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Suzaka
Author of 14 Stories |
Warnings: Somewhat graphic descriptions of self-injury. Subsequent angst.
Disclaimer: I do not own these characters, nor claim to be an expert in the issues discussed. For proper information on self-injury, please consult the appropriate sources, such as the internet, books, or teachers
Notes: Okay, I wrote this fic as therapy because I’d been having some issues with my own self-harm problem, namely a relapse about two months ago. I thought about writing it and, finally, I just did. A month later, or thereabouts, this is the end result. Some of it is fictionalized for the story and some of it got frighteningly personal. However, this project worked. I haven’t cut since I started writing it and hopefully that’s a track that’ll continue. Thank you for reading
Thank you, so much, to La Bella Caracol, ShadowAili, and Bri for their emotional and literary support throughout this project.
“I swear,” Demyx says cheerfully, falling in step with his friend, “we need battering rams in the hallway to get through the damn freshmen.”
“Are you all right?” Zexion asks, totally bypassing Demyx’s quip. “You looked like that hurt.”
Demyx laughs and waves him off, ignoring the troubled expression on Zexion’s face. “No worries, Zex. I just got pushed into a desk. I told you: freshmen running around the school like rats.” Of course he wouldn’t tell his best friend the real reason his expression had been so pained; Demyx would never, ever do that. “Did you do the homework for chem?”
Zexion relaxes and smiles a little. “What would you do without me?”
Demyx grins again, “Fail chemistry?” He loops an arm around Zexion’s shoulders, hunching just a little to make up for the slight difference in height, or maybe to charge through that same army of freshmen. “Can you help me out later? Pleeease?” his tone of voice is unnecessarily wheedling even though he knows that Zexion would help him without a second thought.
They barely make it into class as the first bell rings and Demyx yawns as he slides into his desk, shrugging further into his hoodie like a blanket, and then waves to Axel as he joins them.
To fend off the stifling silence, Demyx turns up his music very loud, filling up the house with meaningless sounds and synthetic human voices. Lying on his bed, Demyx envisions himself at a concert, hearing these people sing and scream as he’s surrounded by the crush of people who will welcome him unconditionally.
Then the CD plays out and it’s silence once more and Demyx finds himself recalling the day, watching as people walked past and smiled and waved and he smiled and waved right back. Only, it hadn’t felt right. Even with everyone around him, it still felt so…detached. All those people he smiled at today? Who were they? Why did they smile at him? Why did they smile back? What was the point?
Sighing, Demyx rolls over on his side, staring out the window.
Then he reaches under his mattress, sliding out slender metal box, one of many hidden in his room. Inside this particular box is a blue Swiss army knife, rubbing alcohol, and a packet of band-aids. Fingers fumbling slightly, Demyx works the box open and snaps open his knife. He rolls up a sleeve, exposing skin that’s known a knife blade too many times, and reintroduces the knife to his arm.
But some days he just had a hard time dealing when things weren’t going well.
Demyx never told his friends when things were going badly, when he felt overwhelmed, or strangely, inexplicably lonely despite being surrounded by people who cared for him. His friends had enough problems on their own; they didn’t need to share the burden that Demyx could handle himself. So, on days when Demyx felt lonely, he smiled even harder and assured his friends that everything was perfectly fine and a-okay. When his friends left, taking their questions and good intentions with them, Demyx found his own solution.
The first time, it had been an accident. Demyx had been careless in the kitchen and nicked his hand with a knife. Staring at his hand, at the red lines that stained the delicate lines of his skin like frost, Demyx had been utterly mystified. And he’d felt calm.
And then Demyx realized that he could get that same serene detachment from bleeding every time. He’d watch the blood welling up over his arms and legs, threading away in sticky lines and feel completely at peace. Then he’d bandage up the marks and never tell a soul and everything would be all right.
Knowing that razor blades and knives were waiting for him at home gave Demyx the peace of mind to get through the worst day. That knowledge kept him safe and calm and able to smile at his friends. They never suspected anything, not even when Demyx started wearing his black hoodie almost full time. When asked why, he told his friends it’d been a gift from his little sister.
