Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“Kennith! There you are." Christopher called out to Kennith, who was waiting for him on the other side of the park fountain. Christopher had plans to meet up with Kennith at a local park in Kennith's neighborhood. 

Christopher wasn't necessarily enthusiastic to see Kennith, but it was nice to get out of the mansion for once in a while with someone who wasn't such an awful person to Christopher. "Christopher!"  Kennith yelled out to Chris, hugging him tight. 

"Eeugh, get off of me.." Christopher sighed. 

"Well, what are you planning to drag me into today, Kennith? Let's just get it over with." Chris complained as if he didn't agree to this. 

"Oh, you're always so easily annoyed, Chris." Kennith rolled his eyes and backed away from the hug. 

"You didn't have to do this, you know. I'm just happy to see you." Christopher sighed. 

"Whatever, let's just not waste any more time; everything's probably gonna close soon."

Kennith was ignoring Chris with whatever negativity he just had to imply. 

Kennith led the way, showing Chris the top food carts and perfect spots to relax under the sun. They laughed, they argued, they had simple conversations, and most importantly, they both were actually having fun together and enjoyed each other's company. Despite Kennith’s initial reluctance, Chris found himself actually enjoying his time with Kennith. It wasn't just about the ridiculous mayhem Kennith always seemed to bring, but also the friend-like bond that he shared with him.

Hours had passed and with everything now closed—including the park—so Kennith thought he'd walk Chris home. Christopher refused at first, but Kennith insisted.

Christopher walked alongside Kennith, feeling an odd sense of unease coming from Kennith. Despite Kennith's usual cheerful demeanor, there was something… off about his behavior that day. It seemed... almost unreal in a way. As if he had just been acting; putting on a mere facade just for Christopher. Whenever Christopher looked at Kennith while he was looking away, he looked… disturbed. Fearful, almost.

 Chris, now paying full attention to Kennith, had just realized the reason for Kennith's strange behavior today. Chris was watching him, he had been eagerly scratching his forearms and thighs nonstop for the past few minutes.

Oh. That explains it Christopher thought to himself. Today Kennith was wearing long sleeves and sweatpants, which was quite odd of Kennith—seeing as not just because it was a hot day, but also that he'd only wear short sleeves and short shorts for as long as they've known each other. 

Chris always knew Kennith had rather extreme ways of handling stress, though it was like no other he had seen before. Kennith had never liked to wear long sleeves; he wanted everyone to see his scars, he wanted people to feel pity and empathy for him, he wanted to be seen, to be heard, to be someone more than the feminine hatred target to everyone he knew—and to people, he didn't even know. 

But today he wore long sleeves and sweatpants that didn't even go together fashionably. They look as if he had desperately tried to find anything covering up the places he'd usually have uncovered. 

Christopher would have cared less, but he knew he just had to say something.

"Kennith," Christopher started. 

"Hmm?" Kennith replied eagerly. Neither of them had said a word for the past few minutes, so Kennith was happily surprised Chris had made the first move. 

"Kennith, why on Earth are you wearing long sleeves? It's quite hot outside, wouldn't you say?"

 Christopher asked subtly. He didn't want to straight up ask, that wouldn't just be weak, it would also be rather awkward. Especially if he was wrong.

"Oh, it's just a bit hot—I mean—cool outside today, nothing much!" Kennith stumbled in between the words, trying to think of a response quickly. To an ordinary person, it would seem believable enough. But Christopher was no ordinary person. He grumbled, knowing that wasn't the real answer. 

"You stuttered. Something is bothering you, isn't there, Kennith?" Christopher pushed a bit harder, still trying to squeeze the words out of Kennith. 

"It's nothing, Chris. Just let it go." Kennith spoke harshly, rubbing his arms gently as if he were trying to soothe himself. Christopher watched Kennith carefully. He watched how Kennith moved his body, how he reacted, and how his body language and facial expressions said it all.

Christopher had enough, if he didn't speak the exact words, there would be no way to get it out of Kennith. 

"Kennith, have you been cutting yoursel-?"

"No, Chris, no. I haven't, okay? Just leave me alone." Kennith sputtered, barely giving time for Christopher to finish his sentence. After that he started breathing quicker, avoiding all eye contact with Chris. 

Christopher was now agitated at Kennith. He didn't have to help; he didn't have to care, but he did anyways and Kennith doesn't even want it. Christopher had spotted an empty bench near a bus stop. He looked around just in case anyone was watching them. No one in sight… He thought to himself. 

