Work Text:
Every morning, you look at yourself in the mirror, frowning at your scar. Every day, wherever your eyes meet your reflection—whether in a window, shop front, or rear-view mirror—you only see the scar. It brings back fire, blood, pain, the smell of charred skin and medics, and the feel of bandages and that horrible burn.
I remember the reunion, the relief of finding you alive amid the wreckage of the building, your eyes meeting mine before you passed out; that ever-present love still shining in them, just like in my memory from when we were carefree at Wammy's. I recall the tears of joy when you woke up several days later, and I knew you wouldn't die. I also remember the first kiss you gave me after two years—the feel of your dry lips and how you huskily whispered my name.
And I see your determination, your fire, that the one who gave you the scar cannot compare to. It merely licked at your face, unable to burn you to death, only marring you with a story. I see your self-sacrifice and the beauty behind the mask.
I see the one I loved, love, and will love, again and again, because I see you — really see you. Not the person you perceive in the mirror, and that you despise because of what you consider your ugliness, the weakness you believe is stamped on your face, or the way you think you have failed.
If only you could see yourself like I see you…
You would see the blonde child storming into our shared room at the orphanage, knocking over the piles of games scattered all around, shouting and kicking, always in motion, barely pausing for a second to smile at me and help me gather the games again.
You would see the beautiful face with light pink lips approaching mine and the kiss, and the movement of the mouth murmuring your first 'I love you' to me, along with the clouds taking on funny shapes as we spent the afternoon watching them cross the sky. That day, the sky was so blue that I thought I was looking at your eyes from too close, and their colour was all I could see in that vast field of white, cotton-like cumulus.
You would see your dishevelled hair spread on the pillow and your chest rise and fall evenly, as you, for once, slept a full night without nightmares in my arms, after we made love for the first time, the night before L died, and the faint smile on your lips, your fingers entwined with mine, and the little red mark just behind your ear, which I made.
You would see the stunning man now standing in front of me, asking what I'm thinking with that look in your eyes—always there when you wonder what's in my head—one of amusement at my faint smirk, one of humorous despair at the idea I'm probably thinking about one of my games and how to beat the boss, and one of tenderness, because it's always present in your eyes—just for me, only with me.
And I tell you that I am thinking about you, and you shake your head but smile, because you know it's true. I pull you into my arms, and I nip your ear with an 'I love you' on my lips, and you tell me you don't know how I can love you, because you're ugly, and you've killed and made many mistakes, and you're not even worth L. And I know that even if you don't know how, you know how much.
If only you could love yourself like I love you…