The flash... II

Chapter six: cingulomania

It was very unusual, the feeling of cold. Ever since the lightning Barry had never felt cold again. His body temperature was constantly over the average and healthy bar. But he was okay, of course. His cells vibrated with speed, with pure electricity. Cisco swore more than one time that he had seen lightning flash into Barry's eyes before he sped off to the latest meta attack. When he was little he hated feeling cold, so when Caitlin stated that his normal body temperature was now 38 degrees Celsius he was thrilled to never have to feel cold again. He loved the constant heat his body radiated. And he also loved the warm, calming feeling that never seemed to leave him ever since the night on the roof, the feeling that the mere, unconscious thought of his Ollie would bring him. So the cold induced goosebumps Barry could sense were rising on his skin felt very out of character for him. Besides that coldness that was setting in, deep into his bones was something he had never experienced in his life prior the explosion. He was almost entirely sure that nothing was going to warm him up. No blanket, no heater, no fireplace could ever eradicate the freezing hunch that was clinging to his body. Nothing. Perhaps someone.

Oliver hadn't felt coldness since he his second year on the island. The middle of the Chinese sea was everything but hot. Warm at times, but never enough. So he got used to it. His body slowly adapted to the environment he was secluded in. His heart and his lever trained along with the other muscles, strengthening each passing day, until Oliver was able to fight hypothermia. When he came back and started his crusade he always assured first Felicity, then Tommy and Thea that he never felt cold. They had laughed at his statement. "Drama Queen" is what Thea had addressed him. But he wasn't lying. Even when it snowed Starling city was never remotely close to Lian Yu freezing winters. And autumns. Or springs. Summer was more bearable, not always, but sometimes. So Oliver Queen didn't feel cold. Especially not after a geeky, scrawny forensic scientist had entered his life. After the night on the rooftop, which prefaced the rise of the Flash, Oliver was reminded of what warmth feels like. After five years of constant, unreasonable pain and numbness he finally felt warmth again. A warmth that never left, just like Barry never left his mind. Therefore when he noticed his arm hair standing against his skin, when he felt shivers travel down his spine he was, for lack of better words, perplexed. The freezing feeling that was spreading out, settling deep in his bones was something he had never experienced in his life prior the island. He was almost entirely sure that nothing was going to warm him up. No blanket, no heater, no fireplace could ever eradicate the freezing hunch that was clinging to his body. Nothing. Perhaps someone.

Barry had really started to hate the darkness he was immersed in, along with the freezing cold it brought him.
Oliver had really started to hate the feeling of infinity emptiness he was experiencing, along with the freezing cold it brought him. The both of them just wanted to be able to hold each other again, and never stop. They desired to stay in the other's arms for eternity, until eternity gave up. They needed to stay in the other's arms till eternity gave up. Neither Oliver or Barry had ever felt such a strong craving for touch.

Barry had always been a more open person when it came to physical touch, especially when he was younger. As he grew up he found himself rather uncomfortable with initiating contact with someone he had little to no confidentiality with. It brought a weird uneasiness to his stomach and a strange hyper awareness of his surroundings. He could feel his own skin touching his clothes and the other person's skin. He swore he could feel the air molecules gripping on his uncovered flesh. Although that happened rarely. So he shielded himself from this horrid sensation and reserved touch for close family only. Besides he had been raised by Joe West almost his entire life and the man was extremely precise when it came to consent, in every context. And so was his mother. Nora Allen was never strict with her son, she tried to give him as much space to build himself up as she could. However she was exceedingly clear about one thing and one thing only: asking for permission. She would always tell Barry to be polite with others, to ask for permission to do anything. That, of course, went both ways. Nora always reminded her son that he wasn't forced to engage into any type of activity if he didn't want to and to not be ashamed or scared to step up for himself when his right ti consent was denied. And Barry lived to this day by that rule. When Oliver entered his life Barry immediately understood his need for a little more space and time to adjust, so he made sure to vocally ask for anything, to always have his consent to step forward with their relationship. Because Oliver had become oh so quickly such an enormous part of Barry's life that he subconsciously allowed his internal child to come out and reach for physical contact. So Barry took note of every specific situation in which Oliver may or may not needed comfort and tried to find an alternative way to avoid touch, so that he wouldn't feel uncomfortable, and if there wasn't the same question would leave his lips every time. That little trait of his always confused Oliver.

