•toothbrush / DNCE•
When you give something I've never known
So baby you don't have to rush

''Elena, move.''

A slight push on my ribs startles me, making me inhale deeply as my mind swims in white dreams. I rub my face, snuggling more on the comfort that embraces me. I'm lying on my stomach, heavy covers around me.

A hoarse chuckle resonates by my side, ''I can't feel my arm.'' I hit him with the back of my hand, my body weighting on his limb. But I don't have it in me to care right now, brushing my cheek on his warm arm.

He tries to wiggle his way out of underneath me, making the covers fall a little, exposing my feet to the cold morning.

When his arm pushes my head up, I slowly flutter my eyelashes, mumbling incoherent words, ''Ian, let me sleep.''

''Shahrazad, what did you just say?''

And my eyes fly open.

For the few first seconds of this icy morning, I had forgotten everything. Sleeping tightly into oblivion. My head light. My heavy memories buried deep down my mind, not weighing me down, not cutting my circulation off like I'm doing with Victor's arm right now.

Victor. And his woodsy scent, pale skin, messy hair. Not Ian. Not Ian's mix of herbs fragrance. Not Ian's coffee skin. Not Ian's deep yawn waking me up, resonating in my ears like an alarm clock.

I quickly roll over, my mind still foggy with sleep as my elbow collides against Victor's ribs.

Oxygen leaves his mouth in a huff. My face frowns as I hear his painful sigh. My back is facing his chest, and thanks to my sudden movement, his arm is finally free. My right elbow supports my weight as Victor's forehead leans on my left shoulder.

''You really like leaving marks on me, don't you?'' he mutters, his voice waking up each of my nerves. Chiller than the icy morning.

''I've no idea what you are talking about, 007,'' I answer slowly, smiling. His arm slides around my waist, pushing me down as he comes up.

A yelp leaves me as my back hits Victor's couch, his legs by my sides. His chocolate eyes carrying a sleepy mist.

''Friday night. Your nails really can't be ones of a surgeon, these things are sharp,'' he explains, his fingers trailing my nails, carrying my hands to the top of my head as a mischievous smirk spreads on his face.

I smile sheepishly, my eyes scanning his chest, finding a trace of a scratch on his neck, sneaking out of his grey tank top's collar. Then, I look around, finding the large window in the far wall, the sunlight illuminating Victor's living room.

There are popcorn and M&M's scattered around the rug, colorful dots on the black fabric telling tales of how two strangers found solace in each other. Of how both of them spoke dark secrets in the middle of a waterfall as if the echo of the waters would make the rest of the world not listen to their sins. Of how, after, in the middle of a soft shared kiss, rain poured above them, and they ran hands-tied in the woods.

It was dangerous to drive by motorcycle back to town, and Victor's place is closer to the woods where we were at. So, we came to his house, he letting me see the depths of his home.

We ate, and we watched movies, Nyx snuggling on our feet on the huge sofa. I made him watch horror films, and he forced me to see a couple of action ones. We slept as the flat-screen TV lightened the room, both of us too tired after the trail and our heart-to-heart, connecting our beating organs in understanding.

I will never truly comprehend what he has been through, nor will he understand each small detail of my story. But we listened, deep down, past the surface. We listened to the hand movements, to the flashes of emotions passing through the eyes, to the somersault heartbeats. Somehow, this is the closest to understanding two people can get.

''And what will you do about it, Victor?'' I ask tentatively.

His smirk grows bigger, his face leaning down. His tongue swirls on my skin as his lips find the delicate curve between my neck and shoulder. My back arches, a moan reaching my mouth.

He sucks. He nibbles. He smiles against my freshly bruised skin, his words a mere whisper, ''I guess I'll have to start leaving marks too. Just to be fair.''

