Work Text:
He fucked up this time. Majorly. Today had been fine, had been perfect in fact. Work at the corner store was good; he only had one nasty customer. His friends were nice today; not a single jab was made at him from anyone. They even happily ate a dish from his homeland. Yet still, when he returned to his room, it all came weighing down. Some heavy, deep weight of sadness and desperation crashed over his head. It brought him to his knees, forced a tightness in his chest, and made his body crave the hurt.
Edd would be busy animating something, Matt was in the shower, and Tom wouldn't come check on him. He put on music anyway, just in case anyone heard. He ran over to his desk, scattered with engineering drawings. His hand skipped the top drawer, moving down to the middle one on the right side. In the very back, behind a stack of B-size drawing papers, lay a small box of razors. He kept it with his drawing utensils, but very rarely used it for the mechanical pencil sharpener that sat atop his desk.
The weight of the blade made his chest let up slightly, his heart still beating in his throat. The cold, sharp metal felt like a threat, smelled like one, too. While none of the ones he kept smelled like blood, the familiar "fresh scent" had trained him to smell it regardless. Scars across his skin ached and stretched, begging and pleading for him. Whispering into his ear to cut them back open, pull them apart, and watch his insides ooze until there's nothing left inside. There were times he almost listened, those times being the closest he'd ever been to being institutionalized.
He couldn't afford to get caught this time. He undoes the buttons and zipper on his pants, shoving them harshly down his legs. He doesn't bother with kicking them off completely; that can wait. His hands shake as they're brought closer to his thighs. His arms were much too exposed for this treatment, but the thighs were the perfect spot. He couldn't remember a time he wore shorts that showed above the knee. The blade is brought swiftly against a small expanse of untouched skin.
The ripping is the worst of it. The familiar sound as it digs in. He used to hate watching it. Now he can't help himself. It sounds close to paper. His stomach turns from nausea, but he forces the bile back down. The fatty tissue under the skin is always the worst to see, but he can't bring himself to panic when he needs to hurt more.
The more times this has happened, he's started wondering when it stopped being self-punishment and instead became a way to de-stress. Unfortunately, that de-stress aspect is starting to shift to need. It's almost every day now, not this bad usually, but he craves it. He makes a couple more lashings along the cut, trying his best to dig deeper into it. When it's too messy, he moves on to another one. Every first slice is the deepest and the most exhilarating.
He's not sure exactly when the tears begin to pour, but he only notices when one lands in an open cut. He winces loudly, slapping a hand over his mouth as he checks the speaker playing music. Loud enough not to hear it, but the familiar fear of it all creeps in again. In order to cope with that, he returns to the cutting. It doesn't hurt much anymore. The flashes come and go, and he can still feel the blood and ripping. A flash of white hits him hard, forcing him to fall against the desk with a thud.
The collision causes it to hit the wall, but he's not concerned about that right now. He rubs his head tenderly, trying to soothe that ache before he returns to causing another. He cannot get much deeper than the epidermis before a loud knocking startles him.
Thankfully, the blade was pulled away, so his jumpy nature didn't cause a vein rupture. This is the absolute worst time to catch him in the act. There's no way to play this off as a mistake, no way to avoid the door either.
"Tord? What's going on in there?" Tom. The last person who needed to be here right now. The panic settles deep in his belly, blooming and blossoming and sprouting into his other limbs until it reaches his brain. He can feel the branches strangle it.
"Nothing!"
"Can I come in to check?"
"No."
"You sound suspicious."
"I'm just indecent."
There's an extended period of silence, and Tord thinks he's won. He hasn't.
"Get dressed. I need to come in to check."
Fuck. How the hell can he get around this? Tom wasn't supposed to find him like this. He doesn't have time to clean up, just slapping an old towel over the cuts and then slipping his pants back on. He jumps onto the bed, attempting to adjust the blankets to cover the inevitable bleed-through.
"You can come in now!" He shouts, muttering a very quiet 'pervert' at the end. All his equipment had been stuck under the pillow, waiting for the second Tom to be gone so they could be used. The brunette didn't look amused.
"What was that noise I heard outside? Sounded like something hard hit the wall." Tom's eyes look over him and the side table. Internally, the horned boy wished he'd made it seem more like he had been jerking off. Maybe then it'd make the other uncomfortable enough to immediately leave.
"I... I was looking for something in my nightstand. Slammed it too hard." He offers weakly, the usual self-assured smile, incredibly off. The raised bushy brow makes his heart stutter in terror.
"Yeah? What were you looking for?"
"My Playboy?"
"If I look in there right now, would I find it?"
"No."