Christopher was now leading the both of them to the bench, but Kennith still wanted none of this. 

"Sit down," Christopher demanded. 

"No, Christopher. I said I'm fi-"

“ Now ," Christopher commanded firmly, grabbing Kennith by the wrist, and dragging him towards the seat. It was fairly easy considering how Kennith was extremely underweight for an average eighteen-year-old boy. 

Kennith winced as Chris's grip tightened, causing a sharp pang of discomfort to shoot through his body; he didn't even attempt to fight back, knowing his efforts would be in complete vain. 

Sitting Kennith down, Christopher folded his arms, and Kennith hid his. 

"Roll up your sleeves," Christopher commanded Kennith. "Right this instant, Kennith."

Kennith was now breathing even more harshly and fast, not knowing what would come next. His head ached almost as much as his throat. 

“No, Christopher! You're not listening! I said I-" 

Chris paid no mind to him, snatched his arms, and yanked his sleeves up. Lo and behold, it was just as Christopher expected. A concerning amount of fresh, bright red scabs covered Kennith's forearms. 

“Explain." Chris ordered firmly. Kennith was now shaking and frozen in place. He couldn't keep up with his breath and he started feeling light-headed, almost as if he was about to pass out right then and there. Christopher, on the other hand, was just outraged by his not answering. 

"You've been hurting yourself again, haven't you, Kennith?" Christopher said, obviously knowing the answer. He just wanted to hear it coming from Kennith's mouth. 

Kennith, barely able to verbalize anything, responded. "N-no... No. No, I haven't" 

He squeaked, trying to dodge this conversation as much as possible. 

Christopher rolled his eyes and let his head fall onto his shoulders. "You're an awful liar, you know that, right?”

"Can we just continue walking, Chris? You shouldn't be concerned, I'm fine, really." 

Kennith was now desperate to get out of whatever hurtful thing Christopher was going to say next.

Christopher has had experience with cuts, being accidentally cut by glass shards while breaking mirrors, so he could tell the cuts were deep, but these looked nothing like glass cuts. The skin was opened wide, as if just a small pick of the scab and it would start bleeding again. He also couldn't help but cringe at how uneven the scars were. It's almost as if he was desperate for this. desperate for something to get out of his mind. So the cuts were made quickly and unevenly. 

"Kennith, just talk to me. What brought this on this time?"

 Christopher sighed, waiting for an answer—a proper answer. Kennith didn't want to reply at all, but he knew if he didn't Chris would only get even more furious. 

Kennith gave a deep sigh and avoided all eye contact. 

"Do you really want to know? Are you actually going to listen and at least try to feel some sort of empathy towards me?"

Christopher nodded. "I will try my very best."

Chapter Text

Kennith was now frantically holding tears back, he's never opened up to anyone—besides Stephanie—like he was about to now. But, of all other people on this planet, it just had to be Christopher who would actually listen.  Christopher was known for being a bad person–specifically manipulative and abusive– so Kennith doubted he'd want anything to do with him. And yet, here they are. Christopher was just purely impatient with Kennith at this point, so if Kennith needed the help he was about to get, he’d better say it soon. 

Kennith gave a long, deep breath and gave himself a mental pep talk. He would be ready to deal with whatever Christopher throws at him. He's dealt with people like this before so it wouldn't be anything new, but it would still hurt coming from Chris in such a negative scenario they were in at the moment. 

"Alright, what do you wanna know?" Kennith managed to push out in a single breath. 

"What's the point of this? What temporary euphoria could this possibly bring to you as you slice your skin open?"

Kennith winced as his chest grew heavy. He hated this question immensely . He doesn't remember how this started; he doesn't know why he still does it. All he knows is he can't stop and it brings him a feeling no amount of words or comfort could bring him the same. Kennith struggled to breathe and he couldn't speak a word without shedding any tears he was trying to hold back. Kennith knew he was weak, and so did Christopher, but it pained him to show any weakness around him, especially in this state. 

Christopher was losing patience as Kennith refused to try to get any words out. It was clear Kennith wanted nothing to do with Christopher and he didn’t want to be bothered at all. Unfortunately bothering people was Christopher’s specialty.

" Kennit -"

"I'm doing the best I can, alright?! I can't explain why I keep doing this! I wish I could stop! I just... I don't know why this's my last resort, I don't understand any more than you do, so just leave me alone!" Kennith snapped, fighting back uncontrollable tears. 

