Ace wasn’t a fan of scratches. Even when you said it could help relieve some pain and get him to relax, which would be a major problem considering how little he rests, always constantly working on his music. He was always so tense. His paranoia didn’t help either. He would sleep with a nightlight (but deny it), and be on alert after hearing the littlest of noise, or seeing something shadowy in his peripheral—even though it was most likely his eyes just deceiving him.

However, you tried again.

“It makes my skin crawl, scratches and shit,” Ace claimed, but you’d see the way he would fold when you guys were lying in his bed together, your nails scraping gently across his shoulder. He remained tenacious about his ground, not wavering one bit. Just brushed it off, like it never happened. And that’s what he wanted it to be: out of the way and utterly false. Like a mere rumor.

You saw through him, regardless. You never thought of pushing it from that moment onwards. That would stay true until things got worse. It was bound to happen. Inevitable. No other way around it.

It got so bad that Ace would begin to complain about his strained, sore muscles, wince whenever he moved them slightly off from their original position, and stifle his grunts of pain into his pillow late at night over the phone. You felt bad, really. Almost guilty, like you were at fault for not being able to care for Ace. But you gave him the same response in return.

“Let me take care of you.”

Ace hated when you said that, He wasn’t like a stray kitten or anything, he was responsible. Independent. He could take care of himself. He knew he could, and wanted to be seen that he was so very capable.

Not vulnerable. God, he hadn’t felt that way in ages. Where the power was no longer his.

He clenched his fists, fingers tightening slowly around the sheets that embraced the bed. Ace’s edgy music and beats play in the background, his ragged breath seeming to come off louder in the moment.

The atmosphere was heavy, so thick a knife could cut it. His Adam’s apple bobbed before he shakily exhaled once more. He quickly slipped out his inhaler, pumping it into his mouth before putting it away. You knew it didn’t do much. Didn’t calm the inner turmoil still stirring inside.

Beads of sweat trickled down Ace’s face. He was nervous and anxious. His fingers fidgeted and shook at the same time, his knee was continuously bouncing, and he looked so panicked in his eyes it made your chest tighten.

“C’mon, Ace.” You lightly pleaded, the sparkle in your eyes shining like never before as you faintly pouted. Soon, your hands were clasped as his eyes narrowed.

“Fuck no!”

“Please?” You added.

Silence filled the room, and you even considered giving up for a solid moment, albeit how much of a dick move that would be. You didn’t know what else to do for him. That was the case until the words “Just this once, asshole” slipped past his lips.

You turned your head to him, and you knew he said that in the most begrudging manner ever. You smirked before Ace slowly took off his hoodie, followed by his shirt. He flopped on his cold mattress, face stuffed into the pillow, as if he could still properly breathe through it. Yeah, right.

You've got to work, massaging him, getting all the knots out, rubbing your hands up and down his back—then beginning to scratch his back. He visibly froze, shoulders tense. Slowly, but surely, he began to slump against you. Your nails were moving up and down in a repetitive motion as they continued to abrade against his smooth skin.

He couldn't believe he was saying it, but it felt good. Addictive. And for a moment, all the weight he was carrying seemed to dissipate, and his eyes fluttered shut. Ace relished in moments like this. Moments like these with you, where he could stop worrying for a moment.