⤿ your husband and his injuries
nanami was never the same after shibuya. it wasn’t just the loss of his physical appearance that changed him.
it hurt to hear his muffled sobs stirring behind closed doors, only for him to emerge stern-faced. every night.
when you placed a gentle hand upon his marbled one in assurance, it did not melt into yours. not like it used to. your husband from a year ago, would've interlaced fingers with a sickening endearment, soft kisses peppering among each bump of your caressed knuckle.
you were the first to adapt to his injuries. faster than him, dolefully. for example, standing on his right when speaking to him as he was hard of hearing on the left. scuffing slippers intentionally when approaching to not startle his rattled nervous system. replacing his shirts with a rich cotton-bamboo blend for his sensitive flushed skin. taking over cooking duties, restricting the amount of culinary freedom he had in the kitchen if he tried to help, you knew better than to let his hardened fingers tangle with a knife.
your husband desperately clung to every tradition he had before his injury, hoping to keep himself anchored to who he once was. one of which, refusing to look unkempt. every passing of a reflective surface led to a pathetic churn from the bottom of his heart, like he was no longer worthy of the rich relationship that thrived so effortlessly with his old face. he figured the least he could do to compensate for his ugly disfigurement was be presentable at all times for you.
so, when you found him wrestling with the ivory buttons of his shirt. you executed the usual routine in commiserate heartache.
you intentionally dragged the sole of your foot, allowing the scuff to announce your presence before appearing in his blind spot.
his fingers only fumbled faster in a one-sided race to finish before you reached him. by no surprise, you beat him.
“you don’t need to rush, ken.” you murmured gently tending to his embarrassment.
his hands dropped in surrendering defeat allowing you to take the wheel. in a swift, almost insulting motion, you had buttoned the rest of his shirt leaving his collar comfortably loose.
“thank you, sweetheart...” his lone eye stayed glued to his tainted reflection, meeting yours in the glass for a fraction of a second.
instinctively, his gaze dropped to the floor pathetically. completely retreating from yours. he was terrified of what you might find if you lingered on his eye a second too long.
maybe you would mourn his old face.
you gently caught his chin, thumb brushing the glassy texture as you coaxed his head upright until he was forced to look at you.
“of course... you look great.”
oh how those sacred words unravelled his coarse mind time and time again, slicing mercilessly through that self-loathing armour of his.
he found something terrifyingly beautiful in your undying devotion to him. nanami had never once questioned your loyalty. he knew you meant what you said.
yet, acknowledging how your wedding vows still laced your every word. every action. every thought. it was a sobering frightening realisation of how lucky he was to have you. a terrifying miracle.
you pressed a long adoring kiss against his lips. equal pressure on his good and scarred side. a warm exhale left his nose, pillowing against your face.
you had adjusted yourself to the front of his torso, aware of how difficult it was for him to simply lean left or right.
per usual, he melted into your grounding routine.
only one arm tightened at his will. your right hand laid softly against the chest of his crisp cotton shirt, while your left hand caressed the smooth curve of his good ear.
this was another adaptation you picked up on. even in the heat of the moment, you would never dare to hurt him. every movement you took during intimacy was carefully curated for his comfort. you never leaned your full weight on the ruined left-side of his body. you never ripped his clothes off in arrogant lust. your husband took notice of these habits you succumbed to, never verbalising his gratitude out of the shame, he was the reason you had to change.
and of course, the sudden shift of your natural embrace had stung his heart far more deeply than his body ever could. a horrible cue to mourn the carefree wife you once allowed yourself to be.
god... how he wanted to pull you flush against him. to wrap his arms round your waist tightly. both arms. to lift you off your feet, twirl you around until that familiar bubble of laughter seethed into his ears like music.
yet he knew in a bitter uncertainty that those moments were permanently bound to the man a year ago.
instead, he simply collapsed into the reality of what he could do.
he attempted to bury his face into the crook of your neck. the elasticity of his skin was completely rid. it was not a graceful movement, it was stiff. but he made it work.
a cultivated sway caught momentum in the embrace.
“my love...” he spoke rasping into your hair. “what you have done for me this past year. i...i don’t know if i can ever repay it.”
“oh darling..." you leaned your head back just enough to face his sorry gaze. "there is no debt to repay."
his eye, a dull ember, stayed low with the familiar dishonour seeping into that troubled head of his.
"when i married you, i promised in sickness and health. my love for you has not faltered since. it never will, kento." you hushed, searching his lone hazel eye. "i know you’d do the same for me.”
it was only when your hand lifted to rest against the left side of his face in reminder that your words applied to every part of him, did he drag to meet those earnest, doting orbs of yours.
the surface of his skin felt artifical under your fingers. the overlapping folds of shiny, glassy ridges swirling like a rosy marble. it did not bother you. this ‘imperfection’ is what brought your husband back home to you after all. and you did your utmost best to remind him daily.
a strained unnatural tug formed at his lips, a lop-siding grin growing from the toughened skin around his mouth.
“what are you smiling at?” you mirrored his smile with a questioning laugh.
“just...” he let out a gravelly huff. “how couples often call eachother their ‘better half’. i always thought it was something of sentimental nonsense. now look at me...
a man stripped of his literal physical half.”
his eye met yours, significantly glossier than before.
“and now i am sure i can conform to those sentiments my dear. you are my better half. i mean it in the most literal sense sweetheart. i see how you naturally step to my blind spot when we walk on the streets so i'm not spooked by fast walkers. how when i’m too exhausted to execute simple mundane tasks. you step in before i can feel useless. and... your little slipper thing. you make up for the half of my body i lost.”
he let out a grounding uneven breath, his right hand sliding up the cradle of your head before continuing.
“how you drag those feet to not startle me. god, you notice everything my love... i could go on forever listing everything you’ve changed for me. i want you to know i notice it all. my dear, i notice it all." there was no shame behind the sudden longing in his eye, he needed you to know that all the shame, disgust and contempt in the world could not compete with the expression of love for his wife.
the burning heat that welled in your eyes finally broke like a dam. streams trickled down your cheeks. his good hand traced your hair, long fingers untangling strands. bringing a sliver toward his face. he shut his eyes in bliss, burying his nose against your crown as he breathed you in, like you were a lifeline he clung so shamelessly to.
your tears began to spot his white shirt, black smudges spreading by the second. “stop... my mascara... kento, stop.” you mutter against his hard thumping chest in between a sob and laugh.
but your husband did not let you pull away. instead, he lowered his head to yours, hovering before his seared left cheek rested upon your crown, letting his two worlds merge.
“it is just a shirt.” a low retort grumbled from him. “it can be washed. i care entirely about the woman who is ruining it.”
the loving sway found its way back to your intertwined bodies. “let it smudge...”
his eye closed in beautitude. an unknowing tear squeezed out as he did, it trickled pensively down the healthy undereye, heaving over his prominent nosebridge, easing onto the bordered terrain of his burn, it zig-zagged between the salmon pathways of the uneven texture before dripping down to your scalp in finality. coincidentally, it was a beautiful analogy of those strained emotions passed through all parts of him in longed recognition. how it passed through his good half, bad half.
