Blitzø’s hands have always been big like his father’s.
It’s no wonder that they burn everything they touch, clumsy and vicious in equal measure. He can’t quite seem to grasp onto anything without it either slipping through his fingers or squeezing so tightly that it breaks, like the toy horse his mama gifted him as a child.
He cried for hours that night, blubbering in the face of splintered wood and shattered trust. The fact that his mama simply passed him a handkerchief and fixed up the toy almost good as new meant very little; he knew his hands had already committed an offense, and the chip on the horse’s shoulder was a reminder.
Blitzø had sinned like the scary humans that ended up where he lived. What did it say about him, that he was already born with that wickedness inside? Should he have pressed his shameful hands together in imitation of prayer, hoping for Satan-damned forgiveness? It always feels too late for that.
It’s too late when his hands are forever marred by flames, shielding his face from shrapnel and reaching out for a brooch left behind.
It’s too late when they grab the keys and drive off, knowing full well they’ll never get anywhere close again to the affection that they can’t bear to endure.
It’s too late when they cause one body count to become higher than the other, constantly bloody and aching in a way only nostalgia can compare to.
His hands are good for two things; neither of them are tenderness.
It comes as a shock, then, when his hands are held so delicately, his wide fingers played with and pressed to a warm, feathered cheek as if they’re innocent and not flagrant evidence of his mistakes.
Stolas looks at him with sincerity in his eyes and says, “I love your hands, Blitzø. They feed and bathe, always caring and nurturing even when my own fail me.”
The tears Blitzø cries at that simple confession are no less ugly than his childhood memories, he’s sure, yet somehow they feel lighter.