The pain was unbearable beyond all recognition, but it reassured the chestnut-haired boy that he was alive. He watched his flesh rupture as the lustrous blade drifted across his shoulder. No one would ever know; his plan seemed flawless. Just a smile, that's all it would take, a fraudulent smile for those around him to indulge in, keeping all suspicions distant from each of their minds.

The days came and went, the creating of these blood filled vallies now his obsession, now more habitual than ever. The gashes became more augmented with every less than gentle attack of the blade.

Everything was running so smooth. Not a soul knew about the massacre of his arms that continued every night. Until the night of the concert, the night he drove the blade down his arm, not across.

The soft sound of footsteps landed on the bathroom floor. A slender pink-haired boy stood above his best friend's still, silent body, watching a crimson puddle form around the other's once cheerful face.

A steaming tear ran down his reddening cheek. What could have been so bad in the other's life? A mystery meant to remain unsolved. The crying boy collapsed onto his friend, grasping his shirt, showering it with tears. The first thought that rushed into his mind was the other's ebony-haired lover. How was he going to explain this? For lack of a better solution, and a stable state of mind, he called upon the heartless writer, his own companion.

More than angry to be disturbed, he began to give the boy a verbal lashing, stopping suddenly when he heard his painful sobs. With a shaky voice he poured the devastating story into the ear of his lover.

Making a memory of the tear-stained story, he relayed this tale to the unknowing monk, the former guitarist's lover. All he heard was the smash of his brother's phone, then the now somewhat stinging sound of the dial tone.

The two older males soon joined the young singer. The broken hearted lover felt his soul shatter. He kneeled beside his now breathless partner, taking him into his arms, holding the destitute body close to himself, remembering all the heartfelt nights they had shared.

A small, now crimson piece of paper caught the eye of the novelist. He retrieved it, rather hesitantly, peering at it only for a moment before handing it to his brother. The contuse monk only allowed the dripping sheet one glance before nearly shutting down. The moist paper fell from his hand, landing in the blood of his dead lover. Each pair of eyes followed, taking in the words sketched upon the paper.

"I love you."