faustcarp
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Marcus shrugs, a half shoulder affair, wood shavings gathering on the checkered tile near his feet. The aroma of sweat permeates a little further. The pale expanse of his back ripples as he reaches to grab a mug, and Oliver watches the slope of his spine, feeling his fingers start to prune in the soapy water.
The ache in his body is slow blooming and familiar. He has a generational intolerance to painkillers. He glances at mirrors and still expects the puckered scar on his chest, but it falters like a mirage. The body heals as much as it possibly can but the mind remembers all.
In which the two of them are werewolves.
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Apologizing meant he had something to apologize for. Bad punch, landing soft and still breaking skin, three years ago. Kissed forever by Frankie Hernandez’s teeth, the pale line runs jagged down his second knuckle on his right hand. Eternal souvenir, thank you New York City.
When he moves away, he runs his fingers down the scar and does not feel bad for little stag boys who stare at headlights with wide eyes and refuse to run away. Incoming car crash, fatal collision, seatbelts failing to keep heads from flying straight through the windshield.
In which Marcus is American, Oliver is not, and nothing is really that different once you think about it.