#*healthy

Mind’s fingers probe the edge of Heart’s blindfold. Heart flinches away, shutting his mouth before his gasp can grace Mind’s ears. “(Why would you care?)”

“[It’s not like that.]” Mind says quickly. His harried exhale tingles against Heart’s mouth. It’s…

It’s as if he can’t bear being questioned about anything he does. Really, hypocrite is too nice of a word for whatever Mind is. Mind should just quit.

He won’t, though.

Heart and Mind will stay in this cycle. A weird lingering touch, a weird unsaid feeling. Whatever-this-is.

“(What is it like, then? You don’t have to do this. I wish you wouldn’t.)” Heart asserts. He doesn’t like how Mind reaches out to him. He doesn’t like the spark (of pain) (of—) Mind lights up on his skin. He doesn’t like, doesn’t want—

“[I just want to check,]” Mind insists, logically. It could make sense if Heart wanted it to. If Heart wanted Mind to be doing all this for a good reason.

But—

“(Check what?)”

“[What he did. How bad it was.]”

“(You can just ask—)”

And that’s the crack in all this. Mind doesn’t need to touch Heart to figure these things out. Heart’s found the flaw in his argument— to do what? Exploit it? Make Mind—

Mind tugs Heart’s blindfold off. “[I don’t want to ask,]” he says.

“(You wanted to touch, instead.)”

“[I—]”

“(If you expect me to let you, at least admit it, Mind.)”

“[Let me?]”

“(I’m not weak. If I— wanted— to stop you, I could have.)”

(He really could have. But he didn’t. Because he wanted—

Whatever Mind wants, whatever the driving force is behind this thing. He wants that too. He really does.)

“[You want—]”

Mind presses his forehead against Heart’s, just a bit. “[Can I— touch your face?]”

“(Yes,)” Heart says, because there’s nothing else to say, really. Has there been? Has he ever said no to Mind when it comes to this-kind-of-thing?

He doesn’t touch Heart’s scar. His fingers trace up Heart’s chin, press into his cheek, and linger near his lips.

Heart reaches out. He takes Mind’s wrist, and pushes his fingers where they clearly want to go.

“[Heart,]” Mind pleads.

“(Do it,)” Heart tells him, and he doesn’t know what question he’s answering, really, it could be anything—

He does know.

Heart is there. Wings outstretched, eyes closed, monopolizing the couch no one really uses besides him. They do have a TV, and he is in front of it, but it isn’t on, because when it is on all it plays is static. No one wants to hear that.

Why would they? It’s just static. Always just static. Right?

Soul softens his steps as he edges towards the couch. He doesn’t do it often. Right now, though, he wants to get close to Heart without Heart snapping his wings shut and his eyes open. Heart is too relaxed to take note, even when he ends up behind him, peering over the edge of the couch.

He casually plucks a stray feather lying on the top of the couch. Soul squeezes his hand into a fist, the feather’s softness scalding- like a punishment for daring to take this from Heart. He doesn’t deserve it. He doesn’t deserve to know how it feels in his hand. He doesn’t deserve to see Heart lying comfortably on the couch, no thanks to him.

Yet he watches, fist clenched.

Heart’s soft like this. And isn’t that mocking, how his violence is a want, not a need- how he can turn up like this the next day, blissfully ignorant to what the line of his chin, the shadow cast by his arm over his chest, what the painting of his body spells out? Isn’t that beautiful?

It’s really something- Heart has this knack for forcing Soul to clutch at the bleeding edge of his thoughts like he would a wound. He can’t take this back any more than he can the bloodstains on the carpet. He can excuse away watching Heart for an hour straight, but when it comes to that adjective-

It’s not Soul’s fault that Heart’s something to marvel at.

That’s not an excuse either. Soul props his elbows up on the edge of the couch, and lets out the smallest sigh, but apparently that and that specifically is enough for Heart’s eyes to flutter open. “(…Soul?)” This would be a lot easier if he was actually asleep. Or a lot harder. It’s hard to wake him up, but if you do, you should probably run.