Christopher was surprised, but unfazed. Kennith's never gotten mad or yelled like this before seriously, yet Christopher understood why this time would be the first. Chris opened his mouth to say something, but before he could say anything, Kennith began speaking without any force. 

"It's just.. sigh , All of the pain that others give… It just makes me feel... a sort of way. A way I can't explain. And, it just makes me feel like I could breathe again, it takes the pressure off of my chest, it makes me feel serene, and…" 

He didn't know what else to say; he didn't know what else Chris wanted to know.

 Christopher tried to understand, but without much context, there wasn't much he could do. Instead, he kept observing Kennith's scars while Kennith looked around for anything that could possibly change the subject, anxiously bouncing his leg.

Christopher curiously turned Kenneth's arm over, searching for any sign of injury on the back. It was then that he noticed the scars on Kenneth's wrists. Christopher's heart sank, and, for the first time, his voice resonated with genuine worry and concern.

“ KENNITH -!” Kennith forcefully pulled his aching arm out of Chris's tight grip and turned away from him, refusing to face Christopher, his back turned completely.

All Christopher could do was stare at Kennith, jaw-dropped, eyes wide. He always knew Kennith was like this, but he’d never thought he’d be in this situation. 

“Kennith what were you thinking!? You could’ve cut an artery, you could have died! ” Chris cried out in horror and distress, unable to grasp the reality of the situation.

Kennith just stayed silent. He couldn't bear to look at Christopher; he was deeply ashamed of himself. Not only of what he had done but also of the fact that Christopher had witnessed it. Christopher tried his very hardest to soften up–opposed to his true personality–so he attempted to speak accordingly. 

“Would you care at all if you did?” Kennith stayed silent for a few seconds, then he nodded slowly. Christopher didn’t believe him, but he couldn’t just simply call him out like that. So he tried asking a different way.

“Did you care at all then?” Kennith didn’t respond at all this time. All Christopher could hear was the faint sounds of subtle sobs. That gave him his answer. All Christopher could do was sigh as he cautiously rested his hand on the back of Kennith’s shoulder.

Kennith tensed up at the touch at first, but then he decided to simply let it be. Christopher wasn’t sure whether or not the contact was welcomed or not, but he figured it couldn't hurt to try.

They sat in silence for a few moments, neither knowing what to say or do.

"Kennith," Christopher started, "I want you to promise me you'll stop this, this isn’t good for your health. You can always talk to me, I know how it feels to be hurt by others, so if anyone can understand, it's me." 

Kennith was surprised by Chris's sudden kindness and empathy. He'd never acted way before to him before—or anyone , as far as he knows. He started to turn back around to face him, letting his guard down. 

"Christopher, you know I can't just stop like that… And in complete honesty, I don’t really want to…" Kennith spoke softly, tears still running down his face. Christopher was confused by this. Well, why not? Who wouldn’t want to break out of such an awful habit such as yours?  He thought of saying to Kennith. But he chose not to be so… himself.

Christopher instead sighed and wiped the tears off of Kennith's cheeks. Kennith hesitated to accept the help, but quickly changed his mind and swatted Chris’s soft hands away from his face.

“Agh, but I know I sound dumb, I know it sounds like I’m faking it, I don’t understand any more than you do. It’s confusing. I just wish I’d never discovered this in the first place. That way, I’d have nothing to miss.” Kennith chuckled, trying to change the mood of the conversation.

Christopher frowned at this, knowing full well Kennith was right. There really is no way for him to stop, and there's no way for him to explain why or how he even started. Kennith’s smile faded and he sighed and turned away from Chris again.

"I'm sorry, Christopher, but I really, really don't think I can stop. It’s addictive." 

Kennith whispered. Christopher took a long, deep breath and tried his very best to reason with Kennith, even if it was presumably pointless.

“Listen to me, Kennith. I understand you can’t stop this all at once, If not at all, but for your safety, I'm begging you, Kennith, please try to stop. This isn’t good for your health if you give in to it. You need to learn how to control these feelings, or at least find a healthier way to deal with them. It doesn't help you if you continue to self-injure. It’ll just cause you more damage to your future than the short-term comfort you may receive from the pain. Please, just try to-”

In a sudden rush of emotion, Kennith instinctively pulled Chris close, embracing him tightly, without a moment's hesitation.

“Thank you, Chris.” Kennith softly sobbed into Chris’s ear, burying his head into the crook of Chris's neck, clinging on tightly. Chris was taken by surprise due to the sudden hug, but quickly
the gesture. He held Kennith firmly in his arms, his heart rate quickening as the other's body trembled against his. Chris could feel his face getting warmer as he continued to hold onto Kennith tightly.