They never noticed anything.
For instance, Demyx’s room smells like rubbing alcohol. It has for as long as Zexion can remember, though he isn’t sure why that scent was so particularly unsettling to him. He’s never commented on that observation to Demyx. His friend is terribly accident prone, Zexion reminds himself. He’s worrying over nothing. Demyx is always just taking care of life’s little accidents.
Except the smell of rubbing alcohol is starting to cling to Demyx himself, as well as something else so faint that Zexion can’t quite place it, save that it is a harsh, metallic smell.
The door had been unlocked that day late in freshman year when Axel had come over totally unannounced and uninvited to ask Roxas for help with homework.
By an intervention of destiny, Axel had found Roxas leaning over the bathtub with a razorblade in hand, ready for his final bows, “good bye cruel world,” and his own death.
“No one would miss me,” Roxas had said hollowly, eyes wide and frighteningly empty.
Axel had shaken his head, grabbing Roxas with all his might, trying to pull him back to wanting life. “That’s not true,” he protested. “I would.”
Ever since then, Axel was always with Roxas, proving that he was wanted and loved. It had taken near death to make Axel show how important Roxas was to him; he wasn’t going to wait that long again. Axel did everything in his power to give Roxas strength and protection and, most important of all, love.
And now, he wonders if Demyx doesn’t need that same proof from his own special person, someone to save him from jumping headfirst into self-destructing.
Axel pulls the sleeve down, covering Roxas’ arm once more, before bringing the hand to his mouth to kiss the slender fingers. “Yeah,” he admits. “I am.”
“He acts the way I used to.”
“I know.”
Roxas toys with the end of his sleeve. “I haven’t done it in a year,” he murmurs. Then his face, normally so somber, lights up in smile, “That’s because of you.” He becomes thoughtful again, “It’s not something you can stop on your own. If he’s doing it, he needs someone.”
“I know,” Axel replies. Axel knows all about that. Some of his scariest memories are the nights when Roxas called him, sometimes in hysterics, sometimes deadly calm, and Axel knew exactly why he was getting that call. But Axel came every time and kept coming and Roxas had episodes like that less and less until, sometime in junior year, they stopped completely.
Axel grips Roxas’ hand as though he’s afraid Roxas might disappear, shifting and leaning his head down until their foreheads touch, faces so close they share the same breath. “Zexion,” he says. “We’ll talk to Zexion.”
“What is it, Axel?” Zexion sets his book aside and crosses the courtyard to better hear what Axel has to say.
Axel looks slowly from Roxas to Zexion before exhaling. “Roxas…I…we both think something’s wrong with Demyx.” Zexion suppresses a flinch at the way Axel seems to steel himself, as though he truly doesn’t want to say this, a nerve-wracking tone on someone who blurts what he thinks as he thinks it.
“We think he’s hurting himself,” Roxas says finally, practically spitting the words out as he twists his hands together. Without Roxas even moving for it, Axel wraps an arm around his shoulders to give Roxas strength for what he just said.
“What makes you say that?” Zexion asks slowly, fighting not to choke on the words, fighting not to piece together the scent of rubbing alcohol and the long sleeves Demyx always wears.
Roxas looks at Zexion, his small face serious and his bright blue eyes strangely like stones. Zexion nods and sits down heavily, pensively staring at the grass doing his best not to consider that his best friend my honestly and truly be hurting himself.
How is he supposed to confront Demyx about this? There’s hardly a polite way to ask someone, “Are you destroying yourself?”
And Demyx is so happy. Zexion can’t imagine how Demyx could feel bad enough to hurt himself the way Roxas suggests. All the years he’s known Demyx, Zexion can’t recall ever seeing his friend act sad or disheartened. Even in the worst adversity, Demyx had shrugged it off with a smile and a wave and promised he’d get it right next time, or get over it. And he had. Demyx had been so resilient and calm without even having to fight to regain a good mood.
Or maybe he is fighting. With himself.
He’s always seen Demyx happy and never anything else.
They’re best friends. They should be able to show any emotion around one another. Demyx should be able to tell Zexion if he’s hurting but he’s never done that. He’s always, always been happy.
