Cheryl
Wait like
Ones in your stomach
Douglas
Might change it might keep it we'll see 🍁

The smells of flowers and sun-warmed dirt met a certain sharp, freckle-smattered nose in the hot midday as the rest of the boy behind it crushed a pinch of French lavender leaves between two of his callused fingertips. He looked relaxed; heavy eyelids tipped in long, coppery lashes sat half-open, his elbow rested casually on his knee, his thumb picking idly at a loose bit of the tile he was sitting on, low hums rumbling in his throat to follow the tunes coming in through the bud loosely set in his ear.

Something, though, was restless about Owen today, and he pointedly shrugged his shoulders to get it away from his neck, digging his nails into the irritated spot at the base. *Skrtchskrtch.* Grr.

Resisting the urge to shove the lavender all the way up his nose, the boy with the sun soaking into the dark fabric over his back turned to his friend, sitting perhaps a foot away from him, pleasantly occupied with their now-shady little corner of the garden.

Whoops. He'd missed the first few words of what they were saying. Better tune into the rest, then- he really did want to hear it. Uriel's garden did bring them a neat sort of peace, at least he thought; they stress-knitted (quite a bit lately), dove into books, tucked away their paintings of dreams... The garden, though, their slender hands pushing into the soil, their so often far-out expression focused on tending to the plants, looked especially peaceful. ...He was reading too far into it, surely. Just noticing, just wandering, just.. Yeah.

He watched them with varying degrees of focus as their hands worked and the mist-obscured cogs behind their eyes spun, leaning ever so slightly closer to catch another word of whatever they muttered under their breath. 

Owen never quite knew what to do with himself here, truthfully. Just that he.. Rather liked hovering. And listening to them. Out of their way, of course. But he was allowed, welcomed, even, to join them, and so hover and listen he did.

*Skrtchskrrtch.*
Cheryl
"...And this one is a bit of a late bloomer, so I decided to name it *Petit bébé*." Uriel continued cheerfully, carefully handling the stem of the now-grown lavender plant. 

Now that the supple summer months had finally started to wane in intensity, the shock of violet colors had grown more prominent in the springs of lavender that grew from the ground. Hair tied into a ponytail hanging at the nape of their neck, sleeves of their white button up rolled to their elbows to avoid dirtying their freshly done laundry, Uriel had come well prepared to harvest the flowers that finally blossomed to their fullest potential. 

"Ah, actually, my mother taught me a trick to help plants like this, and I think it worked. Perhaps I'll teach you the trick, if you're interested." There's a small twinkle in their eyes at the prospect, and a slightly dirtied hand wipes the sweat from their brow. They gesture over towards Owen, tapping the boy's shoulder politely (yet rapidly— it seems they were excited) to get his attention. A woven sunhat casts a shadow over their pale face, protecting their delicate skin from the intense sun, and a straw basket dangles from their arm with carefully placed freshly-picked flowers.

Now that their friend had leaned closer to them, Uriel could truly appreciate how content Owen looked. His auburn hair shone under the summer sun, making it almost as fiery as the shield that pulsed under his skin. Their eyes momentarily darted from their task, taking time to slowly examine the waves of fire that streamed from the other's scalp— through, wandering eyes, taking note of every color that grabbed at their gaze. 

*Perhaps I should plant something orange, next time.* A lazy thought rose from their hazy mind and bubbled up from the surface before once again dissolving into thick fog.
Douglas
*Aw. That's a cute name for a plant.*

Owen let his thoughts light like butterflies on his face, gossamer wings tickling his cheeks, light fairy feet ruffling his hair in the breeze. *Don't think I've seen this much of Uriel's arms in the daylight,* Mumbled one, *And their eyes kind of reflect the lavender,* Fluttered another. *Oh!*, they all flapped, startled away by the excited taps at his shoulder. One more little bug tickled something about their smile when they were excited, in the flighty way that ladybugs do, before the thing they were saying to him finished processing.

"Sure, I'm interested."

Moving the hand with the sprig of lavender from the faintly present fuzz on his lip to his jaw, letting his head rest inclined toward them. He was interested.

*Skrtchhskrtch.* 
*Shush.*
Cheryl
"Alright, so..." They clap their hands together, taking a deep breath to stifle their excited smile. Perhaps, to someone else, they'd be a bit more nervous about something that could easily be considered embarrassing. However, Owen was a dear friend— thinking such a worry about him would be silly, after all. 

