Y'know, some girls sit on the couch and watch soap operas when they don't feel good. Not me, man, I get out the laptop and write crappy, angsty one-shots.

Warnings: Slash, angst, fluff, language and... blood? Is that a warning?

Jazz yanked the chair out from its place by the desk collapsed into it, resting his head in his hands. His bloody, bloody hands. This wasn't fair. None of this was fair. It wasn't his blood and it shouldn't be anyone else's, and it wasn't fair. This whole goddamned world was so unfair.

"Jazz?" Someone knocked on the wall and Jazz swore under his breath, not turning around. "May I come in?"

"No."

Frederic hesitated a moment before pushing the curtain away. "Jazz?"

"Fuck off," he growled, tears stinging at the back of his eyes. The footsteps moved closer.

"Are you alright…?"

"I'm fine," his voice went up an octave. "Leave me alone." A small hand touched his shoulder and he hunched over even more. "Go 'way."

"You're hurt," Frederic whispered. Jazz shook his head.

"Fine. Go away." Frederic reached down for his friend's hand and Jazz pushed him off. "I said go away."

"Jazz, you have to let me help."

"I said don't touch me!" He turned angrily and shoved the pianist backwards, realizing what he'd done just a second too late. Frederic toppled to the ground before Jazz could catch him, hands splayed out in a vain attempt to regain his balance. "Saints!"

The older man sat up and Jazz could see the red trickling down his face from where he'd hit the floor. "Oh god, Frederic. Oh god, Frederic."

He waved him away, blinking. "N-no, I'm alright."

But it wasn't alright because there was more blood on his hands and it fucking hurt.

"I'm sorry," he muttered; the only words he could get out. "I'm sorry."

"It is just a small cut."

"I'm so sorry." And finally the tears came, and Jazz dropped his head back onto the desk and cried. Sobbed. Because the blood was never coming off; he had the weight of this whole goddamned war on his shoulders and it was never coming off. He felt Frederic scoot closer and wrap his arms around his middle, and he didn't even have the energy to move away.

"Jazz, sweetheart, it's alright. Don't cry, love. I am not angry."

He just kept shaking his head, over and over, and the words wouldn't spill like the tears were because there was nothing to say. Nothing that would make this better, less painful, less real.

Frederic stood up and curled into his lap, laying his head on Jazz's shoulder. "Shh."

He couldn't stop shaking, even as Frederic took both hands in his and held them to his chest, to his lips. It was so stupid, the hurt. The pain.

His little pianist brought Jazz's head onto his own shoulder, kissing the line of his jaw. It hurt.

Don't touch me.

He knew Frederic could feel the anger, the frustration, the want to push him away… and he didn't move. And Jazz loved him for it.

"Hold onto me," he whispered instead, settling his lover's hips between his. "I'll take care of you, sweetheart, just hold onto me."

So he did. He buried his face in the crook of Frederic's neck and sobbed, broken words coming between broken breaths, and I'm sorry and this isn't working and I'm so tired of all this shit and I love you. God, gods above, I love you. And it felt so good to just come apart like this, to lean on someone else for a change instead of trying to do it all on his own like always, and it felt foolish, too, but he couldn't bring himself to let go of that warmth, that strength that was embracing him, so he kept his head there on his lover's shoulder long after the tears had stopped coming.

They fell asleep like that.