lavvyan:

Consider: 

The names written on a
person’s body are those of the important people in their life, good
and bad.

When Steve is four years old, ‘MOM’ is
scribbled in capital letters across his belly where his mom likes to
blow raspberry kisses to make him dissolve into delighted giggles.
‘Dad’ is smaller letters on his right thigh because Dad says he’s a
runner and they race each other and Steve always wins.

When he’s nine, ‘Mary’ is barely
legible over the permanent bruise on his upper arm where she likes to
punch him, the little monster.

He’s sixteen when ‘MOM’ – smaller
now, no longer across his belly, but still in capital letters –
disappears from his skin. It will take him almost twenty years to
realize that she cut herself out of his life so thoroughly, she might
as well have died that day. Like Dad will die, his name forever
erased from the living canvas of Steve’s body. Like so many of his
friends, bright tattoos covering the places where they held him up,
where he carried them, where they once were and no longer are.

Like theirs, his mother’s name will
never return.

The Hesse brothers, on the other hand,
spend years circling the base of his neck like a noose. One name
disappears the same day his father’s does. The other fades but won’t
go completely, not until Wo Fat, who is a jagged line in the palm of
Steve’s hand, where he can feel it when he clenches his fist.

Not all is heartbreak, though. Mary’s
name reappears bit by bit, no longer hidden by a bruise but brought
out by fond memory. ‘Cath’ stays on the right side of his chest even
after they break up for good; will probably always be there, fading
but still loved. ‘Kono,’ on his left shoulder blade, always having
his back. ‘Chin Ho,’ evenly spaced down the bumps of his spine,
lending him strength.

‘Danny.’

Danny laughs when he first sees his
name – ‘Williams’ – etched across Steve’s knuckles because he of
all people understands the urge to punch someone. In those early
days, the urge is as constant as it is mutual. The name moves,
though, first to wrap around his wrist like a handcuff he put there
himself, then to scrawl across his forearm like it owns the space, as
if it wants to yell at him that he’s not alone, dammit, and to
please, please think before he jumps into the fray. Can he do
that? Huh?

It also changes. ‘Williams’ becomes
‘Danny’ becomes ‘Danno,’ always in the same spot, a growing comfort,
more promise than threat.

Wherever Steve goes, Danno will be
there with him.

He learns to rely on it, Danny’s
presence in his life, on his skin. Learns to trust that it’s there to
stay. And if, sometimes, when the day has been so bad Steve feels the
exhaustion seep all the way down into his bones, he traces the
familiar letters with his fingers and lets himself ache, well, that’s
between him and the silent darkness of his bedroom.

Except then he gets shot. Bleeds out,
slowly but steadily, drop after drop leaking from his numbing body,
and even Danny can’t hold him together. Drifts out of consciousness,
Danny’s frantic voice in his ears, knowing he’s going to die, hoping
to god that this will be the one time Danny won’t follow. Wishing, in
that detached way that comes with knowing it’s too late, that he
could have found his own name on Danny’s skin and traced it until he
knew its shape.

He dies.

When he wakes up, he’s got a new liver
and Danny’s name is gone from his arm.

He panics. Won’t believe the nurses
that Danny is fine. Struggles until sedation pulls him under. Wakes
up again, remembers, can’t breathe through the pain of it. Gets
sedated, and is grateful for the oblivion.

The third time he surfaces, it’s to
find a tall man in scrubs standing by his bed, looking exasperated
and holding a small mirror.

“I’m your surgeon, Dr. Cornett,”
the man says, and proceeds to gently scold Steve for making a
nuisance of himself while a nurse props Steve up and divests him of
his hospital gown. Steve doesn’t care, doesn’t really listen, until
Cornett holds up the mirror and more or less orders Steve to take a
look.

Steve looks.

Thick bandages cover the center of his
chest in a long line all the way down to his abdomen. He blinks,
disinterested… and then he sees them. Three letters, ‘nno,’
stretching out possessively from underneath the bandage and over the
left side of his chest, right above his heart.

It’s the drugs that make him tear up,
not the relief.

Danny spends a lot of their hospital
time staring pointedly at the bare skin of Steve’s forearm, but Steve
doesn’t tell him about the new location of his name. Doesn’t know how
to, and probably wouldn’t even if he did. He just… it’s not that he
doesn’t want Danny to know, exactly. The way they are with each
other, Danny will see anyway, sooner rather than later. But Steve
would like to get used to it first; wants to explore everything it
acknowledges. Between the liver and this, he thinks he can’t
be blamed for needing a little time to process.

He should have remembered that Danny
runs on a schedule of his own.

Steve has been home for two days when
Danny walks in without knocking, waking Steve from an uneasy nap on
the couch.

“Funny thing,” Danny says,
sounding anything but amused. “When I woke up after generously
donating my liver,” Steve rolls his eyes, but Danny doesn’t take
the bait, “you were still on the operating table.”

He reaches up and starts unbuttoning
his shirt.

“Uh,” Steve says.

“Your name disappeared and
reappeared four times.” Plop, goes a button. Plop, plop. “Four,
Steven. Do you know…” Danny falters, swallows.

“Danny.”

“Four.” Plop. “Times.”

Danny shrugs his shirt off his
shoulders, lets it drop to the floor. On any other day, Steve would
tell him off for that.

Right now, he’s too busy staring.

The wound down Danny’s chest is a
mirror of his own, too fresh and open to comfortably look at. So he
doesn’t, lets his gaze skitter away from the violence of it, to land
on…

His breath hitches.

“So I noticed my name moved away
from your arm,” Danny says quietly.

Steve reaches out, doesn’t care that
his fingers are trembling when they brush over fuzzy hair, hot skin,
the letters that are staking out a claim over Danny’s heart.

“Yours moved, too,” Danny
adds, still in that hushed tone, like a too-loud noise might shatter
the moment.

“Yeah,” Steve breathes,
voice rough with wonder as he’s handed everything he’s been wanting,
just like that. “Yeah, Danno.”

And he kisses his breath into Danny’s
lungs, knowing more aches will fade than just the scar on his chest.