“I sure hope you know this is only a one-time thing, Kennith. I won’t tolerate such unnecessary displays of affection such as this ever again." Chris mumbled under his breath.

Kennith rolled his eyes and smiled weakly as he pulled away from Christopher.

"Yeah, yeah, I know." He replied sarcastically.

Christopher took one final look at Kennith’s scars before planting a small kiss on his wrist.

“Come on, let’s keep walking. We’re not too far from the mansion, I have some medical supplies to help you with these.” Chris insisted, helping Kennith off of the bench. Kennith was beyond tired, not sure if he could even keep his head up. But he stood up anyway and walked side-by-side next to Christopher.

Kennith was no longer as cheerful as he once was earlier. He was tired, his legs felt like jelly, and he felt extremely light-headed. But he pushed forward anyway, attempting to ignore the fatigue and pain–he failed miserably. He silently sobbed and whimpered while desperately struggling not to pass out right then and there. Suddenly, he felt an arm wrapped around his waist, pulling him in close while his tears quickly faded.

Christopher was never viewed by others as “the good guy” or someone who would help anyone, but this time was different for a reason he did not understand, he had been put into a situation where he had no choice but to help. He scoffed at just the thought of how pathetic this all was. He had always been viewed as such an awful person that he felt he wasn’t even capable of helping people or showing any sort of empathy whatsoever. And yet, here he was, holding a crying boy in his arms. 

Deep down, he felt a bit of pride; a sense of accomplishment. His frown quickly faded into a slight smile. If he was capable of having a positive effect on someone without manipulating them, maybe people would view him better.

But, for once, his thoughts were not completely about himself.

Chapter Text

The two boys had finally reached the mansion and Chris kept Kennith close and held him as much as possible, knowing he might not have the strength to walk on his own due to him being lightheaded and dizzy.

The sun was setting and the sky was filled with warm shades of orange, yellow, and pink. It was a beautiful sight to see, but it was nothing compared to what Christopher was seeing. Kennith was still in his arms, looking almost asleep. But he was still awake, slowly following Christopher's steps as he led them to the bathroom. Christopher couldn't help but gaze upon Kennith as he was resting alongside him. He stared at Kennith's poorly styled peach-colored hair, his pale, freckled skin, and his hazel brown eyes that were only partially open, adjusting to the change in lighting as they entered the room. He looked so exhausted, yet so peaceful. 

Christopher subtly moved his arm down against Kennith’s body so he could feel his hand. Wow . Christopher thought to himself. His hands were soft and slightly cold, like a baby’s. Christopher kept caressing Kennith’s hand gently until Kennith finally noticed. 

“Christopher, what are you doing?” Kennith asked, seeming barely awake. Christopher quickly snapped back into reality, pulling his hand away and straightening his posture; clearing his throat.

"I was just… admiring your soft skin. It's a shame you ruined it with those disgusting marks,” Christopher said coldly. Kennith rolled his eyes. 

“You don’t have to shame me for it, you know. I already hate myself for it, no need to rub it in. I didn't exactly do it for attention."

Christopher chuckled and turned his head.

"I was merely teasing you, Kennith. Though I will admit, I do find your actions quite foolish. It's pathetic."

"Christopher..." Kennith growled.

"Okay, okay, I'll stop. I'll admit, it is a shame though, you do have lovely skin, Kennith."

Kennith's eyes widened, not expecting a compliment.

“Thank you,” Kennith appreciated that especially coming from a person who’s already seen his scars.

“Yeah… Then you had to go and fuck it up.”

“Christopher…” 

"Sorry, sorry, I couldn't resist," Christopher said, grinning and snickering.

They both walked into the bathroom and Kennith sat on the closed toilet seat while Chris went through the drawers and cabinets, trying to find the medical supplies. He finally found it under the sink and brought it up next to Kennith. He grabbed a cotton ball and some hydrogen peroxide. He wet the cotton ball, put some of the peroxide on it, and lightly brushed the cotton over Kennith's cuts.

Kennith winced as his not-fully-healed cuts burned and stung from the peroxide.

"Christopher, you don't have to do this. I've never cleaned any of my cuts and they still turned out fine." Christopher raised an eyebrow at him.

"You don't clean your cuts?" He asked, sounding more confused than concerned.

Kennith opened his mouth to say something more than just a simple answer–something snarky or sarcastic, but he couldn’t think of anything.