After steeling their nerves somewhat, they turn towards the tiniest plant of them all— a barely budding foxglove — and start to sing something in French. 

It's light, delicate, less of a *Song* And more of *Words in sing-song.* Their voice is quiet at first, but it ends up growing loud enough to make its way to the plant's leaves. 

"It's a song of encouragement, roughly translating to something close to 'you can do it', and 'don't give up', and the like." Uriel smiles, resting one of their hands on the back of their neck sheepishly. 

"Aha, although... I do have to make sure no one's around before I perform my medicine." A small laugh bubbles from their lips, and their other hand half-heartedly attempts to cover their mouth.
Douglas
For someone so chilled (compared to him, at least), Uriel's excitement was contagious. Owen rocked back and forth a little, in rhythm with nothing other really than whatever riptide was going on in his chest, grinning like a little kid. Uriel didn't sing as often as he did, their voice always sounding a little different than he remembered it. A pleasant surprise, every time.

They might have noticed the couple of delighted squeaks that escaped him here and there, but they would know by now that he was indeed listening, the sight of them singing to their little foxglove just *Giddy* To him. He giggled a little when they did, less quick to hide it.

"Ah, I think it's helping!"

The kid who was feeling a little more like one today took a second to shake out his head and hands in a fiery burst, before turning back to them with his grin that always pulled a little more to the right.

"It's good medicine! I- you have a lovely song, so thank you for, um, it," He babbled, the rhythm of his voice off-kilter and quick, like he was running at full tilt rather than sitting still(-ish).

"I, um. Sang to anything that would listen- mostly birds, or my favourite trees. Feels, it feels nice, yeah. Hah.. ...Think it would work on my moustache? *Pfft.*"

He imagined a littler Uriel, encouragingly serenading the dandelions, at the same time as he was probably doing the same to his favourite orchids in his mothers' garden. That made him happy, to think that they both had the same disney princess habits even before they could compare them. 

What a bizarrely sweet thing to know about someone- the song they sang to flowers to help them grow. Owen wrapped the moment in a spot of sunlight dancing on the brim of their hat, tied it with a fresh chive, and tucked it somewhere safe.
Cheryl
"Aha, you did the same thing, too? That's... A bit reassuring, actually." Pink dusted their cheeks, and a small hand scratched at their face in nervousness. 

Owen's excitement was always lovely to see, they thought, watching his stream-of-consciousness words and hearing his giggles that sounded like the mutterings of a creek. 

"Perhaps it would work on your facial hair. There's no harm in trying, right?" A small— *Mischievous*— smile, and Uriel scoots *Very* Close to Owen and begins to sing. 

The song is almost the same, except they replace the name for the aforementioned plant with Owen's name and... Something else in French, and their tone changes. Instead of lovingly and sweetly convincing the petals to sprout, Uriel pokes Owen's cheek, firmer tone persuading Owen's (lack of) facial hair to *Come out, come out, come out.* It's delivered in the same manner of speech a mother would use while scolding her child to wake up, but the bright smile on their face prevents any actual bite coming from their words. 

"Well, do you feel different?" They back away from Owen slightly, eyes scanning his reaction to their (admittedly very silly) stunt.

"My mom did the same thing to me, when I was younger. She kept singing for me to grow larger and... I guess it worked too well. I'm a bit of a stalk now, no?" They hide their faint smile with their hand, eyes crinkling and almost obscuring their ever-present eye bags.
Douglas
"Hm?"

Well. It was ..Less rare than one would typically assume to see mischief on Uriel's face, in the delicate curl of their fingers against the tile, the tilt of their shoulders. *Oh dear*, he realized a moment too late, *They've taken me seriously-*

It doesn't take long for the unfortunately pigmented boy to blush furiously, conjuring the feeling of the sun pressing into his skin from inside and out. Perhaps Uriel might notice an errant fleck of gold or two zipping below the surface. His ears tickled every time he made out his name in their tune, an undignified squeak bubbling up when they poked his cheek.

Still, though, his smile was unmistakable, curling into his blooming-red cheeks so hard it almost ached.

"Oh, maybe..."