“You couldn’t possibly be finding happiness in a knife, could you?” Zexion asks his friend in a whisper, watching him across the room. He’s supposed to find happiness with his friends, with Zexion. He’s not supposed to let pain eat him alive in secret.
When Demyx notices Zexion, he waves and grins at him with a smile that’s so calm and easy that Zexion wants to run over to Demyx, force his sleeves up, and prove that he won’t see scars on Demyx’s arms and hands.
He doesn’t know why he cut today. It wasn’t a bad day at all. He’s gotten an A on his test and a party invite from Larxene. The weekend is looking good, great weather for surfing.
So why is he crouched on his bedroom floor, watching the blood slide across his skin as though he’d just had the worst day in the world? Why did he rush home and practically throw himself across the bed to reach for the box hidden in his dresser. Why did his hands shake until he had the razorblade between thumb and forefinger and he drew it across the skin of his legs, pushing past the thick, pearly skin of scars until he felt the bite of the blade and saw the blood?
Why does he want to keep cutting himself still more?
Why isn’t he calm?
Zexion adjusts his head, trapping the phone between his head and shoulder, freeing his hands to type at the computer. “I’m doing research for Gov,” he replies. “It’s due next week,” Zexion adds, as a reminder to Demyx.
“I know, I know,” Demyx waves off the warning. “I’ll get to it.”
Zexion frowns to himself even as he hears Demyx laughing; something sounds not quite right about his voice. Demyx babbles on about everything and nothing, occasionally lapsing into silences that Zexion tries to fill. Those quiet moments make him nervous; he feels like he needs to fill them for Demyx, whose voice is distant and needing. It’s like a child reaching out for affection that Zexion is eager to give, but unsure how. The thoughts that Axel and Roxas have put into his head still plague him, even as he listens intently to even the most distracted of Demyx’s ramblings.
What is he supposed to say though?
“Hey…” Demyx is hesitant, like he’s debating whether or not to say something. Zexion’s throat catches, mind racing as he wonders what Demyx will say. “Hey…Zex…” he starts again. “D’you ever…feel cold?”
“Cold?” Zexion asks, wondering what Demyx could mean.
“Inside yourself,” Demyx explains. “Do you ever feel cold inside yourself? Like something’s not working right?”
What is Demyx saying? Zexion’s never heard Demyx talk like that before; his voice is low and serious and his speech slow, each word more hesitant than the last, yet there’s a hint of desperation too. It’s so much sadder and lonelier than the Demyx he thinks he knows.
“Zex?” Demyx asks again, voice a little high. “Are you there?”
“What?” Zexion starts, remembering he’s still on the phone. “Yes, yes I am.” Then, to answer Demyx’s question, Zexion shrugs, “I suppose we’ve all felt disconnected from everyone else at least once. Why d’you ask that? Is something up?”
“I…” Demyx’s voice falters and then he amends, cheerfully, “Nothing at all, Zexy. I was just thinking about something from lit class.”
“Right,” Zexion forces a laugh into his voice. Then, haltingly because he’s no good at that sort of thing, Zexion adds, “You know…if anything did…feel wrong. You know I’m here, right?”
“What’re you talking about?” Demyx laughs over the phone. “No worries man. I told you, it’s all for class. See ya later!”
There’s a static click as he hangs up, leaving Zexion confused and worried.
Demyx stares at the phone in his hands, turning it over a few times before placing it back in the cradle and falling backwards onto his bed. He reaches his arms above his head, staring at the mess of red lines he just added to the collection on his forearms. They sting as the cold air from his window hits them and Demyx brings his arms down, still pensive.
Zexion didn’t sound like he usually did on the phone; he’d sounded kind of worried, like something was bugging him.
“Don’t worry about me,” Demyx forces a smile at the phone. “No one needs to.”
I got everything under control.
He pulls out the metal box from under his mattress again, flipping open his knife. Laying the flat of the blade against his thigh, Demyx stares at it. What in the hell is he doing?
Another bright line crosses his skin before Demyx even recognizes what he’s doing.
