While the Stars are our Home

The middle part one

After my last encounter with him, I started to see him around more.
I can attribute it to a few different reasons, one being that teaching calmed down quite a bit. It had taken a while but now we were all in a routine of sorts and the days were easier, the kids were well-behaved, and the material wasn't astronomically hard.
This meant I was able to streamline my work and spend more time outside of the classroom, which Jungkook said he hated because now I have more time to annoy him.
I saw him in the hallways, in the dining hall as he passed with his friends, and then a few months later, in the library.
It had been late at night; I hadn't been able to sleep and decided to take a walk instead of staying cooped up in my room.

The library was not big, and space on board was limited as it was, but it was nice to be able to have the feeling of real books from back home on this cold sterile ship.
I quickly found a book I had loved as a child and sunk down into a large beanbag chair near the large viewing window. The windows had two effects on people, the more common one was awe and wonder at the sights outside. The stars were beautiful and occasionally you could see a planet floating by, but some people had the opposite reaction. It was one of panic.
Those people were sent to therapists and were kept track of so that they could be helped with their traumas.
I was one of the first thankfully, even though I did go see Jimin often, both for friendship and for the occasional session. I had always loved the stars, even as a small child and I was more than happy to sit and watch them through this large window as the ship creaked around me.
I sighed at the stars and then cracked the book open, letting myself fall into the new universe as time passed. I was almost halfway done with the book when a noise startled me, it sounded like a scuffed foot, a thump, and a small, tired exhale of air. I looked around and my eyes went wide as I caught sight of him just lying on the floor to my right.
I called his name softly and asked if he was okay. He quickly looked up and his face flushed red, the white scar on his chin showing more clearly against the pink skin.
He quickly pressed himself up, and that's when I realized I could see his arms. He had only ever been wearing the normal long sleeve jumpsuit for as long as I could remember but tonight, he was wearing a short sleeve t-shirt with a pair of old army pants. The scaring on his arms was fascinating, and I could help but stare at the crisscrossing lines all over his forearms and biceps.
"They are ugly aren't they," He asked, looking down at them as he stood awkwardly.
I stood, book forgotten on the beanbag as I walked toward him, "No, quite the contrary."
He looked surprised but stayed still, waiting as I reached him.
"Can I touch them?" I asked, glancing up into his bottomless eyes. He stared into mine for a long moment before nodding, holding his arms out to me slightly.
I slowly traced a single finger down one of the lines, from elbow to wrist and he shivered. I smiled, glancing up to see him staring straight into my face.
"I think scars are beautiful," I whisper as I touch one on his other arm, this one an erratic line.
His brows furrow as if he can't understand why I would say that.
"Scars are proof of struggle. But they are even more proof of a win. You've won a battle, it's almost like a trophy."
"That's an interesting thought process," He whispers as if scared to speak any louder at this moment.
I reach up and pull down the collar of my own jumpsuit, showing him the faint scar across the base of my neck, "Mine isn't as big or as obvious but it's a visible mark of a very invisible and invalidated struggle."
His eyes go wide and one of his hands comes up, a finger pressing against the fine white line instinctively.
"What happened?" He asks, examining the mark.
"Thyroid cancer. Had to have it taken out when I was 17."
He slowly takes his hand away and I realize I was holding his other hand in mine. I begin to let go but then he squeezes my hand and I let him keep it, against every instinct in me.
"I'm sorry you went through that," He finally says, eyes back on my face as I let go of my collar.
I shake my head, "I'm fine. Eventually, I may run out of meds for it but until then, I'm totally fine," I pause, "I can't imagine it could be worse than a plane crash."
His eyes cloud slightly, and I kick myself, I shouldn't have brought it up, he was clearly still working through the trauma.
"Sorry, I shouldn't have brought it up," I quickly backtrack as he lowers his gaze, but his hand doesn't leave mine. I grasp for something else, "Want to come and read with me for a while? Books can be great distractions from reality."
He looks back up at me and slowly nods, lets me lead him back to my giant bean bag, and falls onto it beside me. I show him my book and he tells me he recognizes it.
"You can read it if you want, I'll grab another," I move to stand again but he grabs my hand again, stopping me.
"Could you read it?" He asks, eyes pleading for me to understand a deeper question.
I hesitate, brows furrowed slightly, "Like out loud?"
He just nods, looking relieved that I understood, and I swallow, I don't really like reading out loud.
"Um, I'm not too good at it, I might stumble on the words," I say, gaze shifting away from him and his perfect face.
"I don't mind," He whispers, a ghost of a smile tickling his lips. I glance up to find understanding on his face and take a deep breath before nodding.
"Okay," I whisper back, determination in my voice as I crack the book open again, starting from page one for the second time that night.
He settles himself further into the bean bag next to me and I scoot a bit closer to him so that he could see the pages if he wanted and begin to read in a quiet voice. As I read, he runs his own fingers over the scars on his arms, as if contemplating what I had said earlier.
At some point, I must fall asleep because I wake up hours later when the false sun is rising on the ceiling and I sigh, already feeling exhausted and regretting staying up so late.
That's when I remember where I was and open my eyes and find my head resting on his shoulder. Both of us are still in the beanbag where we must have fallen asleep together.
He was holding one of my hands with both of his as his head rested on top of mine.
I jumped at the proximity, and he began to stir. And I have to admit, I ran away.
I was out of the library before he was fully awake, too nervous to face whatever the interaction last night had been in the "light of day" if that is what you want to call the fake sun on the ceiling.