How does Soul excuse this?

“{Heart.}”

“(Were you… watching me?)”

Soul sighs, again. “{It’s not my fault that you’re something to watch, is it?}”

“(Are you saying I’m pretty?)”

“{Not yet.}”

Mind remains in his desk chair. Sitting up, and it creaks as he shifts the tiniest bit, and-

“{You stayed?}”

Mind turns around. His lips curl into a smile, and his hand hovers near his mouth, ready to cover it up. Luckily he refrains, so Soul can memorize its mirth, the light in his eyes. Metaphorical. Mind left the light off for him, despite the book sitting in his lap.

“[It would be in poor form to leave my Soul to the rain, wouldn’t it?]” Mind says, oh so casually, but-

Somehow, it doesn’t feel like a joke. Somehow, the knowledge that Mind- what, waited for him to wake up?- feels a bit more like… something that Soul doesn’t have the words for.

The window reflects Mind’s face.

Soul stretches his arms above his head, and it’s a relief to throw his blankets off with the warmth building in his cheeks and in his chest. He opens the window. The rain is unfiltered, splattering onto the ground, threatening puddles. The sun is brighter, too. Soul doesn’t think about it.

He gestures from Mind towards his bed. “{Sit by the window, dearest, you should hear it properly.}”

Mind nods, “[Of course,]” and sits down next to him. He rests his arm on Soul’s thigh. Soul swallows.

“{One time, I tried to sing…}”

Mind picks up the harmony, trusting him with the lead. Soul gives him “Tell me about the sky,” and he only hesitates slightly, his voice deep but soft. Earnest- like words pressed into his palms as the stars shine behind the window. Of course, Soul plays his part for Mind, reciting lyrics that weren’t meant for them.

Soul tilts his lips to Mind’s ear, and almost whispers, “{but I won’t let you lose yourself in the rain.}” A lyric that wasn’t meant for him- but that’s what it sounds like in Soul’s mouth.

“[We have so much left to sing.]”

“{There’s a storm for every spring…}”

“[All you see, and you and me, we came from the stars.]”

Mind looks away from the window, turning his head to aim his gaze directly at Soul.

“{So observe these blues and greens, and embrace this harmony.}”

“[All you see, and you and me, we came from the stars- from the stars, from the stars...]”

Mind sounds- like he’s putting all his effort into it. Like he means this.

Like he means it how Soul means it.

Soul’s mouth dries. He can’t say, “But you know how it goes,” because, well- is this how it goes? Soul can’t imagine feeling resigned about the way Mind sings him.

{Even if it isn’t him. Does it matter who it was meant for? Can’t Soul enjoy the song?}

In lieu of words- in lieu of the somewhat ridiculous thoughts that stick in his head, and the somewhat ridiculous flutter in his gut, like the sun upon him- Soul pulls Mind into his chest. “{The rain is nice today,}” Soul tells him, “{that was good,}” meaning so much more than those adjectives. “{You… you did a good job, dearest.}”

Mind makes a little surprised noise in the back of his throat. Or - Soul doesn’t need to avoid embarrassing him in the comfort of his own head, or anywhere, ever - Mind squeaks, eventually stuttering out, “[So- well- so did you.]” He seems to think that Soul’s going to break this, but slowly, he relaxes into Soul’s body. His hands raise, almost wavering in the air, and then he reciprocates the hug.

Whole wraps his arms around him, letting the dirt rub onto his skin. Even if he cared: anything for his dearest Heart.

Especially now.

“(Dearest, I- I-)” Tears run down his face.

Whole brushes the dirt and then the tears carefully off his cheeks. His fingers barely stop beneath Heart’s eyes - just habit. “(My light, I - can’t -)”

He shushes his Heart and pulls his face into his chest, combing his fingers through his hair. “We don’t have to go right now, dearest. Just stay with me.”

Heart muffles a sob into his skin.