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The buttons on Norman’s shirt were undone one by one, fabric falling limp around his shoulders as Sammy’s hands worked away at the round pieces of celluloid. The darker-skinned man stayed quiet as the light cloth was removed entirely and set aside. He glanced up, green eyes wary and catlike, ready for flight at a moment’s notice. The composer stared harmlessly back with pools of blue. There was a long moment of more exchanged looks, more unspoken words.
Sammy gently pressed on Norman’s chest, lightly encouraging him to lie back. After a moment, the projectionist did as told, letting out a huff as his back made contact with the soft covers, frame creaking slightly at the motion. A sharp, familiar face appeared above him; Sammy quietly straddled his lap, clearly doing his best to make it as comfortable as possible. “Is this alright?” He questioned, the very pads of his fingers lightly brushing along Norman’s exposed pectoral area. Norman simply nodded in reply.
He started very simply and gently with Norman’s face, hands cradling his head as if conveying how precious he was, a thumb brushing along the cicatrix that ran from his eyebrow all the way down to his chin. While long-healed, the tissue was still raised and stark white against the tan skin, an angry mark that was still ruffled and puckered around the edges in a way that made it seem merely a week old. A permanent disfigurement, a permanent curse to be subjected to others’ judgement merely when you turned your face to them.
“My ol’ Pa wasn’t happy when I showed up on his doorstep.” The projectionist spoke, looking up at him. “Drunk, had to be. The memories are blurry. Only remember he didn’t want nothin’ to do with me.” He raised his hand, more angry, lacerated wound tissue blanketing his palm, and curled it around Sammy’s own. Sammy’s gaze trailed from his ruined face to his mutilated palm; he raised it to his mouth, placing a kiss along the rough skin. The ghost of a smile graced Norman’s face. He suddenly looked as young as he was. Only 27 years of age, and his body brutally scarred beyond repair. The thought made Sammy feel sick. He continued to press light kisses over the hand, moving from the palm to the base of his digits, then to the other side to caress a knuckle or two. This time Norman chuckled, his thumb stroking Sammy’s face. The brunette leaned into the touch, gazing at him gently.
After some time, Sammy went back to examining Norman’s facial scars. At the edge of his mouth was a slit that was small, yet seemed to meld the corners of his lips together slightly when he spoke - it was, in a way, entrancing to space out while looking at. Something slightly unnatural in a perfectly natural action, yet fluid all the same. He bent to kiss that scar at the very corner of his mouth next, relishing in the way Norman tensed when their lips touched - the projectionist made a move to get up, to presumably wrap his arms around him and kiss him again, but with another light push to the chest, a gentle ‘tsk’ of a reminder, he fell still.
Adjacent to his disfigured eye, the projectionist’s cheek had suffered a ragged line, clearly a healed cut. It blended more comfortably than the other two, but was a scar nevertheless, evidently born from a sloppy, panicked slash of a knife. Sammy took the moment to merely visualise the lashing motion, the glint of the blade, a cry as it bit greedily into flesh - and then he was kissing that too, gently, ever so gently, Norman squirming and evidently trying not to smile.
He moved down, brushing over his love’s chin, his throat, pressing more kisses to his adam’s apple. His tan chest was pock-marked with scratches and cuts, clearly deep enough to not have healed properly despite their small area. Sammy’s hand traced down his stomach, feeling Norman shiver and let out a chuckle. “Street life was rough, huh?” The musician mumbled, looking from the abrasions on his chest to his hands, one thumb still stroking along the skin of his stomach. The auburn-haired man nodded sagely.
“Can you roll over for me?” Sammy asked, squeezing his hand. Norman nodded with another small smile, beginning to turn. Halfway through the action, the brunette’s hand stopped him - he had noticed the two rings on his bicep, circles of ruffled tissue with smooth, flat centres. Sammy’s nimble fingers closed around his upper arm, thumb feeling along the marks. “I…” He was clearly confused, having never seen something like this before. “What caused this…?”
Norman coughed. “Bullet.” Was all he said, tensing uncomfortably when Sammy touched them again, then pulled away, suddenly understanding why the projectionist sometimes held his arm awkwardly in angles that weren’t quite right. After another moment of thought - Norman could almost see the gears turning in Sammy’s head - he boldly pressed his lips to the scars, moving from one to the other and back again slowly and methodically.
That was the last straw for Norman, who wrapped his arms around Sammy and made him kiss him properly this time, a hand sliding up into his brunette hair and making the musician let out a short, gasping sigh as his hands moved to cradle his face. The green-eyed man pulled away with a huff and a grin. “You don’t have to be gentle with me, Lawrence. I’m not fragile.” He gestured to his face as an example, amused.
“You look the part.” The musician retorted snidely, while tenderly stroking his face and climbing onto his lap. He pushed him back down, projectionist again landing with a thump on the covers, bedframe squeaking in shrill protest. He scoffed. “Listen to this rickety old thing, Norm.” Making a fist and banging it against the metal resulted in an even more hazardous warning shriek. Norman’s hands roamed Sammy’s hips as he responded, “Funny, I expected you to say the same when you saw…” He trailed off, giving a vague gesture towards his torso. “All of this.”
“Well,” Sammy began firmly, running his hands over his chest smoothly before leaning to touch his lips to each of the scars once more. “Let me spell it out for you. I.” Kiss. “Think.” Kiss. “You.” Kiss. “Are.” Kiss. “Gorgeous.” His hand found the projectionist’s among the plush covers, and squeezed it tightly. “And you are going to accept that, Polk.” He tapped Norman’s nose with finality, who only responded with a soft and amused look.
They laid back, the musician resting on the projectionist’s marred chest, still tracing along the pockmarks and ruptured, unkempt tissue.
“Sam?” Norman asked after a while. The brunette responded with a small hum, lax against his body. He shifted slightly, peering at his boyfriend under the arm stretching across his torso. Sammy’s blue eyes were closed as he peacefully rested against Norman’s navel. The projectionist let out a chuckle, brushing back his smooth, silky curls, a jarring contrast with his unkempt, unappealing strands of auburn. He laid back against his pillow, staring at the ceiling, wondering if another sleepless night was approaching - or if for once, after some kind words, he could finally find some peace. Just a little bit.
“Thank you.”