an irreplacable agony

Pain was a sensation Tom had always been good at bearing the weight of without complaint. 

Part of it came from his quiet disposition—a reticence so insistent it bordered on the worrying realms of sacrifice, but it was so very him. Tom bottled every single emotion until it hardened into the exact kind of clay he could use to build the foundations of his own sense of absolute self-control; a personal art form—one he’d do so of his own volition with little resembling protest. 

Another was just out of necessity—his Blessing, amongst other things, gave him a level of manipulation over both his anatomy, as well as all the guts and glory within, which would have been useless without a remarkable level of tolerance.

It was something he could deal with. It was.

But this, but this—

‘You can relax, you know?’ Gentle and with the warmth of laughter, Seb curls close and like a cat into his side. 

This was unbearable. 

A burning restlessness burrowed itself into him, crawling beneath his skin in an itch that wriggled as much as it squirmed. Somehow agonising… and yet the thought of going without seemed an agony far worse. Because that would mean going without Seb, and that seemed a deprivation as cruel as it was heartbreaking, a possibility that Tom could not last even a second dwelling on. 

‘I…I’m sorry.’ Tom’s voice is a quiet rumble, akin to brontide, looming. His hands seem to shake—he does not know what to do with them, only wanting to make the choice that will not stop Seb from continuing touching him. ‘I’m not used to…’ 

Seb’s next words are soft, brushing against his heartbeat. ‘I know, Tom. I’m not going anywhere.’ 

A part of Tom, far bolder than the rest, wants to make him promise. The words singe themselves into his tongue, but they only rest on the tip. He can’t quite say it. So instead, he goes for the words requiring less of him. ‘Thank you.’ 

From here, he could see Seb’s smile. They came to him far easier than Tom’s did for him, and yet, Seb’s company would draw them out like nothing else could. 

He wondered if it would always feel like this. Would the heat centred at the crux of his chest—an ache to ignite the insides of his ribcage in a show of light and love—always be such an overwhelming force? Could he even fathom what it meant to become accustomed to it, to familiarise himself with the sensation of another’s touch, of Seb, where it not just became norm but a treasured one he found comfort in?

Slowly, he manages a trembling arm to rest upon Seb’s shoulders. Though the tremors were obvious enough to goad anyone into commenting, Seb does not say anything and instead sighs, drawing ever closer. 

It was all Tom could manage, for the moment. 

(But it would surely grow to more, and Seb by all means had no problem with waiting as long as he needed.)