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Dark does not regret a great many things about his existence, but he does wish he’d fallen sooner.
Humans are fragile creatures with wretchedly short lives, and any moment away from Jack is a waste. His damned pride had squandered precious years they could have had together, if he would have simply opened his eyes to the gift wandering into his boardroom every few months, all fervent eyes the color of the heavens and an acerbic, slanted mouth that curled around his name like a challenge, daring him to deny his dreams of bettering the world with an affordable fair trade coffee brand where half the proceeds—half, he adores this little spitfire—fund prisoner rehabilitation.
That was the first of numerous things Dark found he couldn’t deny him, and knowing what he does now, about Jack’s older brother’s struggles to escape the life that led him to become a convicted felon, he, again, does not regret that choice, not when Jack rests so much easier now that Aiden is employed full-time at New Dawn Coffee.
Nor was it a mistake, almost two years ago, to offer his own personal phone number to Jack after he’d complained about Dark’s secretary sending him on a wild goose chase. Nor was starting to inexplicably prioritize Jack’s calls, nor was agreeing to meet him for lunch at the quaint diner down the street, nor was making a habit of it and letting the charmed spark inside him grow with each starry glance directed his way.
It had been the best decision in his many, many years, in fact, to allow Jack to follow him back to his office after one of their meetings to show him a new packaging prototype, and to then look down and spy his eyes, wide, so wide, entirely focused on him instead of the product, and to then close the minimal distance between them and learn the sweet, decadent flavor of his sharp mouth. The beauty of his quiet little sounds. The feeling of small hands clenched in his wings, tugging, wanting.
So to then have Jack tear himself away, apologizing, as if it had been wrong… It had taken several long minutes to calm him down, dry his tears, and reassure him that he was aware of the consequences and would face them willingly.
And he did, when the time eventually came, when the Elders called to him, a jagged pull in his gut. He’d flown Above for the last time, only to be cast aside, deemed unworthy, his wings ripped from his body in two agonizing yanks that nearly took his mind with them, a fire burning through all of him, first hot, then freezing, choking him, until there was nothing to feel at all, the world going black.
Thus, he was condemned to mortality.
He’d awoken in the hospital several days later, and though he’d never felt worse, physically, the only thing he’d cared about were the dozens of missed calls and texts from Jack, the evidence that he’d undoubtedly been making himself sick with worry.
An unexpected trip, he’d told his disbelieving ears. It really had been.
There is no signal Above, he’d said. Also true.
I am fine, he’d assured him.
The lie had tasted metallic, bitter, and he’d vowed it would be the only one he’d ever tell Jack. But he couldn’t have him drowning in his guilt, not when Dark was still incapable of even standing by himself, much less holding him until he listened when he said that he would do it a hundred times over, for him. That this was the only way.
Because angels are supposed to feel nothing, their only purpose to serve humanity with unyielding neutrality. Anything further is considered perverse, dangerous, corrupt.
Yet Dark feels everything for this human, and he will serve and worship him until his dying breath. The warm feeling that thrums in his chest at the barest hint of Jack’s smile guarantees this. There is nothing wrong about it, and nothing will convince him otherwise. Not when perfection can be found in the way their bodies slot together from curled toes to weary foreheads; there is peace, utterly complete, in Jack’s embrace. A sacred thing.
He’s looking forward to said embrace, after a long day at the office. He has largely stepped back from his job in the past year, allowing his trusted, capable colleagues to take his place as the company frontrunner. Instead, he spends most of his days as Jack’s supportive shadow, soaking in every drop of his presence. Today had been an exception, and he’s eager to fall into familiarity again.
There had been an eternity before Jack, yet now he can’t imagine even a week without him.
Jack will come upstairs in a moment—he’s been slowly tiptoeing his way out of a phone call for the last twenty minutes or so, sending Dark long-suffering glances that he’d soothed away with a hand carding through his hair. His beloved had been quite put out when he’d untangled from him to head up to their bedroom, but he is sure the temptation will nudge him into ending the call one way or another.
He is a greedy, delightful little thing, his Jack.
Beginning to unbutton his shirt, preparing for bed or perhaps more, if that is what Jack wants, he hears his soft footsteps ascending the stairs and grins. That was quicker than he’d expected.
