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carlyinromeTITLE: Scar Tissue
RATING: PG-13
FANDOM: Thunderheart
PAIRING: Ray Levoi/Walter Crow Horse
SUMMARY: On ritual. A remix of
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formanymiles’ now dead and gone fic, cicatrize.Walter sleeps on his back like the dead. Ray sleeps on his side, curled up like a crustacean. If Walter is in bed, Ray curls around him, Ray’s arms tight around Walter’s torso and his nose pressing into the hollow of Walter’s collarbone; if Walter is not, Ray curls around himself, his knees tucked up, his hands in fists pressing against his sternum.
Ray wakes easy, with military precision and modicum of fuss. Unless he’s been dreaming. Then he wakes sweating like a rodeo pony, a scream caught in his throat, his jaw sore and heart beating so hard his pulse points hurt.
Walter doesn’t have dreams like that.
On days they have to work, Ray gets out of bed five minutes before the alarm to use up all the hot water. Crow Horse still isn’t full awake after two snoozes; every year it seems he needs more time to get up out of bed, more time and more coffee to really be wits-sharp. Ray is usually half-dressed by the time Walter gets up, and he’ll bend to say “Good morning” in his morning murmur, and to let Walter kiss his aftershave-sharp jaw or minty toothpaste mouth—so close to sleep, everything seems magnified, uncomfortably fat with sensation. Ray never seems to notice.
On their days off, their morning ritual is like so:
Ray gets squirmy waiting around for Walter to wake up. He makes his side of the bed and goes for a run, from which he returns invariably sweating and dirty and the prettiest goddamn thing Walter’s ever seen. He rarely makes it to the shower before Walter pulls him back down to the bed and messes up those hospital corners Ray’s just creased.
This morning they are off, no obligations but the little things they’ve promised each other around the house. Walter’s awake before Ray leaves for his run, but he pretends to sleep, eyes and smile clamped down, until he goes. The moment he gets back, however, Walter pounces. Ray’s sneakers squeak over the bare, worn hardwood as Walter lifts him off the ground. Ray’s hands are still shaking from his run as he draws Walter’s t-shirt off over his head, as his palms drag agonizingly slow over the scars on Walter’s chest and back.
The sun dance, way back when. Walter’d had to explain the ritual to Ray the morning after they’d first made love; lying in the low golden glow of the new morning sun, Ray’s fingers running over the rough, raised patches like the skin there was made of silver. He does that at night, when he’s drowsy and looking for sleep: rub his fingers around the uneven edges of Walter’s sun dance scars, like shining up a prayer wheel. Like maybe it means something more than a patch of wrong flesh.
Ray’s scars include a little dimple from an appendectomy at age eight; two shiny, pink stripes from knee surgery at twenty; and one from a stabbing on the job when he was twenty-seven, just a few months before he came to the rez. It’s long, and curves around his hip. Walter gets sentimental about that one; he likes to leave his hand over it when they kiss. It took Ray a while to understand.
Walter raises Ray up, so he can’t depend on his footing, and needs Walter for stability. Ray gasps, and the pads of his fingers tense over one of Walter’s scars, Ray’s palm on his heart. The salty, earthy taste of Ray collects on Walter’s tongue, and he can feel Ray’s pulse start to rabbit. He wants down, so Walter puts him down, laying him out beneath him. Ray’s face is the picture of yearning, and he moans and bucks slightly against Walter. Walter hushes him; Ray wants badly to be a patient man, and he’ll try to be still; he’ll try to be quiet. Walter finishes the task of undressing his lover and Ray manages to suffer through with a few deep sighs, his fingers balling the sheets, tangling in Walter’s hair.
“You raw, wild, sweet thing,” Walter breathes, prickling Ray’s flesh. He lays himself over Ray, chest to chest. Their heartbeats synch up.
Ray wakes easy, with military precision and modicum of fuss. Unless he’s been dreaming. Then he wakes sweating like a rodeo pony, a scream caught in his throat, his jaw sore and heart beating so hard his pulse points hurt.
Walter doesn’t have dreams like that.
On days they have to work, Ray gets out of bed five minutes before the alarm to use up all the hot water. Crow Horse still isn’t full awake after two snoozes; every year it seems he needs more time to get up out of bed, more time and more coffee to really be wits-sharp. Ray is usually half-dressed by the time Walter gets up, and he’ll bend to say “Good morning” in his morning murmur, and to let Walter kiss his aftershave-sharp jaw or minty toothpaste mouth—so close to sleep, everything seems magnified, uncomfortably fat with sensation. Ray never seems to notice.
On their days off, their morning ritual is like so:
Ray gets squirmy waiting around for Walter to wake up. He makes his side of the bed and goes for a run, from which he returns invariably sweating and dirty and the prettiest goddamn thing Walter’s ever seen. He rarely makes it to the shower before Walter pulls him back down to the bed and messes up those hospital corners Ray’s just creased.
This morning they are off, no obligations but the little things they’ve promised each other around the house. Walter’s awake before Ray leaves for his run, but he pretends to sleep, eyes and smile clamped down, until he goes. The moment he gets back, however, Walter pounces. Ray’s sneakers squeak over the bare, worn hardwood as Walter lifts him off the ground. Ray’s hands are still shaking from his run as he draws Walter’s t-shirt off over his head, as his palms drag agonizingly slow over the scars on Walter’s chest and back.
The sun dance, way back when. Walter’d had to explain the ritual to Ray the morning after they’d first made love; lying in the low golden glow of the new morning sun, Ray’s fingers running over the rough, raised patches like the skin there was made of silver. He does that at night, when he’s drowsy and looking for sleep: rub his fingers around the uneven edges of Walter’s sun dance scars, like shining up a prayer wheel. Like maybe it means something more than a patch of wrong flesh.
Ray’s scars include a little dimple from an appendectomy at age eight; two shiny, pink stripes from knee surgery at twenty; and one from a stabbing on the job when he was twenty-seven, just a few months before he came to the rez. It’s long, and curves around his hip. Walter gets sentimental about that one; he likes to leave his hand over it when they kiss. It took Ray a while to understand.
Walter raises Ray up, so he can’t depend on his footing, and needs Walter for stability. Ray gasps, and the pads of his fingers tense over one of Walter’s scars, Ray’s palm on his heart. The salty, earthy taste of Ray collects on Walter’s tongue, and he can feel Ray’s pulse start to rabbit. He wants down, so Walter puts him down, laying him out beneath him. Ray’s face is the picture of yearning, and he moans and bucks slightly against Walter. Walter hushes him; Ray wants badly to be a patient man, and he’ll try to be still; he’ll try to be quiet. Walter finishes the task of undressing his lover and Ray manages to suffer through with a few deep sighs, his fingers balling the sheets, tangling in Walter’s hair.
“You raw, wild, sweet thing,” Walter breathes, prickling Ray’s flesh. He lays himself over Ray, chest to chest. Their heartbeats synch up.
no subject
Date: 2012-07-25 02:51 am (UTC)Once again, so few words but such brilliant pictures and sharp emotions. Wish I could write like you do.
no subject
Date: 2012-07-26 01:48 am (UTC)That is a wonderful compliment, thank you so much. I'm very glad you liked the story. :)
no subject
Date: 2012-07-26 05:46 pm (UTC)UNF. Also: Sun Dance! *g*
no subject
Date: 2012-07-26 06:45 pm (UTC)Hee! Walter is a sweet-talker.
Yes! I loved seeing the Sun Dance scars in that photo essay you showed me; I'd heard of them before, but never actually seen what the scars looked like, which helped a lot with this fic. What good timing!