*If I* Do *Grow a proper moustache after this, I'm turning that song into a ten-minute rock opera and making my career as a witch doctor.*

"Aw, well, you can reach everything easy- plus, dare I say it, you're at perfect hug height.."

*They sang to me. Not just around, but* To *Me. They sang to me...*

His cocoa-and-turmeric gaze darted around every which way, absentmindedly tracing a pale spiral spilling over their shoulder, peering almost through their hand to their ever-obscured expression.

"You, you don't have to hide your face, um, if you don't want to," He risked, hands twisting the hem of his shirt. *Shoot, that damned itch-*

*SkrtchSKRTCH.*

"You have a nice smile, is all."
Cheryl
"Hug height...? Me? Ah, well, if I truly wanted to be a good hugging experience, I'd have to gain some more muscle. Could you imagine?" 

Another airy laugh, almost as light as the summer breeze wafting through the gardens. At Owen's compliment, though, Uriel pauses, giving the other two slow blinks. As if compelled, they put their hands down. Without the cover of their hand, Uriel turns to look at the budding flowers once again, using their pretty colors as a distraction from the giddy feeling in their chest.

"I... Do? That's— that's um, very kind of you to say." *Fox-glove. Fennel. Lavender. Perhaps some more elaborate flowers next season?*

A brief flicker back to Owen, and a slight frown taints their features. Owen's freckled, muscular — was he always this strong? It must have come with the facial hair, Uriel supposes— hands are playing with the edge of his shirt, and tinges of annoyance periodically light up on his face. 

"Are you... Are you quite alright? You're playing with the hem of your shirt an awful lot." Uriel pipes up, worry and curiosity coloring their thick accent.
Douglas
"Oh, shoot, you noticed."
*Thank hell they noticed.*
His cheeks burned a little more, and he felt sweat prick at his scalp.

"Don't mind if I just-"

And without any further warning, Owen had grabbed the back of his shirt and pulled it over his head, wrenching it off of him in a few swift movements. He immediately set to attacking the tag at the back of the collar as his hair settled around his neck once more. He ripped it slowly enough to not tear any delicate threads, but certainly scowled at it hard enough to perhaps just incinerate it.

"It's, um, a new shirt."

He shot a split-second glance at Uriel as it sort-of hit him that it was his mangled shoulder facing them; he was preoccupied, but already a little self-conscious, and well. It wasn't exactly a pleasant sight, if no longer the red and raw and horribly peeling eyesore it was a year ago.

Silvery trails lined the edges, all but faded, glinting in the sunlight as his the muscles beneath them worked, snaking between freckles. His hair covered the worst of it, the knot on his collarbone, but there was plenty of uneven, reddish-purple tissue covering his shoulder anyway.

"Hah, bloody tag.. Torturous."
Cheryl
Uriel says nothing at the sudden movement, instead leaning closer to peer at the scar its in entirely. They lift an auburn lock of hair draped over Owen's shoulder and move it over his back, tilting their head to the side in order to get a full look at the scar. 

"I've never seen it in its entirety." Uriel admits in barely over a whisper, eyes tracing the silver streaks of harm that contoured Owen's body like the currents of a river. 

Another long pause. *Was this awkward for him?* Uriel wondered in their head, before dismissing the thought away. Hopefully, they'd be told if their blatant ogling of the mark emblazoned on his torso was disrespectful. 

"It's... Larger than I was expecting." They find their footing once again, doing their best to resist lifting a hand out and tracing the gorge on his skin. 

"It looks painful, even a year later. I can't believe how it would feel to take something like that." A foggy, unreadable expression. Could they ever imagine going through pain like that? The pain of *Dying,* Even for a brief moment? Uriel didn't think so. 

Uriel didn't want to pity Owen— they were told by Amelie and Lucifer and others about how pity was an unwarranted emotion. Still, something in them wrenched their heart at the full length of Owen's pain on display.

They barely stifle a soft whine. If only they could take his pain away.
Douglas
Owen knew the familiar tickle of eyes on his skin, *Their* Eyes on his skin. Their hand on him. A sharp inhale, but no words. He wasn't sure if he was hoping for them to comment on it or not; they answered that for him.

He supposed he ..Didn't mind.

The remnants of laughter from just moments ago echoed still in his head as his ever-present heartbeat quickened a little in his chest. Owen hardly knew what to think, let alone what to say; he let them speak, without tearing his eyes from his shirt.