His shirt is shrugged off, folded, and set into the hamper—half out of habit, half because he enjoys Jack’s fond exasperation over his orderliness—along with his pants before Jack’s arms wind around him from behind, his beard scratching at his neck when his nose settles into the juncture of his shoulder there, breathing, warm.
Dark’s eyes close and he breathes, too, basking in this moment. The only thing he truly misses about immortality is his crystalline memory; he detests how things become fuzzy around the edges in his mind, now that he has something in his life worth remembering every second of. Nevertheless, he will catalog this moment away as best he can, memorizing Jack’s tickling exhales, the soft weight across his stomach, the cocooning scent of a rain-dusted field of clovers.
It’s a welcome distraction from the mild discomfort of having him pressed against his back, a wholly illogical feeling.
“Missed you today,” Jack mumbles, pressing a kiss against his skin.
His hands settle over Jack’s, squeezing. “And I, you.”
He’s about to turn around and usher Jack closer, to show him just how much he’d felt his absence, but then Jack’s lips begin a journey towards the top of his spine, smooth skin and prickling beard brushing against him, and he pauses. The heat along his back dissipates when Jack steps away, just enough to mouth along his right shoulder blade, his hands smoothing back until they anchor at his hips in a gentle hold.
Dark stiffens. This is different, and he knows without having to look that Jack is nearing one of the spots that mark the deepest agony he’s ever known.
“What are you doing, beloved?” He is careful to keep the sudden, strange, restless feeling fluttering under his skin out of his voice. There is nothing Jack could do that he wouldn’t tolerate, not when he’s touching him, but this foreign territory has taken him by surprise.
He feels him hesitate, his forehead resting against him, and a slow sigh washes over his back. It is an effort, not shivering at the sensation that is both so nice and yet so wrong, the air meeting no resistance, only bare skin that is still raw in most places. Not painfully so, but he is sensitive, there. Some days even his shirt rubbing against the scars evokes an odd sense of nausea, unnaturalness, but he gets by.
“I just,” Jack starts, and he’d nearly forgotten he’d asked him a question, which is unlike him. He’s more disconcerted by this than he’d thought. “I didn’t get to kiss them better, before. So I want to do that, now, if you—if that’s okay,” he says, trailing off into a whisper that Dark has to strain to catch. He trails a finger up his lower back, stalling at the base of where his deformity begins, he knows.
He takes a moment to blink, then blink again, unprepared for the myriad of emotions flitting about in his chest at the request. He supposes he’s not shocked, not entirely, not when he thinks about it. The scars have never truly been… addressed.
Jack had certainly reacted to the loss of his wings, there is no question about that. Of all the things he wishes to hold onto forever about Jack, he could do without the memory of how, when Dark had gone to see him that first time after he was released from the hospital, Jack’s eagerness and excitement had morphed into a devastated, betrayed expression when he’d realized he was bereft of his feathered limbs—his once ever-present cloak of midnight, gone. No amount of reassurance had truly consoled Jack that night, his sorrow flowing nonstop down his face from eyes reminiscent of shattered glass, distorted and broken. Aside from some hiccuping breaths, he’d been unnervingly silent; there had been no angry tirades, no fearful babbling like he had expected, and somehow, that made it far worse. Jack had simply clutched at Dark—his shoulders, his waist, his hips, his lapels, anything but his back—and let himself be rocked, held.
Dark is unsure who needed that more, if he’s being truthful.
There had been some fluttering of hands over his bandages the next few weeks after that, some scowls when Dark had gently waved them away, but Dark had taken care of the wounds just fine. He’d seen no reason to burden Jack with the task, not when it would likely only riddle him with pointless remorse, seeing the gnarled repercussions of their love.
When they ultimately healed, he’d made no mention of it, but nor had he tried to hide it, and he’d noted the way Jack’s gaze caught on his bare midsection, free for the first time in weeks from the protective wrapping that had been securely wound around it. His mouth had opened, closed, and Dark had been left to ponder his silence for the second time.
Since then, there’s been something unspoken between them, something dictating that Dark doesn’t actively attempt to conceal the scars from Jack’s view, but Jack also doesn’t touch them, not for more than a brush of fingers that he always redirects despite Dark being careful to offer no reaction in those moments. Even clothed, it had taken time for Jack to gingerly rest his hands over the center of his back when wrapping his arms around him, and he still tends to let them settle at the base of his spine more often than not.
