more scar interactions. | “[trace]” – @retribute
“that one was a—i don’t know the name. a kind of hooked blade on a chain? —hurt like a bitch.”
he hovers his hand over frank’s, fingers just brushing over the back of his hand as his calloused fingers map raised scar after raised scar, almost delicate, almost reverent. it still feels like electricity on matt’s skin—makes him shudder, just a little, as frank’s hand moves from his chest to his stomach, his breath catching in the back of his throat. there’s an intimacy to this that he can’t put words to, lying in bed letting frank feel every place he’s ever been ripped open and sewn back together; he’s only got his shirt unbuttoned, but he feels more laid bare like this than he would naked.
“—that one too. same fight.” he guides frank’s fingertips along the length of the scar, ragged from torn stitches upon torn stitches. the next he finds is smaller, faded and misshapen from the years since—twenty years, and matt almost lies, almost smiles and says something about appendicitis or the same lie about falling trying to jump a fence he’d used on the nuns, but he doesn’t. he doesn’t move frank’s hand away, either. “that one was my, uh. teacher. when i was a kid. it wasn’t deep, but i let it get infected.”
he’s quiet for a moment, frank’s heart beating against his fingertips through the veins in the back of his hand, a bit faster than a moment prior. matt wets his lips, works his face into a smile. easy.
“—learned how to block real quick after that, though. so.”
