He'd scratched his wrists until they bled.

And then Michael was there to pull his nails away. To bandage the cuts and steal away the hurt.

He was always there. Watching him with those piercing eyes. Asking with that stare- why? Why are you doing this to yourself?

Michael wipes the sweat from his brows. Helps him sit up enough to sip at water instead of drowning in it.

And he'd take that. The momentary pleasure as the body realises it's not going to win. Drowning in a deep, deep river.


Anywhere but Sona.

Because it feels like he's going to drown in the sand anyway, and if he can choose, he'd rather somewhere -anywhere at all!- else to die. Let his body will rot unseen by the world.

A place Michael can't stare at him with those god damned eyes. Always judging him. Considering the best way to be rid of him, to make him suffer.

He scratches at his wrists. Feels the pain wash over him. Grounds himself, if but for only a few wavering moments, before his hands are pulled away again, the blood coating the tips of his worn fingers, dripping down his arms.

Why, he wants to ask. What do you care? But he has no more words. He has nothing left to say.

Michael just stares at him, with those piercing eyes.

And Alex is drowning in them.

Drowning in himself.

In life.