Dark is uncertain about his feelings surrounding Jack’s hesitance. It doesn’t bother him, exactly, the lack of touch there, but something must be bothering Jack about it, and that is what unsettles him.
The scars make him uncomfortable, clearly, but the reason why is somewhat of a mystery. Dark is not… vain, exactly, but he knows his form is generally pleasing to the eye, and he’d briefly considered the possibility that Jack might be disgusted by his disfigurement, his blatant imperfection. He’d dismissed the thought almost immediately—it would be an insult to Jack’s character, to make such an assumption. His beloved is kind, humble, and would never be so shallow.
It’s more likely that the reminder of Dark’s sacrifice tugs at the guilty place in him that Dark can’t quite seem to soothe, as much as he tries. Jack knows he’s not to blame for the cruelties of the Elders, Dark has ensured it, but he can understand how difficult it would be, if the roles were reversed, for him to accept having had no fault in the situation. It’s an impossible request, yet he asks it of Jack anyway.
This is the answer he’d settled on, some time ago: that to Jack, Dark’s scars are representative of Jack’s own perceived selfishness, and so it is difficult for him to touch them without it bringing forth his guilt. It would be wonderful if that were not the case, but it seems probable, unfortunately. Jack is caring, almost to a fault.
He’d always known he could just ask, discover the exact reason Jack’s fingers are practically repelled from the entirety of his back. He is usually direct about all other concerns, but every time this particular question begins to dance across his tongue, the memory of Jack’s anguish arises in a haunting flash, and his curiosity suffers a quick death. He never wants to upset him, especially not to that degree, never again.
Now, however, from Jack’s unexpected request, it seems he might find answers if he can get past his own sudden apprehension.
Kiss them better.
Such a human phrase, nonsensical and sweet.
It shouldn’t make him want to shrug out of Jack’s hold the way it does, a bizarre instinct in and of itself. He resists the urge, instead threading his fingers with the one hand at his hip, squeezing gently. If this is what Jack needs to assuage his self-blame, he is happy to silently bear his ridiculous disquiet over this.
“You may… touch me as you please, always,” he finally answers, and it’s strange, the way Jack sags against him slightly, head heavy, as if he’d feared his response. As if Dark would have denied him.
It’s almost humorous, how even after everything, Jack still doesn’t comprehend the power he holds over him.
“Thank you,” Jack says, a quiet, muffled thing pressed into him.
Then he feels his lips migrate down, down, and his breath catches when they graze over the marred skin just below his shoulder, an electric awareness igniting within him. The scar tissue is shockingly sensitive, he’d known this already, but the gentle peck of Jack’s mouth against it nearly makes him jolt—not in pain, not exactly, but the sensation is a surprising mixture of warm and pointed, like the blunt tip of an arrow notched in Jack’s steady grip.
He does not fear it, but he is alert.
Jack’s fingers tighten against his own, and he pauses. “Can you lay down? Might make this easier.”
Blinking, he nods, and Jack withdraws, leaving cool air in his wake.
First, he turns, gauging Jack’s mood. There’s a wariness and uncertainty in the slant of his shoulders, the teeth tucked into his lips, but his sea-glass eyes carry a solemn hope. That is enough for him to step forward, indulge in the light press of their mouths together before making his way to their bed.
The act of lying down on his front is habitual, even if it’s no longer necessary these days, and he settles atop the sheets fluidly, tucking his arms beneath the pillow to support his head where he rests it, angled toward Jack, watching patiently.
He ignores how his scars ache like frozen rivers carved into him, exposed as he is like this.
After a moment Jack approaches, and he admires the softness of him, endearing in sweatpants and one of Dark’s undershirts that he’d laid claim to, nearly swimming in fabric. Ever the creature of comfort, his little darling.
He hesitates at the bedside, his brows pinching with indecision. Dark offers an assenting hum, causing his gaze to snap to his. A quick nod, and then he swings a leg up, straddling Dark’s thighs and sitting just under the swell of his backside.
It would be a rather compromising position, in different circumstances, but he finds that he does enjoy the warmth, the weight of him. It distracts from the prickling plane of his back.
There’s a nervous titter above him. “Nice view,” Jack remarks, hands resting pointedly over his rear.
His lips curl in amusement. “Mm. It’s all the better when you’re the one splayed beneath me, I assure you.”
He huffs. “Don’t know why I bother. It’s not like you need the ego boost, anyway.”
