Lix Storm, 9. General physical contact head canon
Touch exhilarates and comforts; it has never been a matter of indifference to her, not since she discovered its possibilities. This was at school – after the days of Nanny, always matter-of-fact, and the formal, cold kisses exchanged between parent and child. Touch as rivalry and challenge and triumph, on the playing field. Touch as overture, passing notes under desks, fingers lingering; touch as friendship. Touch as transgression, in midnight feasts, in crawling under each other’s covers for confidences and comfort… and, later, in bolder transgressions, for ecstatic discovery. Here, too, challenge and triumph; here, too, confidences and comfort; here joy, unmediated, pure and mindless.
She touches those she loves not only because she can, because for her touch is still friendship and confidence and comfort, but because she has seen how easily these possibilities, these simple human beauties, can be destroyed. She never touches Freddie’s jawline without thinking of the first time she saw one shattered by a bullet. Such a perfect, fragile line. Sometimes, helping Bel with a zipper or a headline or a cigarette, she thinks that all that holds them together is each other’s hands. It is an irony, of course, that one of the few men with whom she has shared a bed – and one of the people who shared hers the longest – is so suspicious of the potential disorders of crumpled papers, rumpled sleeves, ruffled hair, marked skin. But maybe it is also inevitable: that contact should matter so much to them both, so differently.