Neil sat cross-legged on Andrew’s bed, the soft glow of the bedside lamp casting long shadows across the dorm. A handful of colored pencils lay scattered beside him, their tips dulled from use. He twirled a blue one between his fingers before carefully pressing it to Andrew’s skin, tracing over the faded scars lining his arm. The room was quiet, save for the soft scratching of pencil against flesh and the occasional rustle of fabric as Andrew shifted slightly.

He wasn’t trying to cover them up, wasn’t trying to pretend they weren’t there. The scars were a part of Andrew, just like the steady, unreadable expression he wore now as he watched Neil work. But if Neil could turn them into something else—just for a little while—then he would.

Slowly, he filled the pale lines with color, drawing tiny stars along the ridges, trailing comets down his wrist, and weaving swirling galaxies between his fingers. Andrew let him. He sat still, his golden eyes fixed on Neil, unreadable as ever, but he didn’t pull away. He didn’t tell him to stop. That alone meant more than words.

Neil paused for a moment, glancing up through his lashes. “You’re letting me do this.”

Andrew exhaled, shifting against the pillows. “It washes off.”

Neil hummed, dipping his head again to shade in a tiny crescent moon near Andrew’s knuckles. He knew what Andrew meant. Nothing was permanent. Nothing was safe. But for now, in this moment, the color stayed.