Archive of Our Own

It wasn’t until he tiptoed into the bathroom to assess his bedhead and found you studying your blurred reflection in the fogged mirror that he realized something was wrong. 

No, he admitted with a deep sigh, he had sensed something was eating at you for quite a while— for so long that he couldn’t remember when he started to carefully avoid asking about the feelings you fought to keep hidden in the dark behind a smiling mask. 

Ten wanted to drive the concentrated frown from your face, to tell you that whatever troubled you would pass, to encourage you to open up to him because no matter what, he would hold you and listen to you and love you. But every time he tried to form words, they withered and died before they could pass his lips. When, exactly, had he come paralyzed by the fear that somehow, unwittingly, he had become the cause of your sleepless nights and restless days? Why, suddenly, did he feel such nauseating guilt for being so happy with you when, clearly, you weren’t made happier by his presence? 

He couldn’t confront those fears or the possibility of hearing your good-bye— at least not directly. Leaning over to your side of the counter, faintly distracted by the scent of coconut emanating from your damp hair— realizing that you must have left him in bed to take a shower— he wiped the mirror with his sleeve. 

“There,” he said, miraculously able to force a smile despite the weight forcing all the breath from his lungs. When you whirled around to face him, he pointed at the clear spot on the mirror. “Now you can admire yourself.” 

You didn’t turn to face yourself, so he stepped closer and, as gently as he could, turned your body toward the mirror. Worried that you didn’t know, hopeful that his words could convince you to see yourself through his eyes, Ten asserted, “You are beautiful.” 

You nodded like you agreed, but you didn’t smile at the compliment like Ten needed— like you once would have. 

“I love you.” His voice was a whisper as fragile as you both felt. 

He knew that he needed to try harder to be the stronger one. It was clear from your clenched fists and watering eyes that you had been repressing your feelings far too long, that you were on the brink of some necessary collapse after which you could be rebuilt into someone better, someone who more closely resembled who you wanted to be or who you were meant to be. When Ten gripped you so tightly, willing you to just stay and be his, you couldn’t be free to do that. He knew that. 

“I love you,” you responded, careful to avoid your reflection because you do not want to see yourself or Ten behind you. “And I believe that you think you love me—”

“What?” Ten wheezed, his jaw dropping. 

Is that what the problem was? You didn’t know how much he loved you? 

Once he recovered from the wound of knowing that he hadn’t shown you well enough so far despite his best efforts, Ten thought, he could do better from now on. If you needed to hear it every hour of every day, he would tell you that he was completely in love with you every time the fact pulsed through his mind. If you wanted to go out more often, if you wanted more grand displays of affection, if you wanted more from him, he would give anything, say anything, do anything. 

Anything, it seemed, except let you go. 

“You love the parts of me you see— the parts I’ve shown you. I know you do.” As Ten’s arms tightened around your waist, your fingers traced along the counter top, across the sink faucets, and he wished that you would just touch him because then, definitely, you would feel his love. 

“Then show me everything,” he pleaded. Your eyes met his in the mirror, and he stuttered, “I— I know you probably would have already if it were that simple, but if it’s me— if I’m what you’re afraid of— you shouldn’t be scared.” 

You turned in his embrace to cup his hands with your hands, thinking you heard evidence of tears in his voice, but there were none in his eyes and none streaming down his burning scarlet cheeks. At your touch, the corners of his mouth twitch upward. 

“I’m not scared of you,” you try to explain. “I just— I don’t want to ruin whatever picture you’re painted of me in your mind because I’m sure it’s beautiful, and I’m sure it shows me as I’ve always wanted to be, and I don’t want you to stop loving me like everybody always does when I share too many pieces of myself.”

From past conversations, Ten had caught mere glimpses at your emotional injuries. Sometimes, they presented as healed (or mostly healed) scars so faint that nobody could see except him because nobody else devoted so much time to studying you, admiring you. Those were the times when you could speak freely, smile freely, laugh freely. Sometimes, those injuries were wounds so fresh that, to prevent anyone from seeing the bleeding, you would lock yourself away in a hiding place until they were once again healed (or mostly healed) scars. So he was surprised that now, in this moment, you were willing to bleed in front of him, to cry before him, to look to him for help. 

From past conversations, Ten had gathered that you distrusted promises of forever. You said, ‘Forever would be beautiful with you, but forever isn’t yours to give, Ten.’ Since then, although he had not once doubted from the first meeting that you were his forever love, he had been mindful of expressing his feelings as strictly present tense.  But now you were looking at him with wide eyes, asking for confirmation that he wouldn’t fall out of love as you resolved to express yourself more fully, more deeply. 

While looking at you in your most emotional state, he could not imagine a time when he had ever loved you more, so Ten did not consider his following words a kind-hearted lie or an attempt to appease you. “I won’t stop loving you. Everybody who wouldn’t appreciate your layers—”

“This isn’t the time for a Shrek reference, Ten,” you teased. 

Smiling at your playfulness because it must have meant that you were healing, because it eased the weight in his chest, Ten lowered your hands that were still holding his face. He laced his fingers through yours. “Everyone who couldn’t appreciate you is missing out, baby. I don’t think I have to know your every thought, feeling, and insecurity to love you, but I want to have everything that you’re willing to share with me. I can’t promise that I will always understand, but I can promise to try, and I can promise that I will treasure everything about you— even the parts that you think are broken.” 

“You want everything?” You asked, disbelieving while tugging your hands free and timidly looping your arms around his waist. “Why? I don’t understand why.”

“Because,” Ten said again, realizing that you were confused because nobody had ever meant it when they told you, “I love you.” 

It was as simple and as intricate as that. 

As you laid your head against his chest, Ten considered that you didn’t have to understand his love to believe in it. Maybe, he thought, nobody understands why they are loved. We see too much of ourselves— too many dark sides, too many cracks, too many voids. Maybe that’s where others can help: with kind words and loving actions, they can wipe the fog off the mirror and help us see ourselves more clearly. 

After waiting patiently for an argument that never came, Ten ran a hand through your still-damp hair. “Are you finally sleepy, baby? Are you going to take a nap for real this time?”

“Yeah,” you nodded against him, and he laughed at your drowsy voice. 

Once he walked you back to your bed and tucked you into the blankets, he promised, “I’m not tired, so I’m just going to draw for a while. I’ll still be here when you wake up.”

And he was, waiting to look up from his sketchbook to greet you with a smile whose brilliance rivaled that of the stars.