"Am I supposed to? I've never cleaned them before and they've never gotten infected." Chris sighed. Of course, he should have known Kennith was that reckless.

"Kennith, just because they've never gotten infected before doesn't mean it can't happen. If you're going to injure yourself, you could at least do it safely." Christopher rolled his eyes and continued treating Kennith's cuts.

Kennith couldn't help but smile. This was the most kindness Christopher had ever shown towards him, and it was actually kind of... Nice. Kennith wasn't sure if that was the right word to use, but it was the only one that came to mind. 

Once Christopher was finished with the peroxide, Kennith hesitantly spoke.

"Thank you, Chris." He mumbled under his breath, not knowing how Christopher would react. (If he heard him at all, that is.) 

"What was that, Kennith?" Christopher asked, obviously not hearing him the first time.

"I said 'thank you', Chris." He spoke louder, still embarrassed, expecting a proper reply the first time.

"Well, it's the least I could do," Christopher responded, seemingly emotionless. Kennith's face grew redder and redder as he tried not to look at Chris while covering his face.

Christopher didn't know why Kennith was acting this way, but he couldn't help but chuckle and roll his eyes. He couldn't understand why Kennith was acting so weird; it was a simple gesture, nothing special or worth acting this way over. Brushing away the subject, he grabbed the petroleum jelly and four bandages for Kennith. 

"Arms." Christopher demanded, holding his hands out. Kennith obeyed and held his arms out for Christopher. Christopher grabbed a bit of the petroleum and started rubbing it all over Kennith's arms.

"This should help the scabs heal faster," Christopher informed Kennith. He didn't respond. Instead, he just watched Christopher massage his arms.

Kennith was lost in his mind when he was taken by surprise when he found Christopher rolling up Kennih's pants up high to his thighs.

"Ah! W-wait, what- what are you doing!?" Kennith stuttered, not understanding Christopher's actions. Christopher had his hands on top of Kennith's thighs.

"What does it look like I'm doing? I'm going to treat cuts on your legs." Christopher calmly responded, not phased at all.

Ah, right. Kennith thought to himself. Shame on him for thinking it was anything else.

Christopher grabbed the peroxide and started brushing it against Kennith's legs. The cold liquid caused goosebumps and sent shivers down Kennith's spine. When Christopher got to the petroleum, Kennith couldn't help but flush as Christopher's gentle hands rubbed against his thighs. He covered his mouth and faced away from Christopher, his face growing warmer and redder by the second.

Christopher smirked and rolled his eyes. Kennith was nice, but we’re here because he’s cutting himself; there was no need to romanticize anything. 

He quickly bandaged his legs and rolled his pants back down, letting Kennith take a sigh of relief.

"Now," Christopher started, lifting Kennith's wrist, letting it be visible to the both of them. "We are going to talk about this."

Kennith's eyes widened and he felt a pit grow in his stomach. He wanted to vomit so bad. This was a terrible mistake.

"I-It was just a one-time thing, Christopher. It won't happen again, I promise." Christopher wasn't buying it, not one bit.

"No, Kennith. You don't understand. I can't simply let you walk away and go home after all of this." Christopher scolded. "Kennith, you attempted suicide, for God's sake! How am I supposed to trust you on your word that you won't do this again?"

"I just wasn't thinking at the time, that's all it is. Nothing else." Kennith tried to explain in pure desperation.

"Mhmm. And how many other times before this were you ‘not thinking’ like this?" Christopher asked, not breaking eye contact.

Kennith stayed silent for a few seconds, unable to come up with a good response.

"That's what I thought," Christopher stated. He had enough of Kennith's bullshit and was sick of him not being truthful.

"Why won't you tell me the truth, Kennith? Why won't you let me help you?" Christopher sighed, gripping Kennith's hand tightly. Kennith didn't know how to answer, he couldn't find the right words to say.

"Just speak, Kennith," Christopher told him as if he had read Kennith's mind.

"Well, what other choice do I have? I can't go on for much longer like this. I'm addicted to hurting myself and it's too hard and exhausting to try to do anything anymore. What's the point of living if it only causes suffering, Christopher?" Kennith was trying not to cry but was failing miserably.

Christopher's face softened and his grip on Kennith's hand tightened.

"Oh, Kennith,"

He whispered, gently placing his other hand on Kennith's face. He wiped his tears and stroked his cheek.

