no subject

( sara can immediately identify just about every scar that her fingers trace against, over his ribcage, over his abdomen, unflinching and unfazed. glass leaves traces like knives do, except more jagged, no clean lines to them. knives are more precise in the lines that they leave — sara's got a few of those scars herself, ones left by swords, staffs, even, lining her abdomen, crisscrossing over her back. her hand grazes, wanders, wanting to learn them and know them.

she presses a kiss to the tip of his nose, nearly misses considering she can't quite see him, no matter how much she tries to squint; it makes her laugh softly, peck him on the lips again. )

Thanks for the early Christmas present.