Touch.

That was what Arthur had noticed the most. What signaled the shift from Before to After.

Before there had been brushes of fingers and claps on the shoulder, lingering hands and staged punches. Gentle and harsh. Caressing and violent. All of it had made Arthur ache.

It was uncensored, innocent, instinctual.

That was Before.

After - he never touched him, not without cold calculation. Like a surgeon's blade, wielded to torture, not treat.

With all touches cruelly removed Arthur's skin was left starved for contact, inflamed by the flagrant displays which revealed just how much there was to touch. How good it would be to touch.

He hated his weakness.

Compeyson was malignant, he'd learned. A festering wound; at first seemingly insignificant, yet slowly growing worse and worse until finally he was at the end of himself, clinging pitifully to life. To sanity.

Now, Arthur was left to assess the damage: Skin sliced open. Flesh blistering raw. Pride beaten bloody.

But the worst thing was, part of him still craved his touch. Part of him missed it. Secretly longed for it. Needed it.

Perhaps, it was only that - need - which made him shake hands with the devil.

Touch.

His touch.

So this was a bit of an experimental piece - wanted to try writing within a constricted word limit for Arthur. Not quite sure how well it's come off, but hey it's never bad to try new things. If you liked it and want more, or just have some feedback, I'd love to hear it! Thank you for reading :)

~SACB