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Your gaze simmers on his body from the bathroom’s doorway, all of the harsh, jutting lines, the smooth peaks of his hipbones, and the curves of his arms. Without the leathers and clothing, Levi’s much lither than he appears. It doesn’t matter, either way. He’s utterly beautiful.

But the wounds on his back. The long gashes of red, now brown and crusted from never being treated. Your throat squeezes are your heart, uneasiness sweeping through your posture. His reflection moves in the mirror, pale and marred features squinted in concentration, and as he reaches behind himself to clean the wound, his chapped mouth wobbles. He winces. He hurts.

It’s fucking devastating. You had seen those scars on his back before, and seeing them open again, bleeding again. You don’t deserve to see inside him like this, but you’re drawn to it. You want to crawl into him through the gashes and seal yourself over every inch, a protective armor clad on his most intimate and vulnerable parts. It wouldn’t matter how much someone beat, struck, or hurt, because you would be there, inside, to take the brunt of every hit. A distant vibration of the heart.

He struggles to reach the places, and eventually gives him, shoulders heaving.

“Let me,” you say.

It’s apparent he hadn’t noticed your presence, because his head whips in your direction. The stiffness in his features tenderizes.

“All right,” he says back.

You approach and dip your hand into the bucket, retrieving the cloth and squeezes out the excess water. Levi turns so his back is facing you, the only hint of his face being the sharp curve of his jaw. You brace him and yourself by placing your other hand on his arm.

Carefully, you press the cloth to his back. He hisses through his teeth and clams up, shoulders raising, hand jilting forward on instant to remove the discomfort.

“I’m sorry,” you murmur. “I’ll try to be more gentle,” but you don’t know how you can be more gentle than this.

“It’s fine.”

Your fingers leave indents on his arm, which you like more than you can bear to admit. You clean the raw, blotchy skin with a slow, blotting method, and you clean until the cloth is soaked red with him.

Rinse and repeat.

When you wring out the cloth, the water turns pink, and you stare at it, and you don’t know why that’s what finally breaks you. Your eyes swell with tears that can’t possibly burn the same as his wounds—wounds that you couldn’t prevent. It’s not a matter of being useless, or being a burden. It’s a matter of resolving yourself to your inhibitions, knowing that there really was nothing you could do, and that this would have happened regardless. Most people would find that a comfort. That you couldn’t change the inevitable. It was always going to happen this way. Levi was always going to be abused. He was always going to bleed, and hurt. And you hate it. You hate it more than you hate Zeke.

Your hand trembles, so you squeeze his arm tighter, and you duck your head. The tears drip from your eyes, the salt landing on your lips. The rag once again turns red. Rinse and repeat, and the water is now brown instead of pink.

The third time you take the rag to his back, there’s snot rolling down your Cupid’s bow. It burns your upper lip, turns it puffy. But you don’t sniffle, because if you do, he will know, so you hold your breath and you don’t hiccup and you keep your head down.

His back is not better, but it’s cleaner. The blood is now a paint-like smear on a blank canvas, the lashes like pencil marks on the skin. You continue down his body, as far down as his waistband allows. You don’t dare risking opening your mouth, cowering like an animal afraid to reveal it’s been backed into a corner, so you hook your finger and glance up to see if he doesn’t want you to go any further. He doesn’t object. He remains still, head tipped low.

You go to rinse the rag and repeat the process for the fourth time.

And as the cloth touches his skin, your body wracks with the sob you’ve been holding in since the first rinse.

You heave, and shove your face into a patch of untouched skin, and you cry all over him, desperately holding onto his elbow. You can’t fucking take it, so you weep like a child, and he lets you like a mother.

He looks down where your hand gripping the filthy cloth hovers beside your flush bodies and guides it around him until you’re clinging to him. He feels like someone who finally belongs to someone, being held like this. Even as your tears drip down his back, flaying him, and your sobs drill through his flesh into his bones, he knows he has someone to come home to.

“I’m sorry,” you choke out, gasping for air. “I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry. You’re so hurt.”

He closes his eyes. “No.” His hand slides over your forearm pressed to his stomach. “Don’t be sorry. Not for this.”

“If you didn’t know me, you’d be okay.”