Incongruous with the sentiment, his hands slowly begin to travel up, tickling at his lower back, and it’s not until they pause that Dark realizes he’s holding his breath. His exhale is slow, purposeful, natural.
He is calm.
“Let me know if it’s ever—too much,” Jack says, quiet, and after receiving another sound of acknowledgment from him, continues his exploration until his fingers feather over the base of the scarring, a thrumming presence.
It’s not overwhelming, but neither is it something to idly soak in. He feigns the latter, giving an indifferent blink, unmoving.
Emboldened by his lack of reaction, Jack’s touch becomes more firm, a gentle pressure that zings up his spine, curling into his every nerve ending, an icy pinprick that immediately thaws under the heat of his hand.
A muscle along his shoulder twitches, unbidden.
“Okay?” Jack asks, stilling.
“Yes,” he answers, caught somewhere between the truth and the reality that he’s fighting the urge to both arch into and away from his curious fingers.
It will pass; they will settle this unclosed chapter, and that will be that.
Jack won’t—can’t—hurt him, anyway. These instincts are irrational.
The contact trickles farther up, lightning bolts with every movement, and he makes an effort to breathe in, out, and again.
He first reasons that it’s just been a long time since he'd been touched there, and that’s why it’s such an odd feeling. But then he half remembers, half realizes that nobody has ever touched him there, in these spots where his wings once protruded from him.
It wasn’t physically possible, before.
The knowledge that his hands clench into the bedding below the pillow is for him and him alone.
“They’ve healed up nicely,” Jack tells him, idly thumbing over a vertebra. “Looks a lot better now.”
Dark has not checked on their appearance since they healed, but he knows perfectly well what they look like: serrated slashes across skin that form a warped “V” whose lines never quite intersect at the bottom. They’d been red and severe-looking the last time he’d seen them, though they are likely a more muted pink, now. No matter how much time passes, he suspects they will never take on the silvery, somewhat translucent quality of most old wounds.
His lips part to ask about their coloring, but he decides against it. It’s of no consequence.
A sigh behind him, artificially light, like it carries the ghosts of many thoughts unsaid. Then, Jack’s hands run divergently in a long sweep up the scars, then back down, and it—
It aches, the gentleness. The way he could almost pretend it’s not happening, if not for the conflicting pangs of uncanny, nice, impossible that burrow into him, the touch too light to remind him that this is his body, crippled and devoid of its once-formidable shroud. Jack is skimming over his human waif of a shell, too deft and grazing to truly weaken the disconnect between his mind and body.
All he feels are sparks, phantom movements of where his wings want to bristle, flare.
Would have wanted.
The movement stops again. “You sure you’re okay?”
Ah. Once again, oxygen had halted midway to his lungs at some point, and Jack had noticed.
“It would be better, perhaps” he begins, light, reluctantly acknowledging that the continued tracing may… hinder Jack’s efforts, whatever they may be, “if you were a bit more firm.”
Jack’s fingers twitch—he’d surprised him with the request. “More pressure, you mean?”
“Yes,” he confirms.
The pause extends. “You got it,” Jack murmurs, and then his hands sweep over him again, harder, more like a massage, and it is better, in a way, not pricking at his nerve endings uncertainly. However, that almost nauseous sensation that he’s used to returns with a vengeance, his stomach twisting, inexplicably sickened.
A spike of irritation shoots through him, towards himself and his pathetic overreaction to mere touching. This is nothing like the harsh, unforgiving wrenching that sometimes haunts his dreams; it’s quite the opposite, actually, reverant and exploratory, so there is no reason for him to be hiding a grimace in the pillow, gulping down bile that’s not really there.
Anything can be endured, for Jack.
His eyes clench tight, and he heaves a deep breath through his nose as he allows himself to feel the wrongness of it, the warm splay of uninterrupted contact against him, across an expanse of back that shouldn’t be an expanse, shouldn’t be barren, the way it is.
A regal mountainscape reduced to feeble ridges of tissue draped over a dreary plateau.
And now there is Jack, his shining salvation acknowledging this wasteland, this necropolis of what once was.
There wasn’t—there didn’t use to be this emptiness. He had wings, once; great, powerful, raven limbs too large to have ever made this position with Jack possible, not unless he spread them wide, which would have stretched from wall to wall. He can still recall the wind buffeting against him with each effortless beat of them, the way he would glide for hours, sometimes, when he needed clarity.
