[Fic] Manual Fixation [ZackxJason]
Title: Manual Fixation
Author: Kura
Challenge: runaway_tales White Chocolate 26. Infatuation and Candy Apple 5. Hands; 30_kisses 22. cradle
Word Count: 772
Rating: Mild PG13 for some vague suggestiveness; depends on how you read into things
Characters: Zack and Jason, sometime around junior or senior year of high school
Fun fact: I have a fic called Oral Fixation about Zack and his next boyfriend Jackie. Because Jackie was totally fersrsly deprived of thumbsucking at an early age!
There was something about Zack’s hands. He couldn’t explain it; it was just… something. Something fascinating.
It was just a regular evening, sitting in Zack’s father’s apartment. Said parent was out; Jason didn’t remember what reason Zack had given and didn’t particularly care. Jason was sitting cross-legged on the floor drinking a diet Cherry Coke (Joseph’s purchase, not his); Zack was on the couch sewing some frilly thing, with a simple needle and thread. He usually used the sewing machine, but he was attaching some tricky lace detailing, or something like that. They were just chattering idly, enjoying one another’s company, appreciating the little things. Like the deft motions of Zack’s fingers as he worked on the delicate fabric.
Jason wasn’t quite sure why he was so entranced by watching his boyfriend’s hands at that particular moment. After all, there were much more enjoyable things those hands had done than sew, and he was pretty sure Zack wasn’t even going to wear this himself. But there was something about the way his hands moved, nimble and fluid, pulling the needle in and out and twisting it around and not once losing track or letting the thread tangle. It was so quick and so precise, and so thoughtless, the way he glanced at Jason and laughed and talked, like it was second nature, like he didn’t even need to try.
Jason kept staring as his boyfriend worked, absentmindedly examining those hands. The fingers were long, slender but a bit bony at the joints, with short, neatly kept fingernails; his palms were strong and solid. They were not the most delicate of hands, nor the most powerful, but they seemed elegant in a quirky way. A few years from then Zack’s next boyfriend would call them air hands, though of course Jason didn’t know that.
Zack always took pretty good care of his hands-moisturizing lotion and manicures and the whole bit-and although Jason had teased him about it many times, it was always something he’d liked about Zack. He never really did anything rough with his hands; he sewed and button-mashed and whisked, but nothing that made calluses or took much of a toll. The more he looked, though, the less meticulously preserved those hands became. They were peppered with tiny marks, pinpricks and papercuts and maybe bug bites, and Jason had to concede, probably a few lovebites as well. They were not really so perfect, not so pure and unharmed. And the wrists-they were even worse, covered in telling bruises and scrapes, light but noticeable.
Something inside Jason ached when he looked at those wrists, those bruises. He couldn’t put it into words, but he could feel it: shame, guilt, concern, anger. It was his fault. His carelessness, his selfishness, all the things he wouldn’t realize until it was too late, written all over those wrists. He wanted to walk away, he wanted to kiss those fingers and say he was sorry, he wanted to make Zack hide those lovely hands away in gloves, he wanted to take back everything he’d ever done to Zack, he wanted to swear he always loved him and always would.
He took a sip of Coke and tore his eyes away, up to Zack’s face. He was already looking back at Jason with a hint of concern in those warm eyes, aware that something had changed in him and waiting for an explanation. So sensitive, so receptive. That was how he got hurt.
Delicately, Jason lifted a hand away from the smooth fabric lying over Zack’s lap and cradled it in his own hands. He ran his fingers all over it, entranced, amazed, afraid, like handling something fragile. But it truly was, all of it, so fragile, so much more fragile than it ever seemed. Jason wasn’t looking up anymore. Staring intently, he traced fingertips over the finely trimmed nails and the slender bones, the hard red cuts and the soft purple bruises. He gently touched his lips first to the back of the hand in a classic gesture, then to each fingertip, down over the strong palm, and finally the inside of the wrist, right over the vein.
“Look at this,” he murmured, still touching his lips to those bruises. “You have these wonderful hands, and I go and ruin them.”
Zack smiled wryly, perfectly content. “No, you redecorated them. I like them better this way.”
Jason shook his head. Zack didn’t understand, even he himself didn’t understand. It didn’t matter. A few years later, they would understand everything, but by then those lovely hands would be just a memory and a lesson.
