Summary:

He's stuck in his own big stupid head and self destruct is his go-to.

Notes:

because i think that pythagoras has it harder than we would ever imagine at times.
(title from that one song by mumford and sons)

Warnings for self harm and suicidal ideation

He was fifteen the first time he did it and it was the small knife he used for sharpening his pencils that he did it with.

The sharp, shiny blade cut smoothly through the pale skin of his upper thigh with ease. The red blood bubbled up and ran down his leg in pretty ruby droplets before he grabbed a rag from his desk and pressed on the wound until the bleeding stopped.

After, he ran his fingers over the raised pink mark and thought of what a dissapointment he was to his father. Earlier that day he had been drawing triangle after triangle as usual when his father had called him over to help carry some large bags of grain across the town for the ageing woman next door. Pythagoras had managed to lift the first bag all of two metres before his weak arms gave out and he dropped it, splitting the rough material of the bag and spilling it's contents all over the dusty ground.

His father had simply dismissed him and finished the job himself, promising to pay for the damage. But Pythagoras had seen the defeated, pitying look in his eyes as he had passed.

Who would want a son who cared more for shapes and lines than for brawn and glory?

He deserved the pain he gave himself. That night was the first of many.

Some days are better than others. Some days he's too consumned in his thoughts and calculations or picking Hercules up from the floor to even think about it.

But others, like today, when his only friend is out late and the triangles don't make sense and he has a moment to remember how worthless and insignificant he is, he goes into his room and closes the door and takes out the same knife from the very first time and gives himself his just deserts.

So cut open my veins and paint a pretty picture using my blood as paint and my skin as a canvas.

He opens a series of four deep gashes lying parallel to one another along his left hip bone, and when the blood is dry -almost black- and cracking, he washes it off with boiling hot water, revelling in the bite of the heat in the open wound.

Sometimes he thinks it's be easier just to end it all. To press the edge of the gleaming metal just a little harder over his pulse point. But he won't take the coward's way out. He'll continue to live unnoticed in his own head (his own personal hell) for just a little bit longer. Just a day more. (And if sometimes he has to tell himself this quite a few times a day, then it's just a thing that happens sometimes because a lot of things happen to a lot of people and why should he be any different?)

Jason quite literally comes crashing into his life, and needless to say his being there makes a change in Pythagoras' pathetic little existance.

He's broad and tall and handsome and has all the makings of a hero. He sacrifices himself within a day of knowing Pythagoras, and in the same amount of time does something that nobody has ever been able to do so far and kills the minotaur.

He's brave and kind and courageous and amazing and there's absolutely no reason that he should stay with Pythagoras and Hercules when he could be anywhere with anyone he wanted with so little effort it hurts to think about.

There's certainly no way that he'd want to be with Pythagoras in that way, even if he wasn't a man; and Pythagoras knows that he's disgusting and repulsive for even thinking about such a thing and every time he does, one or two or several angry red gashes join the others in various stages of healing along his thighs and hips.

It's been months now that he's been trying to hide his ugly secret, and it's getting harder and harder.

At first it was effortless. He had always been a quiet man, and so when he claimed he wished to retire early he could slip off into his bedroom with no bother: most often no-one would even be around to hear him. But recently, Jason had taken to trying to engage him in conversation, about anything- their latest job, Hercules' drinking habits, Pythagoras' triangles- it was becoming increasingly harder to slink off to his room, and the need to slice his skin was urgent.

One night when Hercules is out yet again, Jason catches Pythagoras before he can get away and sits him down with a cup of wine to match his own. Initially he tried to object, but Jason did that thing with his face that -oh, gods- he just couldn't resist and eventually he gave in and took a sip.

Soon enough he was feeling slightly lightheaded, and Jason too seemed to be glowing and full of mirth, moreso than usual.

Pythagoras found himself leaning towards Jason in his wine-induced haze, and before the rational part of his brain could stop him his lips were meeting Jason's own warm mouth and he could taste the sweetness of the drink on his breath and on his tongue and oh gods, this is amazing- before he realised exactly what he was doing and abruptly pulled back.

Jason looked up at him, eyes full of confusion and hurt and all Pythagoras could think was this is it. I've ruined everything. I've taken advantage of a good friend and i'm so ridiculously stupid. Can't you do anything right at all, Pythagoras?

He ran through to his room and grabbed the box where he kept the knife and cut messily through his tears along his arms, his stomach, his ankles. The blood was spilling everywhere but it didn't matter one little bit.

He didn't even notice his half closed door being pushed fully open and Jason walking into the room until he was cast in his shadow, and then it dawned on him that Jason could see him. Could see the blood and the cuts and would know what a freak he was.

He tried to curl in on himself, make himself disappear so that Jason couldn't look at him, would just stop looking at him and go away; but he didn't. Instead, Jason crouched down beside Pythagoras, took the slippery knife from his grip and held his hand and tilted up his chin and then kissed him, softly.

Pythagoras looked up through his tears, barely daring to believe what had just happened, but Jason smiled a shy smile at him and kissed him again, and again.

When his tears were dried up and the floor became uncomfortable, they stood up and Jason guided them to the basin where he grabbed a clean cloth and began to wipe the blood from where it clung to Pythagoras' skin.

Afterwards, they wordlessly slip into bed and Jason holds Pythagoras tightly to him and whispers you're perfect, you know. You're beautiful to me.

And for a second, Pythagoras lets himself believe him.