He’s never minded that the world tends to blur around the edges when he’s with Jack, but now he wonders if he’ll ever experience peace like that outside of his beloved’s arms again. It shouldn’t matter; he never intends to leave him.
But Jack did not grow to love this undoubtedly sad sight struggling to stay whole beneath him.
He does not recognize the pitiful creature possessing his body. He needs it to leave, he needs it to be purged from him. Even if that means letting Jack wake it from its uneasy slumber.
It has rested in his skin long enough.
But Jack, his gentle, wary darling, pauses again, his hands burning holes where they stall. “Dark, I can stop—”
“No,” he interjects, a gritty quality bleeding into the utterance that he can’t quite hold back. He must get over this.
For Jack.
Jack’s following sigh is far more explosive and frustrated than the last. “I just—this isn’t supposed to…” The touch falls away, which is somehow still unpleasant, the open air even more palpably frigid, now. “Does it hurt?” And there it is, the thread of pain, the guilt that Dark knows stains his conscience despite his best efforts.
Dark may bear the scars, but he suspects more with each passing second that Jack’s nursing a wound of his own that still festers.
“It causes no real pain, no.” This is nothing compared to the agony of the initial severance.
“Dark.” It’s a reprimand, hiding the note of fragility well, but not perfectly. “This is for the both of us, and I don't think you'd be stiff as a board if it didn't bother you. We can stop. Ya just gotta tell me what’s going on, don't suffer through this for my sake, Christ. How would you feel if I did that to you?”
The question feels like a stake in his chest, stealing his breath and causing him to flinch minutely. Not because it’s overtly aggressive or harmful, but because he’s right. It’s unfair to make Jack an unwitting participant in this attempt to get past his own cowardice. If the roles were reversed, he wouldn’t want his hands to be the cause of Jack’s turmoil.
He clears his dry throat, wishing he could scrutinize Jack’s face, but not wanting to sit up and put a definite end to this idea of Jack’s when they’ve barely begun. “You would never intentionally hurt me, and I swear I would inform you if your actions were ever causing me true pain. Admittedly, there is some discomfort in all this, but it is… less physical than it may appear.” His indirectness is bothersome, but even he can’t understand his own preposterous reactions to mere brushes of Jack’s hands, usually such a welcome sensation.
There’s a beat of silence, then two, and Jack’s next words sound as though he’s lined them up with care. “So it’s emotionally difficult.”
His face tightens, the words evoking a similar desire to escape as Jack’s hands had just done. He quells the urge and grudgingly admires his beloved’s ability to listen for what’s unsaid. “In a way, yes.” Lying to Jack would feel much worse than admitting the truth, but it’s somewhat difficult to remember that in the present moment.
“‘In a way,’” he repeats, soft as his fingers trail over the skin just above his waistband. “Care to elaborate?”
Delicate, so delicate with him, as if he’ll shatter otherwise. Ordinarily, he might feel patronized, but he’s more focused on trying to explain the calamity inside him over what amounts to a light massage. His thumb smooths over the crinkled fabric beneath him. “I suppose this is just new, and it’s taking a moment to acclimate. If we continue, I’m sure I’ll move past it.” The problem will resolve itself soon enough, so it’s ultimately not worth concerning Jack over it.
Jack doesn’t move to continue. “You wanna give me a real answer?”
No, he doesn’t, really. “I admit, I do not understand your motives in this venture.”
“And I don’t understand why you’re dodging the question.”
Normally, he finds his sarcasm amusing, but silence stretches between them as he ponders the likelihood of getting through this conversation without somehow hurting him, whether it be with the truth or the refusal to give Jack what he’s asking for.
Staring off to the side, he wishes the blinds weren’t drawn so he could read Jack’s reflection on the windows, but there’s only the soft orange glow of the lamp and the secure weight resting on his legs to go by. “I can’t explain it,” he finally settles on, which is true enough.
Jack shifts, his toes tucking under Dark’s thighs. “Can’t, or won’t?” Again, it’s light, though he senses an edge there, teetering on the precipice of disappointment or irritation, he’s not sure which.
He allows it to hook beneath his skin and tug—he’s always struggled to deny Jack anything, but in this instance, his lips remain sealed. It’s difficult to think like this, to decide how to twist the knife in the man he loves when electricity still crackles along his back from scrutiny alone.