Tom 'hmphs' and reaches to search through the bedside table. He finds it immediately, throwing it down on the other's lap. Tord's body stiffens sharply, shoulders raising as a wince escapes his teeth. The brunette's hand twitches, and it makes the other's stomach drop. Fuck, he knows.
He knows. He can tell. The thoughts circle his head like crows, cawing for his inevitable breakdown. It's coming on quickly, and the uptick of Tord's heart doesn't help. There's a soft sigh, and he can see through the blue fabric as the other's chest moves. It comforts him slightly before the annoyed voice brings him out of it.
"What really happened, Tord?"
He's caught, pinned in the bear trap of the other's inability to let go. He measures his options before hearing the brunette speak up once more.
"I could go get Edd or Matt if you'd rather tell them—"
"No! Absolutely not." He jumps up to grab Tom's arms to hold him still.
The universe loves to play cruel tricks on Tord. He isn't sure why, what he did, or when he did it, but he has held a grudge against him for as long as he can remember. Especially now. The blood had long since stained his pants; he could feel the wet parts of the jeans clinging to his skin. He had seconds before Tom could notice.
He shook the other, trying to make him at least a little disoriented. When he stepped back, holding his head, Tord sat back down. He threw the blankets back over his legs. He was stupid to think this would work. There was another sigh. He's starting to adjust to the sound. Tom has stopped threatening to pummel him these days. Maybe that's why he has to rely on this pain.
"I saw that."
"Saw what?" Feeble. Pathetic.
"The blood, Tord. I am not as stupid as you lot like to pretend I am." There's an added sharpness to his tone, teeth exposed for a split second as the word comes out. Tord likes sparking this reaction.
"What about it, then?" The world is caving in. He can see clearly as the floor opens, black hands made of the same ooze in his brain, dragging him in. It's thick, hot, and sticky. The hands cover his body, head to toe, fluid sliding in through his nose and mouth, suffocating him. Tom's voice snaps him back out of it.
"I want to know what caused it. You've been really, really weird lately. Edd and Matt will pick up on it soon."
"I thought you didn't care about me?"
"I don't. I'm cursed with being observant."
The line is cruel, cold. It feels safer to admit this to someone who won't care. He won't force him to be admitted. He won't tell the others. His hands fumble with his jeans, feeling the blood staining him through them. Tom watches. "You won't say anything if I show you?"
"I guess."
Good enough for Tord. He slips the pants back off, leaving him in his boxers. He tries his best not to make it obvious that he's worried, but it's incredibly hard to ignore the way the brunette stares like everything he feels is said out loud in graphic detail. The cuts look awful. There's Ringo's fur around the sticky edges and ooze coming out. As his legs move, he can see the layers of skin sliding. It's disgusting. He doesn't understand how Tom doesn't throw up. He did the first few times he saw this.
Speaking of Tom, he's less nonchalant now. There's a furrow to his brow, a glint in his eye, and a slight downturn to his mouth. The horned boy hates it.
"Aren't you gonna say anything?"
"I'm trying to figure out what to do with you."
When Tord flinches, the brunette shakes his head. "My words were wrong."
The horned boy watches as the gears turn in the other's head. Words haven't been any of their strong suits in a very long time. He approaches, hands not confident in their movement. It's obvious he's very out of his debt. "Is there any way I can convince you to go to the hospital to get these stitched up?"
"Absolutely not."
"You realize I can't exactly... help this as much as you need? I know basic stitching, but not enough to make sure you end up uninfected."
Tord nods. Anything but the hospital. They'll take one look at him and decide he needs to be locked away. Why can't his roommate get that through his head? His skull might be just as thick as the bowling ball he calls his mother.
He falls to his knees before the boy in the red hoodie. It's intimate. Like if it were anything else they were dealing with, this would have gone a very different direction. Tord reaches out to pet his head, zeroing in on the way the other flushes before glaring. He removes his hand.
"I have a kit in the bathroom from when I helped someone else with this. We're going to stitch these up as best I can. You're going to tell me where you kept whatever you used, and we're going to throw them out."
He shakes his head, only to be stilled by one of the brunette's hands. "I'm not asking for a yes or no. I'm asking for an 'understood.' I don't like you much. I feel I've made that incredibly clear. Regardless of that, I want you to be safe and healthy. Am I understood?"
"Understood." It comes out the way a toddler would voice their pout. It's childish, as if what he's done isn't life-threatening. It makes Tom roll his eyes. This is stupid. His help is stupid. Tord is stupid, clearly. He doesn't voice that. It is very obvious that whatever is up in his head doesn't need an outside opinion adding onto it.