Author: Kura
Challenge: runaway_tales White Chocolate 26. Infatuation and Candy Apple 5. Hands; 30_kisses 22. cradle
Word Count: 772
Rating: Mild PG13 for some vague suggestiveness; depends on how you read into things
Characters: Zack and Jason, sometime around junior or senior year of high school
Fun fact: I have a fic called Oral Fixation about Zack and his next boyfriend Jackie. Because Jackie was totally fersrsly deprived of thumbsucking at an early age!
There was something about Zack’s hands. He couldn’t explain it; it was just… something. Something fascinating.
It was just a regular evening, sitting in Zack’s father’s apartment. Said parent was out; Jason didn’t remember what reason Zack had given and didn’t particularly care. Jason was sitting cross-legged on the floor drinking a diet Cherry Coke (Joseph’s purchase, not his); Zack was on the couch sewing some frilly thing, with a simple needle and thread. He usually used the sewing machine, but he was attaching some tricky lace detailing, or something like that. They were just chattering idly, enjoying one another’s company, appreciating the little things. Like the deft motions of Zack’s fingers as he worked on the delicate fabric.
Jason wasn’t quite sure why he was so entranced by watching his boyfriend’s hands at that particular moment. After all, there were much more enjoyable things those hands had done than sew, and he was pretty sure Zack wasn’t even going to wear this himself. But there was something about the way his hands moved, nimble and fluid, pulling the needle in and out and twisting it around and not once losing track or letting the thread tangle. It was so quick and so precise, and so thoughtless, the way he glanced at Jason and laughed and talked, like it was second nature, like he didn’t even need to try.
Jason kept staring as his boyfriend worked, absentmindedly examining those hands. The fingers were long, slender but a bit bony at the joints, with short, neatly kept fingernails; his palms were strong and solid. They were not the most delicate of hands, nor the most powerful, but they seemed elegant in a quirky way. A few years from then Zack’s next boyfriend would call them air hands, though of course Jason didn’t know that.
Zack always took pretty good care of his hands-moisturizing lotion and manicures and the whole bit-and although Jason had teased him about it many times, it was always something he’d liked about Zack. He never really did anything rough with his hands; he sewed and button-mashed and whisked, but nothing that made calluses or took much of a toll. The more he looked, though, the less meticulously preserved those hands became. They were peppered with tiny marks, pinpricks and papercuts and maybe bug bites, and Jason had to concede, probably a few lovebites as well. They were not really so perfect, not so pure and unharmed. And the wrists-they were even worse, covered in telling bruises and scrapes, light but noticeable.
Something inside Jason ached when he looked at those wrists, those bruises. He couldn’t put it into words, but he could feel it: shame, guilt, concern, anger. It was his fault. His carelessness, his selfishness, all the things he wouldn’t realize until it was too late, written all over those wrists. He wanted to walk away, he wanted to kiss those fingers and say he was sorry, he wanted to make Zack hide those lovely hands away in gloves, he wanted to take back everything he’d ever done to Zack, he wanted to swear he always loved him and always would.
He took a sip of Coke and tore his eyes away, up to Zack’s face. He was already looking back at Jason with a hint of concern in those warm eyes, aware that something had changed in him and waiting for an explanation. So sensitive, so receptive. That was how he got hurt.
Delicately, Jason lifted a hand away from the smooth fabric lying over Zack’s lap and cradled it in his own hands. He ran his fingers all over it, entranced, amazed, afraid, like handling something fragile. But it truly was, all of it, so fragile, so much more fragile than it ever seemed. Jason wasn’t looking up anymore. Staring intently, he traced fingertips over the finely trimmed nails and the slender bones, the hard red cuts and the soft purple bruises. He gently touched his lips first to the back of the hand in a classic gesture, then to each fingertip, down over the strong palm, and finally the inside of the wrist, right over the vein.
“Look at this,” he murmured, still touching his lips to those bruises. “You have these wonderful hands, and I go and ruin them.”
Zack smiled wryly, perfectly content. “No, you redecorated them. I like them better this way.”
Jason shook his head. Zack didn’t understand, even he himself didn’t understand. It didn’t matter. A few years later, they would understand everything, but by then those lovely hands would be just a memory and a lesson.