Maybe James was just strange and that was why he didn't mind touching them. But they didn't bother him at all. Everyone had their demons, their scars, their crosses to bear. Fisher's scars were just a reminder, as were James' own. At least neither of them could ever or would ever forget where they had come from.
James wasn't really sure if he wanted to tell him or not, but it wasn't like he couldn't have guessed. So after debating it for a moment, he exhaled a soft sigh and then answered him. "My dad." He knew that was probably the very answer he had been expecting. It was a fairly common thing amongst the white trash of society. And all the money in the world hadn't made them better than that.
"Of course some of them are from, you know, just... fighting." He laughed a little and then pointed out the scar on his cheek. "This one's from a broken beer bottle at a frat party. And..." He shifted a little so that he could sit up, pulling Fisher's arms around him. "Put your hands on my shoulder blades." He'd know what those were from in a heartbeat. Fingernails.