The first one was an impulse. He was barely eighteen and mostly on his own and six weeks from sailing away from everything he'd ever known. He'd seen his mother's funeral, but not his high school graduation. His little sister was a faded photograph in his memory, creases where all her annoying habits used to be, laughter softened by distance and time. And his father's voice was always there, deep and rough in the back of his mind, guiding.
It's faded now by years of sun and saltwater. Nothing can really stand up to treatment as rough as the life of Steve McGarrett requires. It started out vibrant, a splash of green down his shoulder, delicate and detailed vines that curved and tangled. He'd been alone when he'd gotten it done, late at night because he couldn't sleep with everything that loomed in front of and behind him.
On his bicep her eyes were covered, because he didn't want his to be.
His arm ached when it was over, felt heavier than it ever had, a throb that he couldn't do anything but breathe through. It was like running too hard or swimming too long, a kind of ache that went deep, made him feel alive and reckless and victorious. He paused whenever he pulled his shirt on or off for a week, the splash of color in his peripheral a brand new rude awakening every time. He studied, and trained, and slept through the night, his eyes on the horizon waiting for him.
The second was years later, when he was still too young to be making decisions that lasted forever. He was unsteady on dry land the way he never was at sea, like his legs weren't meant for something solid anymore. He had two fractured ribs, and a head that was swimming any time he wasn't. He was in a country that spoke a language he didn't, fast and bright and loud the way things couldn't be where he'd been and where he was going.
Steve had a bar fight whim and the surety that he would lose. It was a swell of anger, his tongue thick with frustration and his steps unstable. He wanted to do something he couldn't take back. He stumbled when he walked in the door. He picked something with a borrowed legend, something with myth and meaning that was told to him in a slow, steady tone over the buzz and sting of the needles. He didn't need to know the words to get the meaning, though, and something settled as the story did, warm and bright like the colors that were being pushed under his skin. Like a volcano being brought to a boil, like the flowers his mother wore in her hair once, like a place he wasn't sure he'd ever see again.
The hurt from that one settled deeper. He carried it further, across cities and countries and deep into jungles. He moved, and moved, and moved, and it stayed the same.
I've got conversation and a bottle to keep us warm 1/2
♥♥♥♥♥
Damn comment length limits. *shakes fist*
The first one was an impulse. He was barely eighteen and mostly on his own and six weeks from sailing away from everything he'd ever known. He'd seen his mother's funeral, but not his high school graduation. His little sister was a faded photograph in his memory, creases where all her annoying habits used to be, laughter softened by distance and time. And his father's voice was always there, deep and rough in the back of his mind, guiding.
It's faded now by years of sun and saltwater. Nothing can really stand up to treatment as rough as the life of Steve McGarrett requires. It started out vibrant, a splash of green down his shoulder, delicate and detailed vines that curved and tangled. He'd been alone when he'd gotten it done, late at night because he couldn't sleep with everything that loomed in front of and behind him.
On his bicep her eyes were covered, because he didn't want his to be.
His arm ached when it was over, felt heavier than it ever had, a throb that he couldn't do anything but breathe through. It was like running too hard or swimming too long, a kind of ache that went deep, made him feel alive and reckless and victorious. He paused whenever he pulled his shirt on or off for a week, the splash of color in his peripheral a brand new rude awakening every time. He studied, and trained, and slept through the night, his eyes on the horizon waiting for him.
The second was years later, when he was still too young to be making decisions that lasted forever. He was unsteady on dry land the way he never was at sea, like his legs weren't meant for something solid anymore. He had two fractured ribs, and a head that was swimming any time he wasn't. He was in a country that spoke a language he didn't, fast and bright and loud the way things couldn't be where he'd been and where he was going.
Steve had a bar fight whim and the surety that he would lose. It was a swell of anger, his tongue thick with frustration and his steps unstable. He wanted to do something he couldn't take back. He stumbled when he walked in the door. He picked something with a borrowed legend, something with myth and meaning that was told to him in a slow, steady tone over the buzz and sting of the needles. He didn't need to know the words to get the meaning, though, and something settled as the story did, warm and bright like the colors that were being pushed under his skin. Like a volcano being brought to a boil, like the flowers his mother wore in her hair once, like a place he wasn't sure he'd ever see again.
The hurt from that one settled deeper. He carried it further, across cities and countries and deep into jungles. He moved, and moved, and moved, and it stayed the same.