Oliver was never good with touch. Not before and not after the island. He had reluctantly come to terms with the fact that he didn't grow up in an healthy household during when he witnessed his parents sitting on opposite sides of the living room sofa, ignoring each other's presence and just carrying on with their own separate lives. Lives that seemed to be separated also from their children's. Oliver had no memory, not even a blurred one of his mother hugging him spontaneously, in a private location, on a anonymous day. He had no memory of his father putting his arm around his shoulder after he had announced the results of a quiz or the grade of a project. He had absolutely no memory of both of his parents witnessing or cheering for him on one of his games. They weren't even there for the play that blessed him with a scholarship for his dream university. Not that he needed one but he had earned his place there. It felt good, for a couple of seconds. Or until he understood that not even Thea was there. So he started to slowly build walls around his heart. He didn't let anyone in. Not his mother. Not his father. Not his sister. Not even Tommy and Laurel were ever completely in. He isolated himself from the pain by throwing himself into socialisation. He made up for the numbness by searching for meaningless touches, he did it so much that touch lost its uniqueness. When he was a kid he used to believe that physical touch was one of the most beautiful experiences one could ever make. It was something special, different for everyone someone engaged it with and reserved for the truly loved ones. Then he grew up. Then the island happened. Lian Yu didn't change Oliver Queen. It shattered him. He was forced to witness so many horrors, so many death that the walls around his heart became fortresses. He isolated himself from his own mind in attempt to escape the pain. He had caused so much tragedy that when he was thrown back into civilisation he was a shadow of the man he used to be. An empty shell. However he wasn't completely empty. A strong pull screamed at him to let himself crumble into someone's arms. A voice begged him to let the walls tumble down and give himself a break. But how could he? Every time he had gotten close to someone they had ended up getting hurt, or killed. Everything he touched rotted and died. He was a poison to everyone who stood next to him. He was a monster. But then Bartholomew Henry Allen barged into his life, shattered his walls with that stupid question of his and taught him that touch and closeness was that beautiful and special thing he had thought it was as a child. He taught him that he wasn't poisonous, that he wasn't a monster. He taught him that he wasn't broken. A little dented perhaps, but not broken.

So in that moment, in that fraction of time Barry and Oliver were so drown to each other that they were physically feeling sick from the lack of contact. Barry was so tired of the darkness around him, of the coldness in his bones. Oliver was so sick of the emptiness in his chest, of the chills in his skin. They couldn't take it anymore. They were on the verge of breaking. Of crushing underneath the weight of the pain they were enduring. It was unbearable.

Oliver tried hard to keep his composure. But yet another day of watching his Bear on a hospital bed, with tubes in his arms and in his nose was making very harsh. Moreover Cisco had been desperately trying to wake Barry up for days now. He went through every single one of his favourite episodes from his favorire tv shows, through every Star Wars movies, throughout all of Barry's playlists. Nothing seemed to have a successful ending. And Oliver was slowly growing more and more annoyed. And so was Barry. He was trying. He really was. He wanted to wake up. He couldn't take it anymore. He simply couldn't. And neither could Oliver. So they let go. They allowed themselves to crumble. To shatter. The sob Oliver let out froze the blood in both Cisco and Caitlin's veins. They slowly turned towards him only to find the man stretched over Barry's chest, his own wrecking with horrid cries. Cries soon joined by another set of uninterruptible sobs. They watched as Barry, now awake, hid his head into Oliver's shoulder, while the other man deepened his into his chest. Their limbs tied together in a sublime braid of flesh, that was scarily beautiful. Their body coincided like puzzle pieces, intertwined perfectly into each other. And at last, after two weeks of unending coldness, warmth spread throughout them, reconstructing their broken hearts and melting the pain away. They were finally with each other again. And they never wanted to let go. Not until eternity gave up.

Cingulomania(n)
A strong desire to hold a person
in your arms. (And never let go).