I close my eyes, the mint fragrance from Victor's fabric softener intoxicating my senses as his mint sweatshirt swallows my slim figure, the sleeves reaching past my fingers and the hem covering the loose shorts I'm wearing. Victor grabbed the shorts and socks from Akira, letting me borrow them as my own clothes dry. His sister stayed at Rhys's last night, the house just to us.

His face rises, only to lean down again, this time towards my lips. But I dodge, a growl leaving his mouth.

''Morning breath,'' I say, fluttering my eyelashes. Deep down, the blame burns. The memory of Ian is gasoline to the flames and I'm afraid that if I kiss Victor now, the fire will eat me alive.

Victor rolls his eyes, but moves nonetheless. His leg flies over me as he sits by my side, his shoulder leaning on the sofa's back. I smile looking at him, my hands pushing me up, sitting as well.

''There are a couple of disposable toothbrushes on the bathroom upstairs. Second door to the left,'' he says, his black sweatpants all wrinkled.

''Oh. For all the girls you bring home?'' I ask playfully.

He snorts, but his eyes darken a little. Behind his irises a simple message, a plea that I won't think this is all a simple one-night stand to him. After all, we didn't even have sex last night, literally only sleeping after hours of non-sleep together, simply enjoying the company.

I get up, squeezing his arm as my neck turns to him, smiling warmly, conveying that I know this isn't only about sex.

''I'll start the coffee,'' he announces, moving up too.

Nyx, who is lying lazily on the rug, lifts her head as I walk past her. I lean down, caressing her ear. And then, I follow towards the stair, admiring the large rooms.

''Your house is huge,'' I shout at him from the first step.

''Not mine,'' Victor answers, his voice carrying triviality, but also a pinch of sorrow.

My stomach twists, remembering that this is his father's property. That this was his mother's consolation present, her getting to keep the house as if it would mend her broken heart after the painful separation. My apartment did not, and I can imagine this house didn't either for her. But, at the same time, this is where Victor and Akira grew up, and I wonder about the happy memories these walls carry.

My fingers brush the hall's empty walls as I walk on the second floor. I reach a left door, too deep in my mind to notice if it is the right one or not.

I enter the room. It's not a bathroom, definitely. My legs stop, ready to turn back, but the walls here are not empty. They are filled with pictures. And I get hypnotized by them.

Slowly, my feet slide through the wooden floor, guiding me deeper. There is a bed on my right, and a study table under a large, closed window right in front of me. There are books scattered around the place, dust collecting on them. And there are pictures. Colorful. Old, the edges fading away.

I guess we all have our own memories' room.

And I drown myself in Victor's. Admiring the images telling his story like a book you can't stop reading.

My fingers slightly touch a picture of a young boy, his smile broad as his clothes are all dirtied from baby food. Three guys messing around, best friends till today. Two siblings hugging, clearly forced to pose, but still easily leaning into the other.

And then, there are the pictures Victor doesn't appear in. But somehow, I see how they also fit his story, adding details.

A woman, deep in her thoughts, not aware that someone is taking her picture; I notice her eyes, so deep you could lose yourself in their chocolate color. She is sitting on a chair in the backyard, looking ahead, to somewhere and anywhere. Victor's mom, I have no doubt. But she's more than a mom. And I can see all the depths of her mind captured in a flash.

The ocean, the same ocean I observed in my first night here. Even though it's a frozen moment, I can almost hear the waves crashing against the sand. A couple of surfers float far away in the sea, their bodies so distant, but so close. You can touch them. And not touch at the same time.

All the pictures here translate this message. They seem so real as if they are still moving. And they make you want to touch them, transport yourself to that moment. You can feel them, the colors alive.

All capturing a fleeting second. Long gone as soon as the camera flashes.

And in the middle of Victor's memories, I drown myself in my own too. The woman is me, the depths of her eyes reminding of my irises. The ocean is from another beach, the one I used to go to every summer with my dad, both of us searching for the most beautiful shells.

''What are you doing?'' a voice startles me, making me quickly turn, my right thigh colliding against the study table.