He doesn’t realize his heart is pounding until after he puts the blade away.
“This isn’t Demyx,” Zexion mutters during lunch, sitting by Axel and Roxas as Demyx goes to buy an ice cream. “It’s not him. He doesn’t even…” Zexion cuts himself off. He wants to say that Demyx doesn’t even smell right, but how does he explain that? Demyx smells as though he bathes in rubbing alcohol and metal.
Blood smells metallic.
“Talk to him,” Roxas murmurs, staring forward, chin resting on his folded hands. “You have to talk to him.” Then he turns and looks Zexion in the eye and his face is suddenly stripped of its maturity and calm; his eyes are suddenly bigger, sadder, pleading Zexion to confront Demyx. Roxas knows, if no one else does, what could happen if someone won’t be there to bring Demyx to his senses or help him out of whatever darkness he’s trapped himself in. Zexion knows it too, especially when he sees this strange, fragile Roxas flash to the surface.
“It’s not as if I can just ask him, flat out, if he’s hurting himself.”
Axel shrugs, “Why not? Maybe it’s all he needs.”
Demyx returns, distributing ice cream to his friends before unwrapping his own sea salt flavored bar, abruptly halting the conversation. Axel sends Zexion sharp, sideways looks, urging him to do something, and Zexion tries to force the words to his tongue. It should be so easy to say, but looking at Demyx, happily eating his ice cream, he feels like the question would be a slap in the face.
But…he wonders. Would it be so bad if Zexion knew? He wouldn’t get it, of course, why Demyx does it. No one could understand that but, maybe, if Zexion knew, he’d stop staring at Demyx when he should be focusing on other things.
Demyx’s head starts to spin with worry and confusion as he enters the bathroom, rifling his backpack for something, anything. His breathing quickens with the pace of his heart as he searches, finding only a CD in its case.
That’s all he needs.
Demyx ducks into a bathroom stall, lifting up his shirt to expose his abdomen. Fingers shaking, Demyx cracks the plastic of the CD case in half, leaving a messy, but sharp edge. Taking a deep breath, a useless attempt to steady himself, Demyx draws the broken plastic across his abdomen.
It stings more than a knife does, a pins and needles sensation traces the scratch like a comet’s tail as it turns a mottled red. It’s messy, bleeding at parts and just an angry red at others, lacking the precision of his knife. His skin is torn; little white scraps line the edges of the cut. Demyx doesn’t care. It’s there and real and his head stops spinning as he dashes the broken case across his stomach over and over until his whole abdomen tingles, half numb and cold, with cuts and scratches.
He’s calm now.
Demyx tosses the plastic pieces into his backpack, gingerly rolling down his shirt, flinching a little when the seams of his clothes brush the cuts. Quietly, he hisses away the sharpness.
As he exits the bathroom stall, Demyx drops his backpack and the room spins anew. He grips the wall and turns his head away from Zexion, unable to bear his best friend’s horrified expression.
“What were you doing?” Zexion asks slowly. He knows. He’d heard the sound of something going back and forth over and over, heard the gasps and hisses of pain. He had smelled the blood, still smells it. He knows Demyx knows. But he asks anyway. It’s a chance for Demyx to give him the truth. It’s just as much of a chance for Demyx to offer Zexion the lie he almost craves, for this not to be true. He might even take the lie and let Demyx run away with it. Anything.
“You know, dammit. You know.”Demyx’s face is tight as he spits those words out.
“I do know,” Zexion says, his voice strangely gentle. Dammit, why won’t you tell me what I already know? Just admit it. I’m your best friend, damn you. You can trust me“I don’t know why.”
“And you don’t need to!” Demyx grabs his backpack and storms out, pushing Zexion aside as he escapes.
As the door swings closed, Zexion stands there frozen, his hands on the edge of a sink. “Yes,” he replies to the absent Demyx. “Yes I do.”
Demyx turns off his cell phone and avoids Zexion until the end of the day. Before the last bell is finished ringing, Demyx has left the school building.
