I read a story called 'Love is the Slowest Form of Suicide' and fell in love with the title.
Then this was born. This can be seen as anybody you want.
I honestly thought at first it would be Hary/Draco but by the end I was thinking Naruto/Sasuke.
R&R is love.
They were in love. Not the perfect, rainbows and fluffy hearts love, but real love. The painful kind of love; where they would get hurt and they would fight and it was never ending. Nobody knew they were in love. They certainly didn't act like young lovers. Always fighting, sneering and always trying to best each other; acting more like rivals then lovers. They hated it, this strange feeling that wouldn't go away. Why would anyone want this? They certainly didn't.
It was getting to be too much. The pain was overwhelming the pleasure. Their hearts were slowly breaking. Their feelings slowly stopped coming. This was torture. This was agony. This was unstoppable. No matter the pain they couldn't stop. They hated it. They loved it. They wanted it to stop. They'd had enough. They could never get enough. It was never-ending. It wasn't worth living. It wasn't worth giving up.
He didn't feel anymore. This strange dance was slowly draining him of his life. No longer was the bubbly young man he used to be. Now he was an empty shell of his former self. He noticed it. His friends noticed it. This couldn't go on, they told him, and he agreed. But he couldn't end this painful affair either. So he would have to fake it and feel. But he couldn't do it alone. So he turned to different things to try and feel once more. Drinking and drugs; he tried it all. Nothing seemed to work. Then came the day he discovered pain. He dove head-first into it and never looked back, cocooning himself and everyone else carefully in his little web of deceit.
Pain was a glorious thing when it was the only thing you could feel. As red blood seeped out of slit veins your over-crowded mind would finally be calm. You could think clearly again. No more numbness. It was pure irony that to escape pain you turned to a different kind. How was it that mental pain was unbearable, and yet physical pain seemed to be an entirely different thing, bring about relief and pleasure even as you suffered physically Was it always to be a constant struggle over which one would be happy- your physical self or your mental one? Was there no way to end this? Could he end it if he was given the choice? He told himself he could and he would. But truth has a way of creeping inside your carefully constructed web of lies.
So he cut as he slowly spiraled downwards in a vain attempt to stop from sinking. This love was unhealthy. It was sardonic in a way. It was psychotic and sadistic. It was killing them both. They were suffocating, yet neither wanted it to end. It was too syrupy even as it killed the desire to live. They couldn't –wouldn't- end it even as it drove them to the brink again and again. Eventually, they would die for it. Because love is the slowest form of suicide; its bite as sweet as it is poison. It's death just as good as its life.