They were honest about their curiosity, which was something refreshing- he wasn't sure which was more annoying, the people who made a point of not looking at it, or the ones who just stared like he couldn't see them back. Which did he even want from anyone, pity or indifference? He usually tried to be lighthearted about its existence, seeming unbothered, but he couldn't help the pang in his gut when a tender spot was treated with tenderness.

"The mark itself doesn't.. It doesn't hurt so much anymore," He started, relieving the both of them of the silence. "Some of the nerve endings were toasted, so it's numb. A little tingly maybe." He moves, turning his body more toward them. "Mostly around here."

*Some of* **My** *Nerve endings were toasted. Ffyc. Those were my nerves, my skin, my bones-*
No, that part didn't hurt so much anymore, but he still fought the urge to say that it *Did*, it did still.

A shaky inhale, and he swept the rest of the long cascade of red waves off of his left side. And there it was- the entry wound.

A twisted divot, once-horribly burned flesh stretched over his collarbone, still lashed back together strangely. The scar tissue was the thickest there, thinning out in its jagged-but-smoothing-but-*Jagged* Path down his body, splitting somewhere over his belly button and disappearing beneath the waistline of his shorts.

"In all its glory," He winced, gesturing at where the sky split him to the bone. It... Wasn't used to this much sun. Neat.
Cheryl
Uriel couldn't help it— they scooted over towards Owen's side, pressing themselves against his arm to get a better look at the mark. 

A sharp inhale, and this time, they give into the desire to reach out and trace the pad of their thumb against Owen's chipped collarbone. Uriel's hand hovers in the open space between the two, and they look down at Owen for confirmation.

"I know first-hand how wounds like this can be sensitive to touch, so I don't want to approach it without asking first. But, ah, may I...?" Uriel timidly asks, fidgeting slightly as the nerves get to them. 

Human boundaries were odd, Uriel thinks to themselves. If only they could navigate the world of social norms as well as they could navigate the grand tapestry of a dream. 

Now that Owen was fully facing them, their eyes instinctively traced the point of entry from the exit wound— through his shoulder, oh god, over his *Heart*, leaving a mark wherever the white-hot electricity travelled. 

"I... It's complicated. It's a lot of feelings at once, seeing it like this. One the one hand, it's a part of you now, an integral piece of your soul. To deny the existence of such a thing would be to deny *You*, in my eyes." Uriel muses out loud, eyes occupied with examining the scar rather than meet Owen's flighty gaze. 

"On the other..." Their eyes trail back up, flickering between the chunk taken out of his collarbone and his bright, soulful eyes the color of burnt sienna. 

"Imaging you in pain is... Difficult." Uriel confesses, the admission leaving them oddly vulnerable and quiet.

They promised Owen, didn't they? On that fateful night, oh so long ago— between the sobs that wracked his body and the hands that clung around their waist, they promised they wanted to take all of his feelings, the bad alongside the good. This scar was just another part of that promise, a chance to make good on their words.

They'd confront it head-on. They pinky promised, after all.
Douglas
Carefully watching the path of their hand toward the wound, Owen's breaths grew imperceptibly deeper. He nodded, quickly, still surprised that they would even *Want* To.

*Yes, you may.*

Now both of them were nervous, unsure of where the boundaries were supposed to be, what the rules were that they were to be playing by even with no one around to enforce them. They had developed their own, in the little pockets they could find without eyes; a part of him wanted to call their little back-and-forth strange, but that wasn't it. It felt nice. Now, *That* Was strange.

This place, with their hand hovering between them, reminded him of a dream that he refused to let fade; the stars at his back, his hands in their hair. *Oh, how that must sound to a nearby telepath.* Pff. Uriel was probably the one person he didn't need to explain his dreams to. Who else would he even need to explain that one to?

In the meantime, though, he was brought out of his head by their soft musings, a mostly calm but perplexed look settling on his features. He wanted to say something, but pressed his lips together- what they had to say was far more interesting. And then they stopped, leaving a feeling like they had gently pried something open.

"You've.. You've thought about it this much? I didn't know," He started, in a voice small but genuinely surprised. *How do you even react to knowing someone has thought about your soul?* His eyes rested lightly on theirs for a moment, those dark pools of liquid silver, and tried to piece something together. They were thinking something, that he hadn't caught up with. He would be playing their words back later, over and over.

