my fingers crawl along his collarbone, searching for the secrets he's hidden there. my family asks how many brothers he has and what his parents do for a living but they never enquire about the way his voice sounds when he's just woken up or whether or not he has ever loved the stars so much that he's sat out on his roof at two in the morning just to talk to them. my fingers dip into the hollow of his shoulder and there it is, the way he feels about anything and everything and i'm pulling them all out one by one on a thread of skin and sinew and muscle until he's all unravelled and then i stitch him back up again so that, even if they ever did ask, they would never be able to see the beauty of something so raw.