Words Made Flesh
(Children show scars like medals. Lovers use them as secrets to reveal. A scar is what happens when the word is made flesh ~ Leonard Cohen.)
Isaac has scars.
Little white lines spiderweb his arms, barely a tint paler than his skin. They blend. No one ever asks about them when he wears sleeveless lacrosse jerseys. Then again, no one ever asked about his black eyes or more obvious injuries, either. No one cares.
And yet, aside from lacrosse, where he really has no choice, he prefers to wear long-sleeved shirts beneath his new, long-sleeved leather jacket. Heat never hurt him before. Cold, either. If anything, longer sleeves to curl his bleeding fingertips into only helped in his father's fridge.
The bite neither left a mark, nor healed those he already had – raised belt-lashes across his back that the crescent moons on his arms can't quite compare to – but it makes it nearly impossible for him to scar ever again. And for a while, that's enough.
He can strut through his high school's halls with Erica, both of their heads held high, fanged smiles agleam beneath synthetic lights. He can play lacrosse like he always wanted to, put his all into it, rather than worrying about phantom pain from a recently broken arm or leg.
And if he still wears shirts with sleeves that hang past his fingertips, Derek's too-large shirts, if he still waits to shower after everyone else is gone so no one can witness that which could not be healed, well. Fuck the nightmares; he goes home to the Alpha of Beacon Hills. No one else can say the same.
Erica, ever the last to go, hardly climbs out of the subway station, before Derek is on Isaac, teeth nipping sharp like frostbite against his neck.
Isaac tosses his head back to bare his throat. The laugh that escapes his lips threads in time with his rapid heartbeat. He braces his hands against Derek's shoulders, claws snagged into his jacket, and feels more than sees Derek's ensuing smirk.
“You like that, don't you?” Derek asks, with the chastest of kisses against his pulsing jugular.
“What?” Isaac could reply, all manners of defensive like he is with some idiots at school, but doesn't. There's no need to play that game – not when Derek can smell the lust that spikes his blood like ecstasy. Not when it's true and Derek will hear through the lies.
He doesn't merely like offering himself to his Alpha, nor knowing that Derek could rip his throat out at any time, yet won't ever break Isaac to the point where he'll never glue together again, the way his father continues to attempt even from beyond the grave. He loves it.
“Yesss,” Isaac cries, and the word huffs out on a hiss, snake-like, sibilant, as bruises blossom fresh atop his skin.
They'll be gone by tomorrow, by the time he gets up for school, like they always are. It doesn't matter. Derek will be there to kiss-bite-love them anew.
For the the umpteenth perfect time, Isaac allows his Alpha to lay claim to his everything again.