"I. I think yeah, it's a part of me now, and... It brought me here, but *Shit*, sure is a chunk bitten out of me, isn't it." His voice wavered, but he swallowed the lump in his throat.

"Uri? You told me I could ask you things. Way back when, ah, you said- you told me there was something there.. Do you have one of these too?"
Cheryl
Upon receiving Owen's nod of approval, Uriel runs their thumb over his collarbone. They brush the back of their fingers down his shoulder, stopping their journey when they rest their hand at the mark over his heart. 

"It has a different texture to it. Cracked, is a good way to put it?" Uriel furrows their eyebrows, resuming the circular motion in the center of his chest to jog their mind with a fitting adjective.

"It's more concentrated near the entry wound. I suppose that's not too surprising, but... It's interesting to notice." Uriel makes their verdict before slowly removing their hand and placing it back on the garden tile. A small voice in their head wonders if it was bad manners to touch someone without washing their hands first, especially while in the middle of gardening, but Uriel couldn't take back their actions. 

Their train of thought breaks when Owen's voice wavers, and Uriel feels something in their heart *Drop*. They'd usually be nervous about Owen maneuvering the subject toward themselves, back stiff as if called out by a teacher, but... Anything to stop *That voice.* 

"Oh, it's... Not something your size, or nearly as painful as being struck by lightning. I'm actually surprised you remember that throwaway comment. "

They give Owen another small laugh— this time *Nervous*. Uriel didn't think about their scar. It wasn't pretty either, but it was less noticeable than Owen's, more likely to slip quietly into thick fog and only murmur in their ears during nights alone. When they tucked away those memories into the corners of their mind, folded them as tiny as they could be and placed them on the top of a dusty shelf, they could briefly pretend such memories didn't exist. 

"I forget I have my own scars, too. It's not exactly something you see often unless you go looking for it, and... I do tend to lose sight of what I look like. Sometimes, features like that just slip my mind, until I have to change in front of a mirror, or it starts to ache in the rain."
Douglas
Owen didn't even notice that he was leaning into the circles they were making on his chest until they sat up straighter, and he followed suit. If they hadn't stopped, though, he was reasonably sure that he would have let them go on.

"Yours hurts when it rains too?" A strange note to perk up a little to, but even he could tell that they seemed really nervous. *Did he push too far? Of course that was a sore spot, it's a* Literal *Sore spot.*

"Half my ribcage aches, plus my muscles- the doctor told me they weren't thrilled about being electrocuted, so they just.. Hurt, sometimes." *What would it be like, to forget that that existed?* Against his better judgement, Owen didn't quite want to let it go.

"You don't have to show me, I was just curious." He fidgeted. "Just, I'd want to know, if you wanted to tell me."

His fingers kept fiddling with his shirt in his lap, eyes trailing to where theirs rested. Their knees almost touched, where they were positioned; he ripped the tag clean off with one quick motion and moved his hand to hang off of his leg and rest against theirs. Not so close to where their hand rested, but closer still. 

He looked like he wanted to say something, but wasn't sure what; one of his legs bounced, but there was a surprisingly cool expression under the curious sparks in his doe eyes. The breeze felt nice on his back.
Cheryl
"Oh, ah..." Uriel's eyes widen in panic as Owen backtracks on his request. They take a deep breath before continuing, using the warmth radiating from his hand as an anchor.

"No, no, I don't mind showing you at all. It's just..." They absentmindedly play with a strand of curly white hair. Uriel's head *Swoops* Around, craning their neck every which way to make sure no one was around. A faint pink dusted their cheeks as they made peace with the move they were about to make. *How embarrassing this would be,* They noted, *If anyone was around to take this out of context.*

"It's just a little embarrassing to do in public, but it doesn't seem like anyone is *Around*. So, um, let me just..." They look down at their white button up, mentally steeling themselves before unbuttoning two buttons. Another deep breath sucks itself down their lungs like fire, and they lift up the left flap side of their shirt, looking down at Owen to gauge a reaction.

There's a dent on Uriel's hip. 

It's further down from their ribcage, tucked away and to the side. It's... Well, it's *Ugly*, poorly done stitch marks having made themselves part of the deep gash that mars their skin. They twist, and it compresses in on itself. Light grey and brown colors mix in layers of scar tissue snaking above their hipbone, the deep gorge almost looking as if its clawing for more territory, more skin to turn soft and raw and delicate. 