His reticence speaks for itself.
Never having been the most patient, it’s surprising when Jack soundlessly resumes his touching instead of withdrawing or arguing like Dark had half-expected. This time, though, his hands skate along the outskirts of his bulk, never brushing a scar as they travel up his sides and then over his shoulders, down his arms, then repeating the path back, the pressure growing slightly firmer as he continues the motions.
It takes several passes for Dark to realize he doesn’t intend to continue exploring his back at the moment, and his shoulders loosen the next time Jack’s thumbs press circles into them.
He’s not left to wonder about the turn of events for too long before Jack speaks. “I remember the first time I saw you, I thought you were just about the most terrifying person I’d ever met,” he says, the rueful uptick in his tone unexpected.
Dark’s lips curve, even as his brows furrow in bemusement. “You’ve said this before, and I still don’t understand how my ‘aura’ alone intimidated you to such an extent,” he muses, referring to the last time they’d discussed this.
Kneading at his trapezius, several breaths pass before Jack replies, “Well, I didn’t say before, but most of your aura came from the massive wings you had sticking out of you. That was like, five hundred percent of it, initially.”
The casual mention of the limbs he’d lost after months of careful tiptoeing around the matter has him blinking into the pillow, taken aback even though everything about this situation should have prepared him for this topic.
Apparently not expecting a response, Jack continues, “It’s not that I thought angels were scary. Maybe a little, just because you guys are these mysterious entities nobody knows much about, and your whole James Bond look didn’t help with that, I won’t lie. I just wasn’t prepared for how huge you were, how your wings were like twice your size, how your entire building had been designed with your physique in mind. Could’ve driven a car through those doorways.”
Dark is certain, now, that he’s only meant to listen, and the repetitive motion of Jack’s hands is easy to tune out in light of the perspective he’s never been privy to before this instant.
“And there I was, marching in there with my brother’s future on my shoulders and everything to prove, and I remember you were standing there, looking out at the skyline, and all I could see were those gorgeous wings, how they were black but also every other color under the sun when you turned and the light caught ‘em differently. That’s when I realized they were attached to a person, a person who looked so obviously like he’d seen the beginning of the world and knew the end already, like he definitely knew I was scared shitless, and I…” Jack laughs, a gentle, contemplative sound. “I’d never felt so small in my life.”
A quiet ache sits in his chest, though it tastes oddly sweet on his tongue when he murmurs, “I only knew you were nervous. That was typical of many transactions I made with humans. Your passion easily eclipsed your fear, and physical differences aside, I never saw anything small about you.”
Jack gives a singular, fond chuckle. “I know. Wouldn’t have spent a second longer than necessary with you if I didn’t.” His hands make their way to his nape, massaging, and Dark finds that he enjoys that immensely. “But that’s not my point.”
He hums, inquisitive. He’s eager for Jack to share more about his first impression of him, but he doesn’t want to push too hard, lest he reconsider and the subject of Dark’s wings become taboo once more. At the same time, he’s aware that he may not like whatever Jack is about to say.
Now Jack seems to be the one hedging around his words. “I think…” He lets up the pressure, more playing with the hairs at the back of his neck now. “I think they were big to you, too. The wings. I think they were a lot bigger to you than you make it seem.”
It’s a timid suggestion, so unlike Jack, yet it weighs heavily down on him.
Shifting, truly beginning to wonder if he should sit up so they can have a proper conversation, he murmurs, “It’s in the past.” He wishes Jack wouldn’t dwell on it. He knows how a breeze of a thought can quickly turn into a tornado in his mind, and it does neither of them any good in this case.
“Dark,” he scoffs, fingers stilling. “You lost a part of yourself. That’s not really a ‘one and done’ type of deal. I’m looking at the evidence of that.”
Despising the part of himself that wants to curl and shrink at that, he takes a steadying breath. “The loss is less than the gain.”
There’s an alarming, choked sort of noise above him. “That doesn’t mean it isn’t a loss,” he insists hollowly, jostling him with the last three words. “It doesn’t have to mean nothing just because you think you think you traded up.” His hands resume their wandering, more flighty and wavering in their attentions, still avoiding the scarring. “I wish you’d stop running away from it.”
A small spark of annoyance flares within him. Anything that he has intentionally evaded has been for Jack’s sake—he hasn’t run from anything. “I’m right here, as you may have not—ah,” he rasps, his reply withering with the unexpected brush across his back, old wounds and all. Simultaneously, he jolts from the icy shock of it, the wrong, wrong, wrong.