He stands and leaves momentarily to grab the kit, returning to a horned redhead trying desperately, and failing just as pathetically, to walk. He hates seeing the way the skin around his shredded legs moves. "Sit. I didn't say you could move." Who was he to say no to his roommate? He stays, obedient like a well-trained dog.
The first prick is the worst. He jolts forward, clinging to Tom's shoulders and barely muffling a pained squeak. He watches the other's body under the fabric of his hoodie. They tense, ruffling the fabric harshly. When his hand graces the covered shoulder, it lowers. The material smooths itself back to before. His hands are nimble, managing to make it too fast for him to process. The first one is the worst, still ugly and inflamed.
Tom stops looking affected about halfway through the second one. His free hand is gentle against Tord's thigh, rubbing absent-mindedly against the unmarred areas. The pressure is nice is a thought that crosses the redhead's mind. He never would have thought that before. It's pleasantly distracting. If the brunette takes away his only coping mechanism, he might have to look into finding something similar.
The stitching is amateur at best. All Tord can think about is how awful work will be when he has to walk in like this. Maybe he'll choose to sit behind the desk? The daydreaming is stopped when he feels a squeeze. He looks down, Tom's dark brown hand still resting there. "I'm going to wrap you up now. Keeping pressure on these will help it not get worse."
Tord stares, watching as the hands wrap tightly around his thighs. He likes the view, finally able to ignore the ache in his body. The wraps are grounding, and the poor soul he's forced all this onto is gentle. So much so, it makes his chest ache from sweetness. He's done nothing to deserve this. He wants to kick him away suddenly. Cave his chest in with his foot for helping. The image is clear and colorful in his head, driving a sharp stab of guilt and disgust. He can't even push it out as he squeezes his eyes shut.
There's a tug on his hand as one much warmer embraces it. Tom's face is softer now, like he recognizes the look. Like he can hear his thoughts. He frowns at the idea. "You staying in your head worries me. I don't think I can leave you alone tonight."
"I'm fine on my own. I'm an adult."
"An adult with a habit of harming themselves."
It stings, but he knows the other means it to show concern. "If you say so, Doc."
"I do." His hands have calluses at the tips, a sign of his bass playing. Somehow, the rough texture still feels soothing as they guide him to the dresser.
"I'm going to leave you here. You're going to get dressed in your pajamas, and I will get into mine. When I get back, you're going to show me your sharps, and they're going to be put out of your reach. I'm going to sleep in the same room to keep an eye on you tonight. We don't have to talk about your reasons. I'm not entitled to anything. Just let me help."
Tord listens closely. He appreciates the clear directions. Structure. He likes structure. He breathes deep.
"Understood."
There's a ghost of a smile on the brunette's lips, but he hardens as soon as the other notices. Tom leaves, letting him change. He doesn't bother with anything thick or heavy. A white tank top and some basketball shorts are tonight's best friends. He tears off the cover sheet from the duvet while the boy in the blue hoodie takes his time to change. He didn't bleed through; that would have been embarrassing.
The other comes back, changed but still in his hoodie. "Just put that in the corner. I'll wash it in the morning when you're off to work."
Tord shrugs. "If I run it through now, I can switch it in the morning. I'm not incapable."
"I'm taking care of you," Tom says sternly. The horned boy had only seen him act this way with his younger sister. It seemed odd to be bossed around as he did with her. He doesn't bother arguing. "Where are the sharps?"
"My desk. Knew nobody looked in there." The brunette's face has softened slowly over this interaction. He saw the mask slip several times, but not really like this. There was recognition behind his eyes, tender and understanding. It felt like his throat burned at the thought. His roommates' steps are commanding in a way that grinds his bones. He searches both drawers, finally grabbing the box in the second drawer on the right side.
"You asked Matt to grab these a year ago."
"I did."
"How long have you used them for this?"
"10 months."
The nod is hesitant this time. He leaves the room, forcing Tord alone with his thoughts. They've started becoming less tangible. The other's demeanor has melted away his previous mood. It's calmer in his head now, the feelings less intense. It lingers, yes. Not enough to stab him in the heart. He doesn't bother asking where the brunette put the box when he gets back. He'll manage to find it anyway.
"Sleep on the bed."
He demands. Tom raises a bushy brow, his face investigating the other. He doesn't seem to find whatever he's looking for. The bed dips on the other side, a heavier body settling in. "You're welcome to the blankets, you know?"
"I run hot at night. I'll watch you fall asleep."
Tord shrugs. The blood loss has weakened him enough to make shutting his eyes easy, and when he's half asleep, the feeling of being wrapped up tightly manages to finally do him in.
He wakes to his body draped over Tom's, the others' arms locking him in place. He won't complain. Even if he has to call in to work.