Page 30 of We May Be Fractured

With shaky hands, Aaron pulled off his wet clothes. The fresh hoodie was a couple of sizes too big, but it enveloped him like a comfort blanket. It also smelled of Landon.

“Okay, you can look now,” Aaron said, settling on the futon.

Landon sat beside him, close but not too close. He was the total opposite of Nyle in that sense.

Aaron played with the hoodie’s sleeve hem as he took in the room. He then settled on Landon. “You’ve never asked about my scars.”

Landon met his eyes. “Why? Did you want me to?”

“No, just…wondering.”

“I’ve always believed in respecting personal boundaries.”

“Thank you.”

“For what? Being decent? You’re not the only one running from something, Aaron. And you’re certainly not the only one who brought their demons along for the ride.”

Aaron gripped the sleeves of the hoodie, the ribbed fabric pressing into his skin. “How can I forget the past when it’s written on my body?”

“You can draw over it.”

“That’s impossible if the canvas is ruined.”

“You forget that I work with tattoos. I’ve seen all kinds of canvases. Trust me, it’s possible.”

Aaron shook his head slightly. “Not on me.”

In the following silence, Landon’s eyes seemed to try to look right through the hoodie.

“Want to see them and judge for yourself?” Aaron asked, surprising even himself.

“Only if you’re comfortable with it,” Landon replied softly.

Aaron had always kept his scars hidden, fearing how others might react. But with Landon, there was this sense of safety, an unspoken understanding.

Drawing a deep breath, Aaron stripped off the hoodie much as he’d rip off a plaster from a wound in need of air. Under the soft, twinkling glow of the fairy lights, his torso lay bare, a crisscross of scars etching a map into his skin.

Landon observed quietly, his eyes moving thoughtfully over each mark. Aaron braced himself, but there he saw no sign of disgust or pity in Landon’s expression, only quiet focus.

For Aaron, revealing his scars, something he thought would feel raw and painful, turned out to be oddly relieving, like soothing an ache that had been hidden for too long.

Landon’s hand hovered near Aaron’s chest, following a scar running across it.

“Car crash three years ago,” Aaron explained quietly. “This big one’s from the seatbelt. The others”—he gestured to the rest—“came from the windows in the crash. It was pretty bad. My family…they were there, too, and I was the only one who came out of it.”

Landon reached out to the pendant—a memento from that fateful day. Aaron didn’t say it out loud, but as Landon studied the shard of glass, he could tell Landon had put the pieces together.

“I was right,” Landon said. “Marks of survival.”

“Survived, yeah, but it’s not as if I’m some hero. Just got through, that’s all.”

“Survival’s not about being a hero.” Landon held his gaze, a flicker of something similar to anger or pain briefly crossing his face. Who knew what kind of battles Landon himself was fighting?

Then, Landon rolled up his sleeve, revealing an intricate tapestry of tattoos.

Aaron studied the detailed artwork—florals, skulls, sentences, and cryptic symbols, all beautifully executed.

The level of craftsmanship took him aback.

Despite Landon’s earlier claims of amateur work, these tattoos were clearly the work of a skilled artist. It seemed Landon held himself to high standards, especially when it came to his work.

But Aaron noticed something else amidst the ink: thin, raised scars, running in parallel lines. Different from his own but unmistakably similar in their meaning.

“Marks of survival,” he murmured, echoing Landon’s words.

“Not everyone sees them that way.”

“Why?” Aaron wasn’t entirely sure what he was asking.

Landon laughed, short and dry, then pulled his sleeve back down. “I think that’s enough ‘show and tell’ for one night.”

But Aaron continued to stare at Landon’s arm, almost certain the other one had similar stories to tell. “You don’t strike me as someone who makes decisions lightly. If you really wanted to…you know, end things, you wouldn’t be here now.”

Landon laughed more loudly this time, though it lacked mirth. He crossed his arms, fingers idly tracing the scars underneath the fabric. “I used to believe I could manage pain, that controlling it somehow made me stronger. Turns out I’d lost control way before I even realised.”

Aaron flashed back to the excruciating pain he’d endured upon waking in a hospital bed, his body wrapped in bandages and heart gripped by panic; there hadn’t been a part of him that didn’t ache.

For him, pain had been a terrifying reminder of loss, fragility, and death. Landon, though, used pain to remind himself he was still alive. The difference in their perspectives was stark.