"Do not worry, Kennith. You are not alone. I understand how you're feeling. I'm here for you. I know what it feels like to think there's nothing else for you on this planet, but you have to push through all of the bullshit others make you go through. I know you can, you've been through a lot of crap. What's a little more? And, I promise you, Kennith, I will try to help you. There are healthier ways to deal with things like this. I'm not saying that it will get rid of everything, but you need to try."

Christopher's voice was calm, smooth, and caring. It was nothing like his normal, harsh tone. This was completely different from the Christopher he knew. Kennith's eyes started to water again and his throat felt thicker. His voice was cracky but he tried to speak anyway.

"Christopher-"

"Shh... Breathe." Christopher cut him off. He didn't want Kennith to speak until he calmed down. This time, Christopher was the one who brought Kennith in for a hug, but this one was slow and careful. He wasn't trying to rush Kennith into anything. He just held him in his arms, letting him sob and tremble.

Kennith stopped crying not long after and just rested against Chris. He closed his eyes and tried to focus on his breathing, his head resting against Christopher's chest. Christopher stroked Kennith's hair and ran his fingers through it, hoping to make him more comfortable.

"I'm sorry, Chris," Kennith apologized, still a bit shaky. Christopher shook his head and hugged him tighter.

"You have nothing to apologize for, my sweet. You were just… not thinking straight at the time." Christopher comforted him.

Kennith buried his face in Christopher's chest and stayed there for a minute or two. Then, Kennith looked up at Christopher, his face still red and tear-stained.

"Thank you," Kennith smiled. Christopher gave him a nod and pecked a kiss on his cheek.

Kennith’s eyes widened as he froze in his spot and stared at Christopher, who was looking away with a smirk on his face. He didn't know what just happened, but whatever it was, it was nice. Kennith grabbed Chris's face and returned the favor, kissing his cheek.

Christopher surprisingly didn't seem upset at all. In fact, he was smiling—genuinely. Kennith was glad he'd enjoyed it as much as him because he didn't stop there. 

Kennith continuously pecked kisses all over Christopher's face. Christopher giggled, letting Kennith do as he pleased. The both of them started smiling and giggling.

Christopher was the first to break from the hug, standing up and offering a hand to Kennith.

"You should stay here for the night, Kennith. You're in no shape to walk home. And besides, I still want to keep an eye on you." Christopher offered. Kennith nodded his head and grabbed his hand.

"Thank you, Christopher."

"Of course, what are friends for?" Christopher chuckled.

Kennith blushed and looked away. 'Friends'. Is that what they were?

Christopher noticed and started to blush as well, not knowing if it was okay for him to assume that.

"I mean, if you're cool with that, that is." Christopher rambled.

Kennith let out a small snicker and nodded his head.

"Yeah, that's cool." He replied.

The two walked into Christopher's room, Kennith taking a seat on the bed while Christopher looked through his closet, grabbing pajamas for the both of them. 

After they got dressed, both Kennith and Christopher lay in the same bed together. Kennith wanted to say something, anything at all. But he couldn't muster up the courage to say anything more than a simple 'Goodnight, Christopher.'

"Goodnight, Kennith." He responded, while somehow not being tired at all. All he could think was How in the Hell did I manage to let some random boy this dependent on me?

Not too long later, Christopher heard faint cries coming from Kennith. Christopher rolled his eyes and sighed deeply Boy, how many times is he going to do this? Why–no, how is he so emotional? He thought to himself, but then he saw Kennith clutching his forearms tightly, desperately trying to recreate the stinging feeling from his old cuts, seeing as he couldn't directly harm himself right now. Christopher sighed in disappointment. God, he's even more hopeless than I thought.

Christopher wrapped his arm around Kennith's waist and brought him close to his chest. Kennith jumped, not knowing Christopher was awake.

"It's going to be okay, I promise you. Please, stop doing this to yourself, Kennith. You deserve so much more than what you're giving yourself." Christopher comforted.

Kennith didn't respond. Instead, he smiled, now knowing that true comfort heals the soul better than anything else. He turned around and held Christopher close to him as they both started to fall asleep inside each other's arms.

Chapter Text

Kennith fell onto the floor, hugging his knees, crying into them. He couldn’t breathe properly and he was beyond stressed out from everything happening in his life. He was constantly made fun of by everyone, and his only friend wanted nothing to do with him, he knew he had horrible coping mechanisms, but he did them anyway, refusing to fight the urges. He felt as if the entire world was against him all the time. At this point, he didn’t know what he felt anymore. Was it anger? Frustration? Grief? What was the point of anything if it didn’t make you feel good? 