"There's, ah, there's actually a long story to this one." The need to fill the silence gets to Uriel, and they let out a pathetic nervous laugh. 

They could wind Owen into the long tirade, losing him halfway through the story and concealing the still-raw bits with flowery descriptions and half truths. They could paint him a sugar coated truth, a bundle of assurances of 'it was an accident', and yet... They didn't want to, for some reason. The story-tellers long, winding tale they were in the process of spinning into yarn dies in their throat, and...

"...I got stabbed."
Douglas
At Uriel's sudden vigilance, Owen couldn't help but look around a little as well, just to be double certain that no one was around. In case that helped. He found it difficult not to stare as they unbuttoned the bottom of their shirt.

The sealed gash on their hip almost didn't look real. It almost sucked in the light from the surrounding skin, warping the illusion of clear, cool porcelain. He sucked in a breath after a moment's delay. *Owww.*

"Oh, Uriel,"

...

"Heh??"

*Well! That's unexpected!* Around a thousand questions bubbled up, but none of them quite made it out after the initial shocked noise. *Someone* Stabbed *Them?* Owen was aware that they were disliked in their hometown, but.. He couldn't imagine looking at them, this sweetheart, with their touch like rainwater and their voice like sweet molasses dripping down his brain, and be angry enough to *Cut them* And leave a scar this angry, to make them hurt. He saw where Uriel was coming from- imagining them in pain was indeed difficult. Their fear of sharp things.. Owen could imagine. He fought back a wave of insistent heat from his belly, and looked back up at them.

"That. That sounds like it also hurt quite a bit. I, I hate th-that someone did this to you," He blurted out, and then quickly pressed his lips together.

The hand resting against their knee shakily lifted, unsure of where it was going; did he want to feel it? Would it summon a phantom pinch in his own side, would they feel uneasy? *But them touching my chest felt so nice.* His fingers rested lightly on their knee, asking for permission.
Cheryl
"It's alright, Owen." *The stutter has come back,* Uriel notices, and the need to *Drive the pain away* Moves them to pat the boy gently on his back and keep their voice low and soothing. 

"It was a long time ago. I... Don't think she really intended for it to happen. I saw her constant nightmares, and so after school I begged her to go to the police about the abuse she was facing. She— she just panicked. It was the scissors' fault. Or my own. She didn't know better. I..." No sooner did they open their mouth than their attempt to reassure Owen left Uriel stammering and trailing off into silence. 

They'd thought these things, of course, but they've never *Told* Anyone about them, the darkest recesses of their mind locked away in nightmares that could not happen and words left unsaid. Owen, he— he didn't see things like they did. He wouldn't understand (no, a lie, they knew he did, and that made it *Worse*), and they knew how quickly he'd shut down the line of not-quite rationale Uriel fitted into fluffy down blankets and soft pillows. 

What then, would come next? 

Being left in the cold, with no blankets nor pillows to speak of? Their one life-raft torn apart? Nothing but sand being whisked away in the wind, and the feeling of being *Vulnerable* And *Afraid*? 

Or did the child within them secretly long for the look of horror that would grow on that freckled, kind and oh-so sweet face, that face that was smiling and beautiful and crinkled with laughter near the eyes now contorted in the same expression *They* Had when it happened, when they stumbled back home with too-much blood pouring out of their barely sewn together wound, tears running down their face as the only thoughts that ran through their head were not *It had to be done, the Universe willed it* But *It hurts, I'm scared, I don't want to d ie*?

__ __ 
For someone to touch their scars, feel the curves and ridges of that blade that tore out their insides in the orange bath of an after-school confrontation, for him to close his eyes and let them grieve a wound they never let heal? To revel in the misery of it all together, a boy without a heartbeat and a child who'd made a friend out of Pain? 

His fingers rap against his knee. Uriel sucks in a breath, visibly trembling, and clasps their hand over his.

"Please?" They shakily ask, gaze flickering between his hands and his face.
Douglas
"Ok," Owen whispered, strong hand shaking just a little in theirs. 

His fingers just barely traced a trail on their leg on their path to the still sore-looking mark, his breaths slow and shallow. The boy's knuckles grazed the soft jut of their hip so lightly that they almost weren't there, and his thumb found their waist and ran over what must have been an awful stitch mark. A small, weak noise clawed its way from his throat as the weight of what they had said began to sink in.

