at them often, especially when he’s too embarrassed to look directly into his lover’s eyes. The Mazoku have no taboo against eye contact. It is encouraged, and Yuuri is trying, really, but it’s difficult for him to break almost two decades of cultural conditioning. So he looks at the soldier’s hands instead. They are large and calloused, rough from a lifetime of sword practice, crisscrossed with a network of delicate white scars.

He brings the scarred hand up to the sunlight and traces each jagged line. They are all familiar by now, like old friends. With a sigh, Yuuri brings the hand down on top of his heart, thumb trailing languidly over Conrad’s wrist, pressing against his pulse. Perhaps it is because he once wept over Conrad’s lifeless, severed arm, but the warmth, the life in this touch right now fills his heart to bursting.

Conrad’s hands are steady and confident. Their movements are precise and every action as efficient as his swordsmanship; no wasted energy, no additional flourishes. Clean and to the point, yet unbearably elegant in its simplicity.

Conrad’s hands are gentle and loving; a perfect reflection of the man himself. Yuuri has never been too good with words. He tends to ramble and go off topic and shout and scream in surprise. He is the worst at expressing the softer emotions. On occasion, he might be able to muster up a fairly good speech about justice, but when it comes to love, he stumbles, he falters, he trips and falls silent.

This awkwardness, which he is now convinced he will never grow out of, is exactly why he is glad that Conrad always knows exactly what it means when he sends him messages through body language, letting Yuuri’s own hands speak for him instead of his inadequate tongue. Yuuri’s fingers dance lightly across the rough palm and they silently state, I love you more than words can say.

Conrad smiles back and gives a little squeeze that says, I understand. I am here for you, and I love you, too.