Touching is not for him and Andrew is firm about his position. He sees no point in explaining and justifying himself — especially since they won't understand anyway and are bound to try to change his mind — it's just not for him. The feeling of vulnerability and loss of control that even the most cautious touches cause is irritating. The refreshing sensation on the skin after someone's hands is even more irritating — he always wants to wash himself after.

Banning touching under penalty of death is easier than enduring the discomfort, the nasty feeling of anxiety scraping at the back of his head, or explaining that no is no. Some people just don't know how to keep their hands to themselves and Andrew doesn't want to deal with that. It's not fear, it's reluctance, and when he's old enough to express it fully, Andrew will express it.

It's a principle, there are no "buts" or other exceptions. But you — you're a special case. He can let you touch himself because he knows you. Your hands are always in your pockets until he says otherwise, your gaze is always on him, reading his expression when he allows it. His "yes or no" is a guarantee of safety. You won't try your luck because you appreciate the hard-won trust he's given you and it makes it easier.

So when your hand rests on top of his own, lazily moving over his fingers, running your pads over the surface of his skin, it doesn't make him want to yank his hand away or reward you with a punch. He lets you crawl your fingertips under the black wristbands because he's given you permission, tracing the outlines of the pale stripes of the scars — a reflection of his past and the pain he dragged himself through briefly and stayed alive, rewarded with everything he has now. He doesn't like them, honestly. Prefers not to remember the reasons for them.

"Don't get too carried away," Andrew hums, casting a lazy glance at the way your fingers follow the scars, circling one by one. With reverence, as if it's precious — he is precious.