"Y-y-you were jus-just a kid," He eked out, wishing he had something a little smarter to say. "*Esgob annwyl... Ddwrg gen i, Uriel.*"

Small, but low and sweet, Owen's voice held steadier in his mother tongue. The backs of his fingers traced the edge of their scar, slowly drawing circles like they had on his chest, pointedly ignoring the very middle; *Too sensitive,* He reasoned, *Too close.* Heavy-lidded eyes like pepper flakes caught in amber watched closely for reactions.

Still.. They *Wanted* Him here, for him to lay a hand on them like they had so barely bashfully, where no one must have touched them since it was sewn up. *That* Made him pause, the swathes of his arm speckled in sunlight soaking in afternoon heat. The intimacy of it shocked even him, the cogs behind his eyes trying to reason and rationalize when they knew all they were meant for was to feel, blindly and completely.

"This wasn't your fault," He tried, after a hazy stretch of silence, hand resting a little awkwardly below their hipbone. "Or th-the scissors." He knew that he could certainly try to tear the wool from their eyes, but not whether he had the strength, or the wherewithal. Was it his place? 

...Their logic was strangely endearing, almost- only because it was so uniquely *Them*, though far less so than it was heartbreaking. Uriel was so determined for no one to be at fault, for no one to feel bad. But they were hurt, *Badly* And permanently, and... And?
_ _

Normally, when Owen hit snags, they caught him fast and unaware, jolted and spiked with hot injustice. This time, though, he curled around the point of agony willingly, slowly, and with what he hoped was gentle precision.

He looked back up at them for the first time in ages, doe-eyed features curling into an expression of equal parts helpless sorrow and the anger that they refused to feel. He could feel it, though. Hell, he *Wanted* To.

"I still hate that someone-'she' hurt you."

There.

He moved his arm back down their leg, and squeezed their hand; his palm was hot, and his pulse was in it.
Cheryl
They said nothing, instead watching with bated breath as Owen's hand lightly caressed the edge of their injury. His hands were warm, rough with callouses from late-night bass and climbing trees but nonetheless still gentle against their sensitive skin. 

Uriel's breath hitched at the sensation, squirming under his hand before rolling back into the touch. It was... An odd feeling. Not a *Bad* One, but an *Odd* One, like their skin was on fire with every touch and prod casting delicate (wonderful, maybe?) indents in their marred flesh.

It felt like fire, and still it was nothing compared to his words. 

Soft, delicate syllables, and yet they felt like a kick to their windpipe. He was looking at *Them* Now, eyes trained on their scars and imperfections, and his voice was cracking for *Them*. How terrifying it was, that their harm was only creating more *Pain*, more harm they were responsible for. Less a cycle, and more a domino effect, but... No. *It couldn't.* It didn't make sense. Uriel could feel the desire to run overwhelm their legs, but they promised to never leave him, didn't they? 

They take his hand in their non-dominant right. 

"You know, um.." They suck down another breath— why was it so hard, all of a sudden? "I shouldn't dwell on such things around the flowers. They'll wilt." It's a soft plea, a quiet murmur as they hastily button their shirt up and turn back to the lavender. *That's enough for now,* Uriel thought, their brain equally as sensitive and confused and feeling, just like still-tingling skin now concealed by a layer of fabric. 

They take their gardening scissors— how ironic, they muse, given the subject matter— and continue to work at the plants, giving an occasional look to Owen to show the boy their interest. 

"I wouldn't want to taint the joy of your company with such thoughts, either." Uriel gives Owen a soft smile. It doesn't reach their eyes. 

They squeeze Owen's hand in their own, though, muttering a soft thank you to the other.
Douglas
"Aaw."

*You could never.*

Owen's cheeks pricked with heat at that; ever the flatterer, he was in over his head the second they assured him that his presence brought joy, even when they were deflecting something. He hoped his hand wasn't weirdly sweaty. Theirs was nice and cool.

Still, a knot twisted in his stomach- did they get what they were looking for? An answer they were satisfied with, reassurance for the right thing? He could see something was *Off* Still, but couldn't place what. Not wanting to let go of their hand, he chewed on something before it slipped from him.