It takes him several moments to register the loud gasp behind him. “Oh, fuck, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, I didn’t—why didn’t you tell me it hurt?” he demands on a fearful quaver, shifting immediately so that he’s no longer over him, and Dark feels the bed dip at his side, followed by an unnatural stillness that he knows is evident of Jack’s imminent implosion.
There’s another breath required for his muscles to unlock, and then he rolls upright, needing only to glance into Jack’s round, frightened eyes before pulling him into his embrace, ignoring how inadequate his own arms feel, incapable of fully enveloping him the way he wants.
“It’s alright. You didn’t hurt me,” he promises, noting the careful grip Jack has on the backs of his shoulders.
“Sure fuckin’ seemed like it,” Jack argues shakily into his throat.
Pressing a kiss into the softness of his hair, he quickly realizes he’s done nothing but tread on Jack’s trust in his attempts to keep from hurting him. If he does not offer him the truth now, it will be detrimental to their relationship.
Jack cannot eradicate the cowardice inside him. Dark must be the one responsible for that.
At least it is made somewhat easier by Jack’s familiar scent, the warm exhales where he’s tucked against him. He is some semblance of prepared, should Jack begin to fall apart.
Still, his lips part long before he can summon the words. “It seems that a part of me is still reconciling itself with what is… gone, and being touched there evidently brings that part to the forefront.”
He can feel his beloved’s lashes flutter against him when he blinks. “I don’t understand. That sounds a lot like it hurts to me.”
Tracing idly over his ribs, he gathers his thoughts. “It is not so much pain as it is sensitivity, which seems to be caused by a disconnect between what my body expects and reality. It does not hurt, I haven’t lied, but I will confess that it is not exactly pleasant. Imagine, perhaps, what it would feel like if you suddenly had only skin where your fingernails should be, and you touched it.” A rather off-putting analogy, but it feels fitting.
The sentence has scarcely finished and Jack’s already shuddering, pulling back and shaking his hands in the air as if to rid himself of the phantom sensation. He stares down at his nails, perturbed, before raising his eyes to Dark’s, who feels a pang in his chest at the look of betrayal he finds there. “Then why didn’t you say that?” he whispers, beseeching. “Why didn’t you tell me to stop?”
Reaching, he grabs Jack’s hands, unable to stand the sight of him looking so adrift. Smoothing over his small, pale fingers, he finds it vaguely humorous that these were the hands eliciting such turmoil within him only moments ago. “I thought I would grow accustomed to it.”
Jack’s head tilts, and a sad, disbelieving smile creeps across his face. “You can’t just brute force this, angel,” he admonishes with a slow shake of his head.
He sighs. “Yes, I am coming to realize that. I am sorry for trying to use you in that endeavor—it was incredibly unfair of me.”
Instead of a nod of acceptance, or a witty reply to diffuse the seriousness like Dark might have expected, Jack’s face falls, a frown marring his features as he breaks eye contact to stare down at their clasped hands. He squeezes for a second, two, then, “Why didn’t you tell me, when it happened?”
Searching his downturned face, Dark finds only a pensive sorrow that kindles concern alongside his mounting confusion. “As I said, I incorrectly assumed my body’s reaction would stop with more exposure—”
“No, I mean,” Jack interrupts, pausing as he rewords, “why didn’t you tell me, when they took your wings? Why did you wait so long? Why did you make yourself go through that alone?” Looking up through his lashes, he appears almost fearful, striking Dark somewhere below his sternum as piercingly as the questions themselves.
Why did you lie to me? he hears.
Staying still under Jack’s jarring touches might have been easier than addressing the prevailing source of his guilt, now made all the worse by the knowledge that it had been bothering Jack this entire time. Even with the damage already dealt, the truth is still bizarrely hesitant on the tip of his tongue. “I didn’t want you to worry about me,” he answers, soft. “We always knew how it was going to end, beloved. You didn’t want this for me, and I thought it was kinder to spare you the worst of it.”
The confession is far from damning, he would know, yet there have been few times in his life where he’s felt more anxious for a response.
