Difference
Ari understood the machinations and inner workings of many things, but emotions always intellectually escaped her. She was always at odds with her feelings - she should be able to decide how she felt, not be at the mercy of her body’s chemicals. Her mind shouldn’t fixate and dwell on things, yet it did. She shouldn’t become irrationally overcome with anger, yet she did. She shouldn’t mindlessly flee from things, yet she did.
Of all of Alexis’s ranting, one line spun through her head like a gyroscope. “They’re more precious than Tynidium.”
She could have laughed and she could have cried, and Alexis had no idea. She had no hope of understanding that Ari could quantify her remaining lifespan based on a few grains of Tynidium. She couldn’t understand that literally, Tynidium was Ari’s life. And Alexis called both men more precious. It stung, badly. Because it was true.
While Alex and Charlie laughed, while Alexis grinned at her brother, Ari sputtered and fumed and tried to escape from Charlie’s grasp. The more she tried, the harder Charlie held on. He let her try for a few moments before effortlessly rising to his feet, holding her aloft in his arms. Ari felt as if her face had exploded, she was blushing so hard. It was physically impossible for Charlie not to notice what had changed about her body. In her mind, she was screaming “No, no, no!” so loudly she didn’t catch what Charlie and Alex said before Charlie started walking.
Resigned that she couldn’t escape, Ari hid her burning face in her hands. She didn’t know where they went, only that Charlie somehow opened a door, climbed a flight of stairs, and opened another door while carrying her. He set her down on something soft, then moved away. Still covering her face, she heard a rustling of cloth, then gentle hands on her wrists.
“Ari,” Charlie said. “Look at me.” She didn’t move. “Please.” Surprised at the hitch, the waver in his voice, she glanced up. They were in her borrowed room, and she sat on her borrowed bed.
Charlie kneeled before her, bare from the waist up except for the pendant around his neck. The black cord drew her attention to his collarbones, where there was a scar. It looked like it’d been broken. His lean, muscular arms were hatched with knife wounds. An old burn scar curled from his back to his flat abdomen, where it met with a long slice, a newer wound than the rest. There was a puckered scar between his ribs, and she knew a stab wound when she saw one. Every scar, except this and the burn, had additional marks from stitching.
In that moment, she saw everything that Charlie had become. The white hair falling in his eyes, the fox ears trained on her, his tight, worried brow, his broadened shoulders, the tension in his sinewy muscles, the scars she couldn’t entirely blame on the symbol around his neck. She let the image burn into her mind, so that she’d have this. At least she’d have this, before he learned the extent of her damage.
He spoke softly, slowly, like one might calm a frightened animal. “How are my scars any different than yours?” he asked.
“Because.” She shoved him, grabbing his arm with her mechanical hand. “Through all your scars, you can still feel that.” She stood, driving him further back. He winced as she tightened her grip. “Mathematically,” she growled, her voice low, controlled, “I know exactly how many kilograms of pressure I’m using. Mathematically, I know how hard I can hit something. Mathematically,” she hissed, dropping his hand emphatically hitting her metal knee, “I know how fast I can run.” She stood and walked to the desk, layered with blueprints and ink pens. She touched the back of the wooden chair. “I can tell when I touch something,” she announced without facing Charlie. This time it was her voice that broke. “But there’s no difference between this,” she moved her hand across the chair, “and this.” She abruptly made a fist and brought it down, splintering the wood upon impact.