"Tell you a secret, um." A shaky breath, as he fiddled with their fingers in his, picking a flower head to talk to. "I, ah, don't like scissors either. If th-tha-that makes you f-ffeel any less mad."

It was clear from the old speech impediment seeping into the spaces between his words that this was an understatement.

The boy feeling exposed in more ways than one nervously ran his thumb along the side of their hand. *Why did I say that? Will they ask questions, do I* Want *Them to?* Owen's crossed leg opposite them bounced idly as his heartbeat quickened, and he remembered to breathe.

*I'm sorry if that was weird. I care about you so much. Please ignore that please don't mind me please squeeze my hand back-*

"Your flo-your flowers are beautiful."
Cheryl
*The thumb that ran down the back of their hand felt nice*, Uriel thought, their attention briefly diverting from their gardening to the warm, sturdy presence tracing methodical circles just above their knuckles. They savored the feeling, pressing the feeling of skin against theirs and strong muscles squeezing their hand back into the deepest chambers of their heart, right next to pleasant childhood memories, moments spent watching TV and drinking tea with Margo, and all of the other seconds they shared with the nervous boy. 

He was starting to fill their heart up. Perhaps one day, at this rate, it might grow full.

*If it makes you feel any less mad?* The phrasing of that and the return of the stutter made something foul tickle their stomach, and Uriel sent a worried glance Owen's way. 

"I'm sorry. I lied earlier." Uriel said softly, resuming their gardening as they spoke.

"The flowers don't particularly care what you tell them, only that you speak from the heart. They're good company in that way." The *Snip* Of a stem, and a lilac-colored flower falls onto the garden ground. 

Instead of putting the picked stem of lavender in their basket, Uriel's hand discards the scissors on the side opposite of Owen— *Foul thing*— and extends the picked plant to Owen, the stray purple flower just barely tickling his nose.

"I hope to be the same, if you need me."
Douglas
Owen couldn't help but let a genuine, boyish grin spread across his worry-weighted features once again. A deep breath, and he gingerly took the flower, thoughtfully spinning it between a freckles thumb and forefinger. The bright-eyed boy nodded, his leg still bouncing away.

He'd somewhat liked the smell of lavender forever; it wasn't an offensive aroma, just indistinct amongst the other vibrant notes summer carried on the wind. Lately, though, he had found himself pausing to breathe it in, or crushing leaves of it between his fingertips and dropping them in his pockets absentmindedly to be found later dried and crumbling but still difficult to cast away.

It smelled like a home of sorts, he supposed- his real home didn't have much lavender in it, but the scent now conjured up similar images of sunlit kitchens and late-night laughter, and the feeling of arms around him. 'Home,' it seemed, was expanding, with the little petals of dusty purple unfurling in the strange new gardens, taking their own time.

That was a nice thought. He tucked it somewhere safe, for a rainy day.

"I-I think I might. Need you." Owen gazed at their palms gently pressed together, all the things he could say flashing behind his outwardly peaceful expression. "I think it's alright to need each other, yeah?"

*Can it, Ares.*
*And me. You're on thin ice, you.*

Perhaps they were a little 'suspicious'. Owen wasn't blind, but he had never had a friendship quite like the one he had with Uriel, but any thoughts of it being anything other than what it just *Was* Didn't ring true. He rolled his shoulders back, shrugging off the layers of subtext and hidden meanings that he had learned to look for (or, that everyone else looked at him and decided that they saw), and let himself enjoy the lavender, sweet and simple.
Cheryl
"N-need me?" 

The effect is immediate— or, as quick as immediate is for someone like Uriel. The apples of their cheeks to the collarbone becomes a bright red, blood flushing to their skin in embarrassment at the comment. 

*Need them.* It was something they've always longed to hear. To be a part of someone's life in a positive way, important enough for a piece of someone's heart not to be surrendered without consent in the midst of night, but willingly entrusted to them like one would give a present on Christmas Day. 

Owen trusted them— of course he did, but he *Needed them.* Did that mean, by extension, that he *Wanted* Them? 

Their head swims. Uriel's clouded grey gaze the color of the rolling fog glaze over at the thought. It takes a couple of seconds for the bright red of flushed skin in summer heat to dilute back to the usual milky white, their silence only made bearable by them tracing their thumb on the lines sewn across his palm.

"I think I need you too. I-If you'll let me be yours." They say, and smile back.