There’s a resigned bark of laughter, no humor to be found in it as one of Jack’s hands breaks away to swipe through his hair. “Dark.” A hushed little noise escapes him, something strangled, pained. He’s still not looking at him. “That’s a tad hypocritical, don’t ya think? I-I’m always so afraid, to touch you anywhere near your back, because I think you pretend it’s not important, that you lost this part of yourself to,” he clears his throat, and Dark doesn’t miss the hitch in his breathing, “to be with me.”
Dark’s ready to repeat the same assurances he’s given a thousand times and would say a thousand more, but Jack plows on, grasp tightening, “And I know, I know it was worth it, to you, but I’m trying to say that it… it can be both. You can miss your wings, feel that loss, and love me. It’s not one or the other. And I don’t want you to pretend anymore, that the scars don’t bother you, because you think that’ll make me feel better, less responsible—it doesn’t. I feel,” his voice goes hoarse with a shaky inhale, and Dark watches his stormy eyes raise to meet his, watches how they glisten as Jack continues, “I feel awful, Dark, absolutely terrible, that you just have to carry that with you and I’m just—I’m just here, watching.” He breaks then, a sob bursting out as if it had been buried deep inside, and he lets Dark pull him forward, into his neck as he clings to him.
Memories of Jack’s initial breakdown flash through his mind, but this time he feels his own ache, too, freshly reopened by Jack’s truth, and he allows himself to sit in it, tucking his face into Jack’s hair, letting two facts coexist in his mind for the very first time.
He had wings, once.
He has Jack, now.
It is good to have Jack, to be able to lean into his warmth while he acknowledges that he misses being able to encompass Jack in their safety, misses Jack’s hands trailing over his feathers in wonderment.
Just because there is a hole in him, that doesn’t mean he needs to throw Jack into it in an attempt to fill it. It can simply be.
It will hurt Jack and him much less, he thinks, to allow it to exist, no pretending.
“Why am I always the one crying about it, and you’re the one putting me back together? Do you see what I mean?” Jack finally mumbles, shifting away and rubbing at his eyes.
Dark thumbs away an errant tear. “Dear heart. You comfort me every day.”
Receiving a skeptical grimace at that, he chuckles, unable to stop caressing his darling’s face now that he’s started. “Do you think it is a hardship, to spend my life with you? To wake up every day and know that you are mine, and I am yours?” He raises his other hand and cups his face, leaning forward intently. Jack must hear him on this. “You are enough, Jack. I need only you. I am sorry for making you feel kept at arm’s length, truly, that was never my intention. But whether you have seen it or not, if I had not had you through everything, I would not have survived. I promise you that.” Angling down, he rests their foreheads together, eyes slipping shut.
There’s a wet exhale, more moisture trickling over his fingers that he wipes away. “You are enough,” he repeats, hushed. “Thank you for making me see my mistakes. By prioritizing what I thought were your needs, I have neglected us both. I cannot say it will be easy to change, but I hope you’ll let me know if you continue to feel shut out moving forward.”
Lightly, Jack nods. “I should’ve said something sooner. It’s not all your fault. But please tell me if I ever do something that makes you uncomfortable. Please?” The vulnerability in the request seeps cold and unforgiving over him. He has been hurting Jack for some time.
It stops now.
“I will,” he vows, pressing a kiss to his forehead before drawing back, wanting to see his face as he broaches the next topic. “And while I think we’ve gone far enough tonight, I do want to be comfortable with you touching me anywhere. This… experiment we’ve tried is a good start. You should try touching my back more often—give me a warning, I’ll add—and I will tell you if it’s too much. I think regular exposure to the sensation will help both of us acclimate to it.”
Jack’s teeth burrow into his bottom lip. “Are you sure?”
He nods. “It’s worth a try.” He’s certain Jack’s carefree embrace would feel lovely around him, given enough time and effort. And Jack shouldn’t have to fear making a wrong move with him, either. This will be beneficial.
However, he’s spent far too much time today unable to show his husband the appreciation he deserves, and that must be remedied. Nudging forward, he saves Jack’s lip from the abuse of his teeth, soothing the bitten skin with his tongue.
They share the content, easy kiss for a minute before it comes to a slow stop, and Dark guides them both down onto the pillows. He drapes himself across Jack’s chest and presses one final kiss to the hollow of his throat, then settles, happy to feel Jack’s heart beating steadily against his cheek after a long day.
Jack melts, the burden of their hidden wounds no longer clouding the air between them, and everything feels blessedly right again.