“Damn it,” Zexion murmurs as he stands at the bus stop. He doesn’t know if he should follow Demyx or leave him alone. A nervous, fluttering part of him demands that Zexion chase Demyx down before he can do something worse but, at the same time, Zexion doesn’t know if he could bear it, if Demyx would let him.
Maybe he should let Demyx have a little time to himself. Zexion will call him when he gets home, he decides. He needs time to think too and he needs to figure out what to say to Demyx to prove to him that Zexion wants to help, more than anything.
Sighing, Roxas closes his fists and leans against the wall. He could go after Demyx too; maybe it would be better if he did. Demyx might understand it better coming from someone who knows what it’s like.
But some part of Roxas knows that Zexion needs to do this first. Roxas can help later but the one Demyx needs right now is Zexion.
Zexion knows.
Zexion. Isn’t. Supposed. To. Know.
Unbidden, Demyx recalls Zexion’s face. His eyes had been uncharacteristically wide and his skin almost chalky; pure shock written across his face alongside pity and confusion. Zexion had almost looked hurt, maybe. Demyx hadn’t spent a lot of time observing Zexion’s face before he’d squeezed his eyes closed and begged the world to swallow him.
But now, he keeps seeing Zexion behind his closed eyelids. Every time it’s that stunned, sad look when they’d both known Demyx was caught.
Apathy creeps over Demyx, weighing heavily on him until he doesn’t want to move or think or even cut. Instead, he rolls over and unplugs the phone in his room before letting himself be pulled into a deep sleep.
He doesn’t dream, just sinks into complete oblivion, leaving the world behind.
Which only makes it worse when he awakens, his body aching and heavy and his head pounding with a headache. Demyx sits up and strips his hoodie off, leaving only his t-shirt, exposing his forearms. He examines the scars, tries to count them, but there are so many. There are places where scars from months ago intersect with ones from just last week.
And suddenly, it hits Demyx with the force of a train.
These are scars. He has been cutting himself open, tearing himself apart. All the names scroll across his mind: self-harm, self-injury, cutting, self-mutilation.
Shakily, Demyx kneels down next to the phone, hands fumbling as he plugs it back in and takes the phone out of its cradle.
“Hey Zexion?” he murmurs into the phone. “It’s me. Look…can you…” Demyx’s throat closes.
“Zexion please come over.”
Those four words suck all of Demyx’s strength out as he hangs up, the enormity of what he’s just done crashing over him. Demyx has just invited Zexion over. Zexion will come; Demyx knows that. Zexion will come and bring with him everything Demyx has ever needed to confront. He’ll have to explain himself and, in the process, face what he’s done to himself, what he’s doing. He’ll have to see that shocked, hurt, pitying look on Zexion’s face again.
Chest aching, Demyx slumps against the wall, head in his hands as he tries to keep from throwing up or crying or reaching for a knife.
“Hey,” Zexion replies, unsure of what else to say.
Demyx takes a deep breath and then nods his head, “Upstairs?” Zexion nods a reply and lets Demyx lead the way.
The trek up the stairs is torture; Demyx moves slowly, like he’s fighting every step, and Zexion wonders if he might just let Demyx run if he tried. No, Zexion realizes. Demyx is going to do this, but he can’t hurry.
Once inside his room, Demyx shuts the door. Hesitantly, Demyx shrugs one arm back into his sleeve, tugging it down and off his body. He repeats the process with the other sleeve and stands there, his arms exposed for a second before Demyx swallows. Shakily, he grabs the hem of his t-shirt.
“You don’t have to…” Zexion starts.
Demyx shakes his head, “Yes, I do.” In one motion, Demyx throws his shirt aside and Zexion tries to swallow his horror.
There isn’t a part of Demyx that isn’t scarred under his clothes; his arms are the least of it. On top of all the scars are the marks that Zexion knows are fresh, the ones from today. They’re an angry red, jagged and uneven unlike the rest of them. “What did you…”
“CD case,” is the hollow reply. “Snapped it in half. I had to…I had to use something.” Demyx turns his head away, unable to face Zexion. “You heard it, at lunch,” he adds.
“I did,” Zexion admits. He forces himself to look Demyx in the eye instead of letting his gaze travel over the scars and cuts like his friend is a specimen. Swallowing with a little difficulty, Zexion finally asks, “Why?”
