Casey sat in his room, tears running down his face.

God! How could Yannick manage to be such a dick!? He's so insensitive! Loving and caring boyfriend my ass.

After struggling with the belt on his shorts for a while, he quickly became frustrated, resorting to grabbing an already forming rip in his tights and pulling it apart roughly, enough to expose the soft flesh of his thigh, already sporting layers of scar tissue, the most recent ones only just having scabbed over.

He reached his hand into the space between the mattress and the wall, and pulled out the small tin he knew Yannick stored there. Opening it, it was like a manic depressive's wet dream. Stored in neatly organised plastic baggies were razor blades, dismantled pencil sharpeners, eyebrow razors, craft knives and box cutters, as well as several lighters, pills and a small hammer. Honestly Casey didn't even know what he did with the hammer, and he didn't want to know. He didn't want to hear anything about the demon known as Yannick Michel right now. Grabbing the baggie at the top of the pile, the razor blades, he slammed the tin shut and threw it on the pillow.

Plucking out the newest looking one (Yannick may not care about infections, but he definitely did!) and holding it between his thumb and index finger, he braced his left hand on his thigh for stability and after digging the corner into part of his thigh, he jerked his hand to the right and watched as the blood beaded on the thin line of red. He could never do anything particularly deep for the first cut.

Using both hands to try pull the skin apart, he looked, frustrated, at the tiny cut he'd formed, and decided he wanted to do more this time. Finally unbuckling his belt, he pulled down his shorts and tights, smearing a bit of blood on his leg doing so, he kicked them off before shuffling back onto the bed.

That stupid asshole can pay for new sheets. Who cares if I bleed on them. He's done worse!

Deciding on a relatively clear spot on his upper right thigh, he braced himself, pressed as hard as he could on his leg while biting the neckline of his shirt, and quickly swiped, applying pressure as consistently as possible. Opening his eyes (that he didn't realise were closed), he saw a long white strip across his entire thigh, and as it quickly filled with red, he wiped off the blade on his shirt, and bites his shirt again after taking a second to gag (he really needs to work on his gag reflexes huh), he swiped again after making sure he was aiming for the right place.

A burning pain quickly spread as the wound deepened, and as he inspected it, it was clear there were two layers to it. Immediately unsatisfied with it once again, he braced himself before aggressively swiping, almost slashing now, into the wound.

As the familiar sight of the yellow bubbles of fat greets him, he decided the blade wasn't cutting it (a/n: pun not intended (´・ω・`)) and reached for the discarded tin resting on the pillow, swapping the previous implement for one of the few hunting knives, one with an orange plastic handle. Armed with this new weapon, he cuts through another layer of now red fat, ignoring the searing pain now spreading over his entire thigh, and much happier with the new knife, he takes a moment to stand up, liking the sight of blood trickling down his leg, getting caught in the notches his previous scars create and slowing down before forming little beads at the bottom of the track, but knowing if he cut deeper, it would likely be difficult to stand up for a while.

On this thought, he remembered the task at hand: cutting deeper than he has ever cut before, cutting deeper than Yannick or Vince or Kit ever have, deeper than the deepest cut you'd think someone could inflict upon themself.

Sitting back down, he took some deep breaths in, some deep breaths out, scrunched his face as tight as it'd go, and sliced the knife into the deepest point of the cut. He felt blood spurt slightly, landing on his inner elbow, surely having hit a larger vein. Opening his eyes, he'd definitely hit a vein. Blood flowed out freely, spilling from his legs and the bed onto the floor, and running into the cracks between the floorboards, into the crevices between his legs and such, and it'd covered all of his hand and the knife, as well as quite a lot of his forearm. Closer inspecting the valley that was his wound, he saw that the blood that'd pooled went about half a finger deep.

Christ, I need to get Yannick to drive me to a&e asap.

He also saw he'd finally cut through all the fat and made it to the muscle, cutting probably an inch deep into it at least. Two more big slices could get him down to the bone, but he was starting to feel dizzy from blood loss, so he resigned. It was still far deeper than his previous 'record' (for lack of better words), as he usually favoured quantity over quality.

After yelling for Yannick, he realised too late that he probably should've warned him to the sight he walked into.

"Jesus christ case! The fuck'd'you do?! Shit shit shit I gotta drive you to the hospital."

"Please" he stressed, unintentionally drawing out the 'p'

Yannick was already panicking, pacing the length of the bedroom a few times and muttering to himself, before running off (quickly walking?) to an unknown target.

Just like him. He's probably getting Vince to show him. That pig.

Before Casey could ponder this any further, Yannick burst back into the room- without Vince- now brandishing a towel. "Shit- can you- can you wrap this around your leg? Or let me do it? Can you move your leg at all?? Fuck...."

"I can... I can do it... I think you might have to carry me to the car, though"

"Fuck, okay, yea, anything you need, yea,"

After he wraps his leg as tightly as he can, Yannick, displaying surprising strength despite his skinny frame, lifts him up bridal style, careful not to touch his thigh, which was already staining the white towel with a defined oval of red.


After making a quick pause to grab more towels, which Yannick subsequently lined the passenger seat of his car with, the pair made it to the car, Yannick now being equally covered in blood.

Wiping his hands on his ratty white vest, he jumps into the drivers' seat of his shitbox used-to-be-white Honda and starts it, using the keys perpetually in the engine, driving up onto the grass verge outside their house and starting the 3 kilometer drive to the nearest hospital.

When they got there, their wait was only a few minutes, and after being seen by a doctor (How did you get this wound? Ah... Incident with a power saw..? And are these scars here self inflicted? Y-yes. You have a history of self harm Mr. Tomah? A history, yes. When I was younger. I see.) and administered staples, crutches and very heavy painkillers, he was let go. He's a bad liar, but Yannick's flawless performance backing him up made his story seem more believable.

Once they got home, remembering a comment a mildly delirious Casey had made on the drive, Yannick orders pizza. They cuddle on the sofa under a pile of blankets while they eat with Casey's leg safely propped up, and watch a film. Before he gets up to put the leftovers in the fridge, Yannick glances over at Casey, who has been resting his head on Yannick's shoulder, and he's fast asleep. He decides that the leftovers can wait until tomorrow, and he falls asleep alongside Casey to the sound of soft snoring and the Brother Bear dvd menu.

Later in the night, Vince will use a discarded towel on the bedroom floor to mop up some of the blood, and will take the leftovers, microwave them, and present them to Kit as a big romantic gesture. Kit will fall for this, and the two will also fall asleep on top of each other, this time to midnight re-runs of Twin Peaks.

Everyone in the household, despite things that may have happened earlier in the day, are asleep and content, with stomachs full of pizza, hearts full of love, and arguments forgotten. Somewhere in the house, a record is left skipping on the last song of Of Montreal's The Gay Parade, and Casey Tomah, for the first time in a long time, is happy.