“I used to be ashamed of my scars,” Landon continued. “They reminded me of everything I was trying to run away from.”

“Is that why you covered them with tattoos?”

Landon shook his head. “It’s not about covering them up. It’s…transformation, you know? I turned them into something else, something new.”

“But they’re still there.”

“Yeah, they are. But now they’re part of a story I decided to tell. These tattoos…they’re my chosen scars.”

Their eyes met, holding a whole conversation in the brief silence.

Aaron felt a sense of admiration and envy. Landon had managed to turn his scars into art, into stories inked on skin. He’d turned them into blossoms sprouting from seeds he chose to cultivate rather than hide away in regret.

It was a powerful way of dealing with the past, of making something beautiful out of something painful.

Landon’s words hit him. He was a rabbit. And it dawned on Aaron that no matter how much he kept running, trying to find himself, there was no sure bet he’d land somewhere new. Because, in the end, wherever he went, there he’d be.

Perhaps, like Landon, he could learn to embrace his scars, to find beauty in the broken places.

Caught in the intensity of his thoughts, Aaron soon broke away, shifting his gaze to the safety of the wooden ceiling above. It was one thing to watch Landon, but being seen and understood in return was something else entirely.

“How about a film?” Landon grabbed his laptop and the half-empty bag of crisps from the desk.

Aaron nodded in response, snapping back to the present; he’d forgotten he was still half-naked. Quickly, he pulled the hoodie back on as Landon fiddled with the laptop.

“There we go,” Landon announced with satisfaction. “This one’s a holiday classic.”

Aaron peered at the screen. “ Die Hard ? Really? Since when is that a holiday film?”

“You mean you haven’t seen it? It’s set on Christmas Eve, the main character’s wife is called Holly, and there’s even one of the bad guys in a Santa hat. Plus, plenty of Christmas music in the background. It’s practically wrapped in tinsel.”

“That’s a bit of a stretch, isn’t it?”

“Trust me, by the end, you’ll agree it’s a Christmas film,” Landon assured him with a confident grin.

As Landon hit Play, the audio of the movie filled the small room.

Aaron lost himself into the cosiness, wrapped up in the warmth of the hoodie and comforted by Landon’s presence beside him. It was an oddly soothing way to spend the evening, a stark contrast to the party chaos outside.

As the movie neared its end, Landon had nodded off, arms folded, with the laptop still perched on his legs.

Aaron stifled a yawn, his attention drifting to Landon’s face, peaceful in sleep but with a hint of restlessness beneath his closed eyelids.

He wondered if Landon was dreaming or, like him, haunted by nightmares.

Then, abruptly, one of Landon’s eyes flickered open. “I’ve already told you—staring’s rude,” he said, more playful than annoyed.

Caught off-guard, Aaron blurted out without thinking, “You’re beautiful.”

Landon twitched his eyebrow. “And you’re still tipsy.”

“Maybe, but that doesn’t make it less true.”

Shaking his head, Landon chuckled softly. He removed his piercings, set them aside on the desk, together with the laptop, and reached down to pull a blanket from beneath their legs on the futon. With a thoughtful gesture, he spread it over them both, silently inviting Aaron to lie down next to him.

As Aaron moved closer, careful not to invade Landon’s space, their hands brushed briefly. “Sorry—” he began, but Landon interrupted, gently intertwining their fingers.

A smile broke through Aaron’s initial surprise. He hadn’t done much hand-holding, but this…was different, special. It was as if they were silently saying We’re in this together —a sort of unspoken deal to stick by each other.

Aaron closed his eyes, letting a sense of peace envelop him.

He’d never felt truly safe anywhere or with anyone before. But here he was, open and vulnerable, not in some distant, secluded place, but in a small summer house no bigger than a shed, in someone else’s garden, under fairy lights twinkling like far-off stars.

It dawned on him that it wasn’t the place offering this feeling of safety; it was Landon.

Landon, who had seemed like a walking contradiction when they first met, now offered comfort with his steady presence. Their hands clasped together gently yet firmly, reminding Aaron of the art of holding sand—not grasping it too tightly, but allowing it to lie comfortably in one’s palm.

And that’s exactly what Landon was doing with him now.

He was offering parts of himself, grain by grain, so Aaron let them rest on his skin.