I hiss, my hand going to the throbbing spot on my skin. My chin rises, finding Victor looking at me, features hard, his eyebrows furrowed. But he sees my face in pain, and his eyes soften, walking towards me.

''I'm sorry. I got confused and opened the wrong door.''

He stares at me, only an inch of distance, his voice harsh, ''And instead of closing it, looking for the right one, you just decided to enter?''

''I, hmmm,'' I start, my eyes locking with his, ''I don't have a reason. I was going to turn back, going to look for the bathroom. But then I saw the pictures. And I don't know, they are fascinating.'' My face moves, looking around.

Victor sighs, his shoulders dropping. ''These,'' he says in a sweeter voice after a minute of silence, pointing to the ones that he is not captured in, ''I took them.''

''They are very good. Professional even,'' I mutter, smiling. And then I listen. He hasn't said anything, but his eyes are translating all the emotions dancing inside of him. And his heavy breath leaving his mouth resonate in the air like a heartbeat. I remember some of his words from other days, a line of thought forming in my mind, ''You used to travel around the world. I thought it had to do with your family business. But...''

''I'm a photographer. Or I used to be, I don't know,'' he interrupts me, confirming my theory. He chuckles, his head shaking, the memories flooding his mind.

''I haven't come to this room in a while. These are all pictures I took before moving away. I remember getting my first camera when I was twelve. And I just never stopped taking shots since. But only in college, hours away from here, was when I actually started seeing it as more than just a silly hobby.'' His fingers find a picture of a little boy holding tightly a wrapped present, his young face sparkling. ''I was studying to become a lawyer actually- ''

''Well, you're good with your words. And with manipulation too,'' I tease, interrupting him, both of us laughing as he looks at me.

''I had this professor. He saw some of my pics and asked if I could be his wedding photographer since his old one had canceled on him. I don't remember all the details, but one of his guests worked for a magazine, saw my shots and adored them, contacting me with a job proposition. Since then, I started working with it. I did some courses, and after a couple of years, I was traveling all over the world taking pictures.''

''I would love to see your work,'' I say carefully.

''Maybe another day,'' he answers. His voice is not harsh nor sweet. He bites his lip, pondering if he should say more, but his eyes move to my tight, widening, ''Fuck, you are bleeding.''

''Oh, I...'' I look down, my hand still pressing my throbbing skin, and only now I realize my fingertips painted red. My breathing hitches, oxygen too heavy in my lungs. ''Do you have a first aid kit?'' I manage to ask, my eyes glued to the crimson blood.

''Yeah. On the bathroom, second door to the left,'' he says, teasingly. And I can inhale again, a small giggle escaping my lips.

His hand comes to my back, slightly pushing me to the door. I clench my jaw, all my strength focused on grounding me, not letting my darkest memories flood me. Sometimes, I wish memories could be exactly like photographs. You being able to bury them in albums or even torn them into shreds, burn if you find a lighter.

I reach the hall. I look back, over my shoulder, finding Victor frozen as if he had become a picture in front of my bare eyes. The sunlight illuminates his face, casting shadows on his features. Then, he blinks, and he opens the large window. The wind enters the place once more, carrying oxygen. Swaying the photos. Making them look even more alive.

He walks towards me, closing the door behind once more, and we both follow to the bathroom. The sink is large, a white marble. Victor shuffles around the cabinets as I wash my hands, the water become red.

''Here,'' he says, handing me a black, small bag.

I grab it, our fingers touching. ''Thanks,'' I mumble, opening the bag on top of the sink. When Victor doesn't move, standing still in the middle of the bathroom, I raise an eyebrow, ''Do you need something?''

''I, hmm, I can leave,'' he answers, not so sure. Watching me carefully, noticing how my hands slightly falter and how my eyes glaze. One of the scratches on my thigh has reopened, reopening my trauma too. ''Or you can teach me,'' Victor says, his tone reaching me, making me look at him, who is now by my side. ''Teach me.''