He grabbed the box cutter he had brought with him to the bathroom and slashed the cool metal blade across his forearm, eagerly watching the bright red beads of blood form across the slash across his skin.  Just with the first cut, he felt better. He could breathe slower, being able to catch his breath. But it wasn’t enough. He continuously sliced his arms open, feeling more euphoria as each new wound opened along his forearms and thighs. All of his anger, frustration, grief, and stress went into his blade and drawn along his skin.

 It wasn’t long before his limbs were torn apart, droplets of blood bleeding everywhere along the bathroom tile floor. He was now breathing deeply, smiling, almost psychotically as he laid his head against the wall and closed his eyes to pay attention to how the pain truly felt.

It felt good. It felt so good. He was feeling nothing and everything at the same time.

The room was spinning around him and his eyes were watering from the stinging pain in his wounds. Everything felt odd and blurry, he could barely even sit up straight. His chest ached and his head was throbbing, but he felt great.

But still, he failed to see the point of it all. If people who refuse to be wrong knock you down, what was the point of getting back up again? What was the point of trying to be better when the entire world just wanted to tear you apart?  What was the point of trying to get through each day knowing that it was going to end just as badly as it started? What was the point of anything anymore if it just made you feel worse about yourself?

Struggling to breathe again, he found himself on the verge of a panic attack. The room seemed to be shrinking, his heartbeat quickened, and a nauseous sensation overwhelmed him. 

With all the thoughts he had in his head, there was one that stood out. 

Trembling, he raised the box cutter, carefully positioning the sharp blade against the veins in his wrist.

He took a deep breath and on the count of three, he quickly slashed the blade across his wrist, crying out in agony as the crimson blood streamed out of the open wound, pouring through his fingers and dripping onto the floor.

He could feel himself becoming dizzy as the blood kept gushing out; he couldn't stop, he wanted this. He wanted to feel nothing, and this was his last resort. 

The cut was deep, and the blood was quickly pulsing out of him, but he didn't think he cut an artery or vein–thank God.

Kennith was horrified when he realized what he had done, and he turned pale at the mere thought of attempting suicide.

He began sobbing and shaking violently, his whole body aching. He couldn't bear to look at himself anymore. He was ashamed of himself. Ashamed of how he let everyone treat him, ashamed of how he treated himself, and ashamed of how he tried to end it right here. But he knew he had to clean himself up and hide it from everyone.

He groggily stood up, grabbed a towel, and wrapped it around his wrist, putting pressure on the cut, dyeing everything around him as he heard the blood dripping into the sink. He opened his mouth in pain, but nothing more came out than mere a squeak. Maybe he had cut something important? He still couldn’t believe this was really happening to him. He couldn't believe that he actually did this. And the fact that he would have to live with these scars for the rest of his life.

With regret, he glared at himself in the mirror. He grimaced at his frizzy hair, pale skin, and dark eye bags before focusing his attention on his bleeding arms and the towel being held against his wrist, drenched in blood. He sighed deeply in disappointment and cringed.

“You’re an awful person, you know that?” He scolded himself. “There are people out there in the world who are actually suffering, yet you're here trying to kill yourself over nothing? What is wrong with you? You don't deserve to feel upset like this. Quit being so selfish! You have no reason to feel sorry for yourself, you pathetic piece of shit. Why can't you just get over it like a normal person? Why are you like this? I hate you. I hate everything about you. You don't deserve to feel anything at all, you worthless slut. You're just a bother to everyone around you. Now stop feeling sorry for yourself and get out of this fucking unnecessary pity party you’ve cornered yourself in to and do something productive with your life for once instead of moping around like the sad sack of shit you are." 

He stared at his reflection for a while, his anger quickly turning to sorrow and guilt. His head ached so badly. He couldn't think, he couldn't process anything, he couldn't breathe. He opened his mouth to scream as loud as he could, but he couldn't. The scream died in his throat. Instead, he let out a shaky exhale, the tears finally rolling down his cheeks, sobbing hard. But he still had to deal with his cuts. Even though he barely had the strength to stand, he still had to.

After a long while, the blood had finally stopped pouring from his wrist and the towel and sink were completely covered in it. He anxiously caressed the open skin around the cut, flinching as it throbbed under his touch. It felt so unreal. 

As he became more aware of what had happened, he vomited right there without warning, feeling his stomach twist and turn as he continued throwing up the remaining contents in his stomach. It was an awful feeling, but he deserved it. He deserved the pain. He deserved all of this.

