Rating: T for now, possible rating change later on.
Pairings: Finchel and Klaine to start, eventual Kurt/Finn.
Chapter: 1/?
Spoilers: Anything up until "First Time", more eventually.
Summary: Finn Hudson has always been 'That Guy". Not the brightest guy around, but incredibly likeable, and almost always happy. But, there's more to him than just that. Because Finn Hudson has a secret.
Warnings: Trigger warnings for descriptive self harm, and possible mentions of suicide/suicidal thoughts, etc.
Author's Note: Title taken from the song of the same name by Florence and the Machine. I'm going to say this now – this definitely isn't going to be some fluffy, happy piece, so consider yourselves warned.
Breathe in, breathe out.
He's scared. He hasn't felt like this in months. The feeling clawing at his gut terrifies him beyond belief, as it should, because he knows what it means. What it'll result in. He lets out a sigh, stares up at the ceiling, flat on his back on the bed with his hands clasped over his stomach, and squeezes his eyes shut.
He thought he was past this. He thought he was better.
The urge is strong, bile rising in his throat as an early warning that he'll probably end up losing this fight. He wrings his hands together as a distraction, but it's not enough – his fingers itch for the blade, and he's not sure he'll be able to hold off this time.
Rolling onto his stomach, face buried in the pillow, arms at his sides, he hopes the urge will disappear, because he can't go through this again.
He just can't.
… But in the end, he knows he's not strong enough.
Reaching for the blade stashed in his bedside drawer is almost instinctual by now, and Finn doesn't even recall grabbing it until he's sitting cross-legged with it hovering over his forearm, pressing the edge against the tender skin there. He doesn't cut here often, instead tending to stick to his thighs and stomach, places more easily hidden from prying eyes. But sometimes, times like tonight, those places aren't enough, and then, his arms are the only place that can do anything for him.
Running his lower lip through his teeth, he drags the edge of the razor along his arm, and the familiar feeling of clarity, of freedom and utter calm, washes over him. He watches the tiny beads of red grow, and the tension in his chest seeps out with the blood trickling down his forearm. The cut itself hurts, of course, but Finn shivers at the pain, soaking up the stark rush of control it gives him. He did this to himself. Not Quinn. Not Santana. Not even Rachel. No one else but him.
And that's why he does it.
He stares at the thin red line, head tilting curiously. The tiny trail of blood dripping down his arm isn't enough for him, not nearly enough, so he brings the blade down again, deepening the cut with each harsh stroke until he's pleased. The cut has become a gouge now, and he watches intently as the liquid pools on his pale skin before spilling over.
He wants to feel something, prays desperately for it – and really, watching yourself bleed like this should make a person feel something, Finn reasons – but he can't. He simply feels numb, detached, like always. He runs the blade against a fresh patch of skin, drawing even more blood, and Rachel's words from earlier that evening ring through his head.
"… I can't wait a couple weeks… have to get this done before opening night…"
He bites hard on his bottom lip as he makes a third cut, followed by a fourth, and by the time he's finally worn himself out he's made eleven marks, each as deep as the first, and god, his arm is a mess. But, in some fucked-up way, Finn finds it kind of beautiful.
… For all of ten seconds, before the crippling feeling of disappointment and disgust takes over. And when it does, it takes all of his strength not to empty the contents of his stomach across his bedspread.
Somehow, he makes it across the hall and into the bathroom without vomiting, and he takes great comfort in the knowledge that his mom and Burt are out campaigning for the evening, so he won't be disturbed. An old, ratty flannel shirt he's relegated for this use stems the flow of blood until he can reach the sink, where he runs his wrist under the water and sighs, the murky pink liquid swirling slowly down the drain. He squirts some hand soap into his palm and cleans the dried blood from around the cuts – and when some of it comes into contact with his wounds, he considers the stinging punishment for being so weak in the first place. He dries arm on his old shirt, and rummages around for the first aid kit he knows is nearby, pulling out a few large pieces of gauze and pressing them to the cuts. He secures them with a bandage and some medical tape, and it's a shoddy job, but it's better than nothing.
Once he's done, and he's run the blade under the tap to rinse it off, Finn leans against the counter and stares at his reflection. The white of the bandage is harsh against his skin, and his stomach clenches as he stares at it. He did that to himself, hurt himself, gave into that goddamn urge, and the same thing that made him feel so powerful, so in control, mere minutes ago only makes him feel like he's not in control at all now.
He feels disgusting. And there's nothing he can do about that.
He makes his way back to his room, stowing the bloody flannel under his bed to be dealt with later, before wandering to his closet and sifting aimlessly through the t-shirts and puffy vests inside. He yanks a grey hoodie off a hanger, tugging it over his head and making sure it hides the bandages well enough. He's pretty sure it's still obvious, but he knows he can just make up some alibi about hurting himself during football practice and no one will question him. One of the perks of being clumsy, he supposes.
Too exhausted to do much more at the moment, he flops onto his bed, barely having the energy to tug the comforter over himself so he doesn't freeze. He curls into a ball under the blankets, drawing them up to his chin, and lets the familiar feeling of disappointment wash over him once more.