Band-aid

Band-aids

Baths were always a comfort for you.

An escape.

The days before the world fell feel like a whole different lifetime. You absolutely hated your job, but you were always so excited to come home after a tedious 9-5 and indulge in an expensive bath bomb. It was such a luxury. Candles would illuminate the entire room as you took a video of the way the object bobbed along, fizzing, leaving multiple colours streaming in its wake, and of course, it went on Instagram.

You'd sit for hours in the warm water, staying until the very last possible moment until the water was just a little too cool - just as excited to get out and wrap yourself in the fluffiest towel you owned, reveling in the way your muscles felt like jelly afterwards.

You're fairly certain every single bath bomb in the world must have crumbled by now, nothing but colourful dust in their packaging. But that's okay, you didn't need a bath bomb or rose petals for the filled tub you were currently in - and the man tucked between your thighs couldn't care less, he didn't want any fancy essential oils or bright pink water. All he wanted was you.

He was hesitant when you suggested the idea - tears threatening to spill over at the thought of undressing. Bath. It sounds so simple, and he absolutely hated himself for making it seem so complicated in his mind, he'd shared a bath with you a dozen times. But he was beaten, angry, bruised, embarrassed, and disgusted at the thought of what you'd see under the stolen shirt that covered him. Years of insecurity brought back to the surface at the thought of how many new scars were forced upon him. But when you rested your forehead against his, whispering a soft 'it's okay' before wiping away the fallen tears with a brush of your thumb, you chipped away at his doubt.

"Baby, it's okay. We don't have to."

He just stood there, eyes downcast as he twiddled his fingers. You were always so patient with him it made him want to sob against you. He wanted to cry out and yell that it's all he wants.

He wanted the water at the usual temperature, but he knew it would burn against his cuts and broken skin. Wanted to feel your fingers massage the cheap shampoo into bubbles - he'd never find the words to tell you about how a clump of his hair was ripped out when he fought back, or about the bump he could still feel at the back of his head from the collision of an steel-toed boot.

He fucking hated this.

His hands balled into fists at the fact he couldn't just say yes, that everything fucking hurt and he didn't want to take his shirt off because that involved peeling it away from where it had stuck onto one of the freshest cuts, dried blood and dirt caked against him. Everything was so fucking frustrating - he was finally free, but his mind wasn't.

Feeling the gentle nudge of your fingers below his chin, he lifts his eyes to meet yours and he chokes at the fact you're smiling at him.

It's the smallest smile, but it's genuine and you're the only person that hasn't looked at him with pity, anger, or disgust in weeks. Your eyes aren't looking down at him, they're full of love and your fingers have the same sentiment when they move from his chin to softly brush strands of hair away from his eyes, pads of your fingers a whisper against bruised skin.

"Hmm, what do you need?"

You.

You, you, you.

"Whatever you want, it's yours, okay. Shall we get some sleep, or maybe grab you some food first?"

He shakes his head. As much as he'd sell his soul to lay in a soft bed with you next to him, he's so thickly covered in blood, dirt, and sweat that he knows he needs to clean up. There's vomit still in his hair that he couldn't fully pick out and despite all the conflicting emotions, he wants to wash away any trace of their hands on him, and food can wait.