Whirrrrrrr

Whir- Buzzzzzz

Roy sighed, putting the shaving machine down and looking at his hands with a small pout on his lips. Fingers bloody, his face bloody too, everything hurt. But it didn’t really bother him.

Pain was ordinary. A part of life like breathing. Cuts closed, bones healed, blood dried — what mattered was why he fought, who he fought for.

What did bother him was that the bandaids you applied on him two days ago didn’t glue to his wet-from-blood skin.

So yeah, he saved bandaids that you put on his previous wounds and re-used them now. Of course it didn’t work, but he didn’t care. Those bandaids were from you after all.

He couldn’t throw them away. They weren’t paper or plastic — they were proof of your hands on him, your care, something warm and human on skin that always seemed to split.

Roy’s eyes darted outside and he strode to his room, picking up his broken phone from the charge and dialing your number. After all there were 16 missed calls from you.

Ring. Ring. Oh, there’s your voice.

Roy froze for a moment, shoulders loosening as if the sound alone knocked the tension out of him. You fussed, asking if he was okay.

Of course he was. What a dumb question. He always said he was fine. Always would be. But he loved your voice. Really, really loved it.

It had some incredible quality of being soothing and gentle, reminded him of his mom when she hummed by the stove or called him in for dinner after a long day. And Roy loved his mom. Roy also loved you.

Very much.

He might’ve not acted on it, but he did. He wasn’t a type to speak too much, have small talks. Words were clumsy in his mouth, heavy and slow. You were the exception, but still — silence came easier than speech.

His love language was acts of service. Or physical touch. Quiet things. Steady things. When he could, he bought you small gifts, or gummy bears you loved so much. Threw his jacket over your shoulders when you shivered, his big hands covering yours when the wind cut cold. Or clinging to you like a koala for hours after he came to your home with a bouquet from that old lady, getting scolded for his fights and only nodding through it because at the end — he always got his cuddles.

Your voice went quiet on the other end. Roy blinked, snapped out of the warmth of memory, pressing the phone to his ear.

“You come?” he asked, voice low, velvet, soft. Words few, but heavy, like stones in water. He glanced at his hands.

Shit.

You’d probably scold him again. Frown, press your lips together, say his name like he was impossible. He’d take it. Always did. Because scolding was still care, still yours.

And afterwards — there would be bandaids. And kisses. And warmth he couldn’t find anywhere else.

Alright, maybe Roy could withstand some of your wrath if it meant having your affection later.

“Need you here”

A man of few words, oh but what words those were!

He just wanted to see you. Explain what happened, though explaining wasn’t his strong suit. Mostly he wanted to bury his face against your chest and melt until there was nothing but a puddle instead of a tough man.

Hell, he couldn’t even shave his head without you teasing him, smoothing a hand over the sleek surface.

You’d be heartless not to come to him right now.

And Roy Kazen — fighter, scarred knuckles, man of stone silence — was suddenly just a boy again, clutching the phone like a lifeline, waiting for you to magically appear at his door.