I want him to leave me alone, I don't want him to see me even more vulnerable. Noticing the cracks in my epidermis.

But I also don't want to deal with it by myself, I'm tired of fighting to survive my trauma. And I let him, a stranger man that has the ability to listen and understand my unique language, take care of one of my wounds.

I take off the loose shorts, hating myself for staining Akira's clothing. Victor's eyebrows raise as I throw the shorts on his face, laughing as I speak, ''First lesson. Don't sexualize your patient.''

He chuckles. And I prop myself up the sink, leaving red dots in the white marble. I lean my right foot on the sink as well, my thigh being left wide exposed. Anxiety swims inside of me as Victor comes closer, seeing all my handwork on my skin.

''My nails can be deadly, right?'' I say, trying to joke. He opens a thin smile, his fingers grabbing my chin, making me look at him, away from the scratches.

''They will fade,'' he mutters, and I lean my head on the cabinet, breathing heavily. My memories swallowing me whole. ''Hey! Don't leave me all on my own here. Give me the instructions.''

''Wash your hands,'' I say, and he does. The water running down the tap, the sound echoing in my distressed mind. ''Damp the cloth, and press it on the bleeding,'' I continue as if I was instructing any medical student; as if he wasn't treating my injury – my self-made injury. ''Now, rinse the wound. Clean around it with soap. And clean the scratches with only water.''

He does everything with the utmost calm, his eyes not judgmental, just a little concerned.

My eyes find my thigh. The scratches a path to look past the skin. As if the old Elena would be underneath it somewhere. As if I could reach her through the fissures. I want her back. I want my unscarred epidermis back. If you scratch an itch for too long, you continue scratching it because it stills itches or because your hands got used to scratching?

''Apply the antibiotic,'' I say, inhaling deeply, enjoying the small burning pain that reaches my nerves when the liquid is poured on the wound, grounding me back to reality. ''And lastly, cover it.''

He does, cutting a square of gauze and taping it on my thigh. There are too many small scratches to use band-aid. I watch as the scratches, and the scar, are covered by the white fabric. Making me forget for a little while.

They will fade. However, just like his pictures, even if the edges fade, vestiges continue in the paper. Continue in me.

''How did I do?'' he asks me, closing the black bag, throwing the used clothes in the bin.

''Average,'' I answer, smirking. He snorts as I throw my feet on the floor once more. ''Thank you.'' I look at him. And he listens, all the deep meaning of my words.

Not just thanking him for taking care of my scratch. But for not judging. For letting me inside his house and past. For helping me even when I don't know how to ask for it.

He smiles. His hands grab two toothbrushes, one just out of the box. ''Here, missy morning breath,'' he says, handing me the new one, mint-colored.

And he grabs the toothpaste, mint-flavored. We brush our teeth, side by side. Our eyes talk in the mirror. We breathe, in and out, our memories in and out our minds.

His mint sweatshirt reaches my bare thighs. Its mint fragrance reaches my senses. Right now, mint is my new favorite scent, making it easier to remember and forget at the same time.

——•:•——
HOPE YOU ENJOYED THE CHAPTER. PLEASE VOTE. THANKS FOR READING

- I'm so happy to announce that I've finalized the outline for all the chapters. We'll have 60 chapters, plus an epilogue and an extra one. I'll start updating every two days because I have to finish this first draft by March.

- I want to thank everyone that has read so far. It means the entire world to me. We have reached 10k views and more than 2K votes, I cant even believe it. And I'll be forever thankful. Hope you continue enjoying the story, I promise I will always do the best for it and always try to improve.

- happy holidays babes, hope you all had an amazing Christmas and have a joyful new year's.

•any thoughts on this chapter?

•any thoughts on Victor?

This chapter is dedicated to all my silent readers. I see you all, and I appreciate it more than words can describe.

[Sneak peek 20: it will be the lightest chapter of the entire book. A playful game, a nice moment as we see the other three characters again.]