Chapter Text
His life was a memory of sensation, of touch. Some were good, but most… not.
Before his earliest memory, he knew few things, but he was conscious of uncertainty in the future, the sharpness of hunger, and the bite of cold. But he had survived those early years and had moved on, alone (he was always moving, always alone), everything familial and soft fading away into a blank spot in his mind. He learned not to rely on the potential for comfort quickly, for it only taunted him, so he banished it whenever it would tease the edges of senses. Pleasure was an ephemeral thing, here for a moment and gone in an instant. He shouldn’t get accustomed to it. It was not his lot in life.
But his body, though, that was something that could be trusted. That was something that could be used. It had been the only steady thing in his life, the only thing he could truly count on, so he taught it to endure.
And it had.
He had pushed it until his muscles had rebelled in agony, and then he had pushed it some more, hardening his palms with the repeated practice of the bow, the knife, and then fire, until most sensation there was deadened. He had beaten his fist against bark and stone until he learned how to do it properly before repeating the process with his feet and knees. He had learned how to scale trees and fly, without regards to his survival, towards the ground. The first few times had resulted in misery, but he had learned. He was always a fast learner.
But he hadn’t relied on simply himself to learn these things, no. He had left it up to others to teach him other types of touch. And they had. They had taught him the slice of skin under piercing metal, the wet rush of blood, the crack of knuckles, and the break of bones. He had felt the moment the spirit left someone’s body under the pressure of his hands and had numbed his heart to the knowledge. Occasionally, there had been moments of reward, the rushed and needful press of teeth and skin in a hurried rush for completion, but those moments were quickly finished and left him cold. But it had been enough at the time.
But now? He wasn’t so sure if his reference for the whole of physical experience was as complete as he thought it was, because touch had never been… this.
The first time came as a shock. He had watched Master’s hands, anxious and quick, move towards his face and he had closed his eyes with a flinch, unsure what he had done wrong but prepared for the blow regardless (you never dodge your employers fists. It only makes matters worse). And when those hands had simply tugged his hat from his head with a distracted order to keep hidden, as if he were the one that needed protected, Obi realized that perhaps there were other kinds of touches, too.
Moments followed that one, and in the beginning he kept himself as still as possible in an attempt to prolong the experience and puzzle out the sensations they dredged up in him. Like when Sir would straighten his coat with sharp tugs and a frustrated huff. Honestly, has no one ever taught you how to dress yourself? or when Miss Kiki nudged him with just the barest pressure to correct his posture so he looked somewhat natural holding a sword instead of a dagger.
There was Ryu, too, who would shove him away half-heartedly when he played too much the role of a father (that was too much a dream for either of them) and Suzu who would warmly squeeze his shoulder with an invitation for drinks. There was even Yuzuri, tiny little imp that she is, as she clambered up a chair to shove the cat earmuffs on him, only to go starry eyed and coo about how they were made for him.
And then there’s Miss.
Out of everyone, she touched him the most, and in ways he could not understand. A hand on his arm as her face went deep in thought, the weight of her against him when she became so lost in her head that she forgot her feet, the stab of her heels to his instep as she tried yet again to learn a waltz more complicated than the standard. He discovered that she anchored herself by touching others and that, in doing so, steadied those she touched. And although he wanted to, he could not find it in him to complain about how she shared this magic with others, not when there were countless tiny moments where he had found safe harbor in them.
There was the first hug he can remember, as tender and warm as he had always imagined them to be; The first time he had felt the sting of antiseptic as it pressed against an open wound, the hands behind it harsh with worry; The first time he had felt someone pull him to consciousness, summoned by his cries, and out of the hellscape of his dreams.
No. He couldn’t complain at all. Not if the healing those hands provided were as profound for one other soul as they were for him.
So he follows her, blindly, with a full heart that he takes pains to keep from showing on his face (but he’s not sure of that mask anymore. It chips at the corners more and more every day). And he’ll protect her, always, in a million tiny ways that she’ll never know about. He will gladly suffer through all the violence and pain of his past for eternity if only to keep her here, safe, and with him… even if she stands in the arms of another man.
It’s not about whether or not he can keep her to himself, though. It’s never been about that. He tells himself that he is prepared for the day he is sent away (and he’s always sent away). A creature like her deserves only the best, and the best he cannot provide. But for now he can give her his devotion, he can sacrifice his body for her heart, and he can give her safe haven in the worst of storms.
And he will. If it is the last thing he does, he will.
Because she’s the safest place he’s ever known.