Yes I know I should be working on Irritably Similar...but this just popped into my head this morning in the shower, so I had to. I'm not sure if I should leave it as a One-shot or not, I kind of think that these more fragile versions of the characters would be fun to write for.
It's also great for venting feelings.
I think I may just write more of this if I get stuck in Irritably Similar, like I kind of am now.

Song for background atmosphere: .com/watch?v=60YkPPyKjE8

Standard disclaimers apply.

If everyone noticed him, how did no one notice the scars? Not the battle scars that he flaunted about, but the red and white lines that crisscrossed his wrists, and the one or two subtle scars on his neck. One person noticed, because he had matching ones.

"We need to talk." He demanded, though his voice was quieter, and didn't hold its usual venom. That was probably what confused the other more than the question. Others around him were still laughing at the great battle story he had told where he 'wrestled a bear to the ground with one hand', but some had quieted and focused on the boy at his side whose face was aflame and downcast.

"What about?" Asked the other, he was thoroughly confused as to why he of all people would want to chat with him. But when the chestnut-haired looked up, it was obvious that he was serious. "This is one of those private discussions, isn't it?" he muttered lowly. It was even more confusing now, he couldn't comprehend why the leader of the 'We Hate Germans' club that cursed out anyone who gave him a sideways glance would want to talk to the king of all things awesome.

"It is. So come with me before I drag you, bastard." He growled, and the Prussian didn't need to be told twice, he could tell it was important, even if he couldn't figure out what. He hopped off of the table he had been sitting on and announced that his awesome presence was leaving, the confused group of people that he had been addressing muttered their farewells, going about their own conversations as he left, having to jog a little to catch up with the fast-footed Italian. No sooner had they rounded a corner had said Italian pulled the other into one of the public bathrooms, luckily enough, no one was in there.

"Hey! What the hell?" The albino blurted out, being slammed against one of the walls. It was a blank wall, a flat wall, so at least it hadn't hurt too badly.

"If you're so damn awesome, why the hell do you have so many scars?" The owner of those words seemed to be shaking, why was that?

"Well, this one came from-" he was interrupted from pulling up his shirt to show a long pale line in his skin that crossed with others of less importance, but they still looked like they had hurt.

"That's not what I meant, and you know it. I mean scars, not stories." He slowly pulled up his sleeve, exposing scars marring his perfect olive skin, some were old, others looked fresh, and there were bandages on his arm, signaling that they hadn't been there the previous day. Oh, now he got it. His gaze quickly flashed to his own arm, just a glance, but Lovino caught it. He reached out, grabbing the other's arm, pulling back the sleeve that covered a similar sight, "Why?" he asked, looking up, the other boy was taller, "Why would you do this to yourself?"

Gilbert felt a small bit of rage, disappointment, and even worry, "You do it too!" he accused, though it came out as more of a question, less threatening than he had meant for it to be.

"I have a reason! I live in Hell! No one gives a damn if I'm even alive! Hell, my own brother wouldn't even notice if I were gone! He's too busy for me anymore; all he cares about is your macho potato bastard of a brother!" Damn it, now he was starting to cry, and he told had himself he wouldn't. Not in front of someone else, he could do that at home, alone, with blade to skin, and blood dripping into the bathtub. "You have friends! And your brother cares about you! You're always the center of attention! So why the hell would you do that?" He really couldn't fathom why someone as perfect, well, aside from the arrogance and annoyance, as the awesome Gilbert Beilshmidt would feel so horrible as to do that to himself. It was abominable. He obviously didn't do it to get attention, so why?

To his surprise, he heard a choked sob. Looking up from where he had been staring at the tiled floor, he met the tear-flooded, blood-red gaze, which to him looked far too hurt and fragile to belong to the face that framed it. "You don't get it then." He managed to mutter out, "I don't have friends, just people who'll put up with me while I beg for attention like table scraps." He choked out another sob, and this time, found himself being comforted by the broken heart in front of him. He hadn't imagined that anyone would actually care about him, not like this. No one had noticed the scars before, as much attention as he put into the scars with stories, most of which were made up, no one noticed the scars that actually mattered. Only one person, Lovino Vargas. There was actually someone who noticed, who cared, who understood the pain, who was now holding him gently, cooing soothing words into his ear between his own sobs.

That was the moment when Gilbert realized that he had a purpose in life. He would do whatever it took to give Lovino a reason to stop hurting himself. And just like that, he found the only person he could ever truly care about, because he was cared about in return.

I think the vulnerability is why I love these two so much, because they can be both vulnerable and strong.