Demyx shrugs, a minute hitching of the shoulders like he hasn’t got the energy for the real thing, “Don’t know.” He takes a deep breath. “I started because it was easier than going to everyone else and then…” Another shrug and Demyx tries to smile, lips twitching a little. Sighing, he leans against the wall, “It just got really easy.”
“You’re crying,” Zexion observes, closing the distance between them. He brushes away the tears on Demyx’s face.
Demyx chokes out a laugh, “Fuck. I am.” And then he sinks to the floor, staring at his arms. “What’m I doing, Zex? What is this?” After a moment, Zexion’s arms encircle his whole body and Demyx finds himself being rocked back and forth like a child. “It hurts,” he mumbles. “Not even just the cuts. Everything.” He rests his head on Zexion’s shoulder, closing his eyes.
Warm lips touch Demyx’s forehead, barely brushing the skin. Startled, Demyx jerks away, looking at Zexion, whose eyes meet his. It didn’t feel wrong and it didn’t hurt, but everything that’s spinning out of control suddenly settles in place and, even though everything is so wrong and awful, Demyx feels better. Tentatively, he places his hand on Zexion’s cheek. In reply, he turns his face and kisses Demyx’s hand.
“Let me help you,” Zexion says, eyes wide and pleading. The usual Zexion, the calm and thoughtful one, is gone, replaced by a scared teenager who wants Demyx, someone he cares about more than any other person, to stop hurting and to be better. “I want to help. Call me if you feel like this again.” He tilts his head sideways, “You did once. You tried to.”
Demyx nods, “I did.”
Zexion stands, straightening himself, and then holds out his hands for Demyx to grasp. Automatically, their hands meet, fingers intertwining, and Zexion pulls Demyx to his feet. In the same motion that brings him to a stand, Demyx’s mouth finds Zexion’s in a kiss that begins gently but quickly grows into more, bodies pushing close as the kiss becomes deep and hungry, Zexion trying to give Demyx all the warmth he deserves. Their hands never separate as Zexion pulls Demyx over to the bed and sits him down, leaving one more slow, lingering kiss before he moves aside and settles next to him. Wordlessly, Demyx puts his head on Zexion’s shoulder again, closing his eyes when a hand gently runs through his hair.
“Promise me you’ll stop.”
“I’ll try.”
“You’ll stop,” Zexion corrects him. “You said you’d let me help. You’ll stop.”
“I’ll try,” Demyx repeats. “I can’t just do it all at once. I’ll try.”
Demyx imagines a time when his room won’t have boxes of razorblades and disinfectant hidden in every corner, a time when he’ll be able to let someone in without fear of being discovered. He imagines going out in the sunlight in only a t-shirt, only wearing scars that are too faded to notice. He could kiss someone, touch him, and be touched without worrying about his scars.
But Demyx has that last one already. He has Zexion, who kissed him half-naked, scars exposed and raw.
“I’ll stop,” he decides before tilting his head up to kiss Zexion again.
He’s not kissing Zexion because he takes the hurt away, or because it’s near and convenient and warm. It’s Zexion, who wants nothing more than to give Demyx everything, to see him healed. It’s Zexion he trusts and has trusted since forever. It’s Zexion he should have trusted from the beginning.
Demyx and Zexion stretch out on the bed, face to face, noses touching. Zexion’s fingertips trace over Demyx’s arms, running over scar and scab and cut. Neither one flinches as Zexion takes away everything ugly and painful about the marks. He doesn’t make them go away; he leaves a promise that they’ll change things for the better, fix things. It’s a promise that they’ll be happy.
Planting one last gossamer kiss on Demyx’s cheek, Zexion’s hand drifts to his. Their fingers close around one another, interlocking like puzzle pieces. Demyx’s head settles in the crook of Zexion’s neck as his eyes drop closed.
It’s not an automatic fix, but for now it makes things better. When they wake up, they will talk and discuss for hours, kiss a little or a lot. They’ll try and figure out a way to heal Demyx and make him give up the habit.
Their hands will never separate.
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