He felt the acidic taste in both his mouth and throat and spat out the leftover chunks in his mouth, wiping the residue from his mouth and weakly leaning over the sink. He could still feel vomit in his chest and he tried to heave again, just to try to feel more weak than he already was. Nothing more came out and he groaned, the bile burning his throat and tongue. It felt disgusting and painful and he didn't like the sensation one bit, but he knew he needed to suffer through this. He didn't deserve to be pain-free. 

With a bloody hand, he stuck two of his fingers far in the back of his throat, gagging. Tears filled his eyes and he felt like his entire body was on fire, but he still did it anyway. He could still feel the acidity rising in his chest and he heaved it out into the sink, watching it drip down the drain along with the blood splatters from his wrist, still tasting the remnants of his regurgitation on his tongue. He gagged, feeling his stomach churn. 

He held up his head with his clean(er) hand and groaned, feeling the burning in his throat. This was horrible and everything inside of him roared with a burning sensation, but Kennith couldn't get enough. He was addicted to the nauseous feeling and the way it made him feel drowsy and sick, but not in a bad way. In a way that made him want to throw up his organs until he had nothing left. He wanted to feel empty. He wanted to be hollow, a shell of a person who felt nothing. 

Kennith sighed, knowing how foolish he sounded. He was probably just faking everything for the attention that he didn't get. He probably faked his feelings, too. Acting to feel bad when in reality he was doing perfectly fine. He was just being over-dramatic. An attention seeker is what he was. Kennith decided to rinse his mouth out with water, trying to rid the burning and foul taste. 

Wiping away the vomit from his face and sink, Kennith went back to dealing with his wrist.

He slowly lifted up the towel and wiped away the drying blood around his wrist, wincing as it stung to wipe the cut dry. It was going to leave a nasty scar, that’s what he was sure of. But that was the least of his concerns at this point.

He fell back onto his knees, grabbed the box cutter once more, and sliced open his arms with the blade, cutting deeper than he had the first time. He didn’t want to stop. He was having a grand time. He didn't want it to end. He wanted more. He was addicted. He was on an adrenaline high. He loved it. The more the blade cut into his flesh, the more the pain disappeared. It was euphoric.

Blood ran down his limbs and onto the floor as he continued slicing himself, the pain fading away, the pleasure taking its place. He had no idea why this made him feel better, but it did. It gave him a sense of comfort and relief and that was enough to keep him going.

He couldn't tell if his mouth was bleeding or watering or both, but he couldn't care less. His body was screaming, aching, begging him to stop, but he didn't want to. More. He wanted more. The more his blade tore at his flesh, the less pain he was feeling. 

Not long after his body no longer looked human, Kennith dropped the box cutter, deciding to sit on the floor and think for a bit. The backlash feeling had already come to haunt him, leaving him overwhelmed with regret and guilt. He had done it again. He couldn't resist the urge and he did it again. He had hurt himself once again. He hated himself for this. Why did he have to be such a weak, selfish person? These scars will never heal, and Kennith has only himself to blame. He silently sobbed into his knees for a bit, wishing he would have thought things out before.

He internally yelled at himself, his mind clouded with self-loathing thoughts. He was an idiot. He was an awful person, and he had only himself to blame. Still, he gathered up all of his strength to stand up and attempt to clean up the bathroom, which now looks like a crime scene.

Sucking in his breath, trying not to puke again, he tended to the slit along his wrist once more.

 The cut was still open wide, so he wrapped a bandage around it to help a scar form faster. He had a hard time keeping his head up, his body was exhausted and his head was pounding. He couldn't stand for more than a minute or so without feeling the need to collapse onto the floor. He wishes he could simply fall on the floor and go to sleep right there on the bathroom floor, but then someone would notice him. So instead he limped back to his bedroom and fell on his bed. 

His arms and thighs were still bleeding, staining his white bedsheets with bright red strokes of blood, but he couldn’t care less at the time. He cried softly in his bed, trying not to make any noise or wake anyone up. All he truly wanted more than anything was for sleep to overcome him, so he could escape his feelings and thoughts–at least for the night.

He then remembered he had plans to meet up with Christopher tomorrow, he remembered how he was going to have to cover up his arms and wrist on a hot day tomorrow, and he realized Christopher was obviously going to ask questions. But he didn’t care. He couldn’t care about anything at the moment. 

It was just then that he realized something.

He never cared about anything anymore for a long time.

He thought of how much easier everything would be if he had died right then and there.