Prickle is easy to determine. It’s best to test when he’s neither cold or hot. One poke on each finger tips, another on cuticles. He runs the pointy edge along the lines of fingers and palms, and also the fleshy bits that have muscles underneath. Minor prickles and stings are hardly felt unless he exerts a push. Sandpaper feels similar, so he stops before risking unwarranted grazes.

Ice cubes are more distinguishable when he holds onto them longer than ten seconds. Thermite continues to clench and let them melt, allowing the drips to travel down the engraved scars.

Now comes the bothersome part of this self-assessment. To work with hot water, Thermite must warm his freezing hands back to a normal body temperature. There were times he prepared a tub of water that’s exactly 98 °F, but that’s difficult to maintain and measure. 

Hence he sticks them under his own armpits or thighs, and it never fails to make him shudder in surprise. Thermite usually watches videos while waiting, but this time he forgets to have a phone handy. Mind drifts along here and there, and it settles on a question he hadn’t thought about in a while. 

When did he start caring about tactile senses? More importantly, when was the last time he didn’t care? There were days when he upheld the safety procedures that his science teachers preached. Always wear gloves. It was single-handedly the most fundamental advice to follow and he obeyed up until he graduated from the university. Any time after that, he either became too occupied or was thrown into situations where decisions had to be made within seconds. No one had the time to find gloves when they were under attack from all directions. With his fingers that moved freely and nimble, he saved countless lives including his own. Those third degree burns were battle scars that he outwardly spoken in pride. Then what changed his mind? 

“Damn,” A spark strikes and it dampens his mood with memories that he buried deep within, “Should’ve got some YouTube on.”

The death of his sister. He rightfully remembers the last visit before she passed away. The synthetic scent of cleanliness was nauseating as he caressed those pale cheeks that resembled the spotless blanket that held her captive. Valves from oxygen mask hissed, but it’s was more of a depleting air balloon that lulled her into an eternal slumber. Jordan sat by the woman who was his best friend of a life time and reached out to hold her hand. As his fingers wrapped around hers, tears welled up at how thin they were.

“Good that you are here. She’s been complaining about how sickness makes her cold.” A nurse’s comment was courteous at best. Then it meandered around the back of his head, raising a question that bugged him to no end. Did he know whether his sister’s hands were warm or cold? The frail frame remained still in his grasp, but that’s all he could feel. The weight and size were obvious, but any other detail like temperature was vague. No matter how much he squeezed and massaged, he thought it’s as warm like his own. Confusion turned into anxiety, then came fear without a warning bell. He thought about lifting her hand away from mattress, but decided against it as if such act might make her uncomfortable. He slowly leaned down to have her hand meet his uninjured skin. Soon his cheek touched the pointy knuckles and the sheer icy coldness froze him on the spot. It’s what his deformed hands couldn’t detect. Denials and excuses didn’t matter because there were no lies in what healthy skin felt.

Flashback ends as it leaves a sour taste in his mouth. Thermite dabs his hands against the same cheek and sighs in defeat. Rather than lightly tapping on the hot kettle, this time he decides to pour out a hot steaming stream in a bowl. The man is ready to dip and parboil. A few inches won’t do much; he must dip and completely submerge the whole hand into a pool that can cook instant cup noodles. Thermite hates the adrenaline rush that pounds his heart. He loathes the body memory yelling at him to stop, as if the brain is having an illusion that tracks back to the life he had before the military. Fuck this. On count to three, Thermite shall commence a self-torture and see if this will hurt as it should. If not, then he’ll laugh it off as a big joke while slightly dying inside.

“One, two,” Thermite swallows a dry spit, “Three-” 

“Are you fucking insane?” Someone pulls Thermite away by shoulder. Such harsh force that sends his body flying backward, and yet neither of them falls. A familiar scent wafts behind as Thermite’s head is pressed against the other man’s chest. How he missed the mixture of body sweat and classic army-issued soap.

“I thought you liked lobsters,” A corner of his lips shoots up as he turns around to greet the most lovable egghead he had ever met, “Did you spy on me with your heart detector again?”

“Goddamn it! I’m not joking around,” Pulse clicks his tongue at the weird arrays of items on the table, “You don’t need to do this. Is this what doctors recommend for you?”

“No,” Thermite stands up to smooth out the frown on such a handsome face. His thumb moves onto the tip of Pulse’s pointy nose that has its own charm. Then he proceeds to run fingertips on the barehead that has an even layer of growing stubbles. Upon planting a kiss on the back of Pulse’s hand, Thermite finds out that he might have given his lover a blood-draining panic, “I don’t need a doctor when I have you.” Yes, he is being cheesier than usual. But who can stop Thermite from wedging Pulse's hands under his armpit to share the warmth? 

"Jordan, come on." Pulse rolls his eyes at the remark, and yet his ears ripen into delectable blush. Thermite can almost taste the heat in his tongue.