AN: I'm putting this at the top woah

Most stories I do these at the bottom. This one deserves a top one. This story is ((If you couldn't tell by the title)) going to be covering some very serious material. Such as dealing with depression, PTSD, self harm, and mentions of rape. I will not, or ever, make jokes about these themes in this story. I will be using the serious themes as a serious matter as they should be used, not in a funny or erotic way.

Trigger warning; This chapter isn't too too bad, but the ones later on, especially later when Alfred's and Arthur's relationship advances.

I am very sorry if I offend anyone with this story. I'm not trying too, and I understand that covering serious stuff like this is kinda risky. I have depression, so I understand most of what that is. As for PTSD i've studied short term and know a decent chunk about it. Plus, I know that people with depression don't hate everything, obviously (as I just said, I have mild depression myself), Arthur's just somewhat of a grump.

Okay, hopefully i've provided enough of a warning UwU I don't want anyone to have a trigger or anything. If you still want to read this for the characters and to skip the self harm or the mentioning of rape, I will put a warning before each chapter individually. I just wanted to put this here so everybody knows what will be in this fic.

So, Arthur's an artist, Alfred's a singer. I'm a huge fan of AU's where Alfred can sing well UwU Chapters will be this size if not smaller.

Rated M for sensative material, language, and smutt

Enjoy~

The Depression Of Arthur Kirkland

X

I looked down at the fresh, clean bandages covering my arms. They were not itchy, nor uncomfortable, just a little tight was all. They made me gnaw my lip in anxiety, as everybody could see the shame that hid behind those white, friendly strips of cotton. Even if the bandages were not see through, everybody could tell what was hiding. They wrapped from my wrists to my elbows on both arms, and they felt awkward, sitting there over healing cuts. My arms wrested on my lap, my thumbs fighting with each other, my hands glued to my twiddling thumbs. I tried to imagine as if they were talking to each other, tough wrestling terms or something. Anything to keep me distracted from the white room. It reminded me too much of the hospital, and I didn't like it. It wasn't the hospital exactly, similar, but not. No bodies being wheeled in. No Arthur Kirkland screaming and pulling with all his might at the restraints. With everybody staring at him, me, like he, I, was a madman.

I don't beileve I was a madman. I probably was messed up, but not mad. Mad was completely different. My brain had been broken down to the point where If I was scared I would attack, like an animal, but I didn't mean it, honest. I hardly remembered my flashes, all I could remember was how scared I was. I could tell I had been screaming at the hospital as my voice felt hoarse and weak still, and there was purple hand marks around my shoulders from doctors and my father trying to hold me back from escape. Plus my father wasn't very happy with me.

My father stared, and he stared. The most malicious thing about this whole ordeal was that my father, everytime he saw me now, he would look at me in anger and confusion with the few words; "Get over it."

I wish I could get over 'it'. The problem being I don't know what 'it' is. Nobody knows what 'it' is. Whatever it was, I flashed, and don't remember anything but the fear. It was a long time ago when 'it' began, and 'it' ruined me. 'It' ruined my whole, entire, innocent life. But my life had now reached his peak as another somewhat suicide failed and my parents caught me. Now i'm here, numb, my voice raspy and harsh from crying and struggling for two days straight. Now i'm not going to go commit suicide, but if I die, it happens and I don't mind too much.

They think i'm going to stop cutting, but I doubt that will happen. I don't want to disobey my parents, but cutting is really such a great relief and a good way to get out my stress, I can't stop. Without my razors I can still do it, I don't think my parents realize that. I hope they don't feel bad, they really shouldn't. It's not like I hate myself, I'm just confused and a little scared, and it's not their fault.

So I sat, numb, needing a sweater, and with a scratchy throat and stupid bandages. In the quiet room, the almost empty room, with no parents surrounding me. Mom called me twice to make sure I was still at the therapy office, but I was almost completely alone. The grey, ugly carpet beneath my feet wasn't very comforting, but being alone was. A wooden door opened near the end of the office, a tall, skinny lady with her hair in a bun stepped through the door, and called the name that made me cringe. My name.

"Arthur Kirkland!"

I awkwardly stood up, brushing off my bandaged arms, and stepped forward once, before pausing.

I wasn't mad. I shouldn't be here. I'm not crazy. Just scared. I'm not a monster.

I took another step. And another. Before walking towards the woman.

My eyes scanned a family waiting in the family room, I wondered why they were here. They looked happy, a husband or another child must be in there. The blonde, littlest girl pulled on her mother's sleeves.

"Mommy, why does that boy have bandages on his arms?"

I bit my lip. Don't look at me like that. I am not a monster.

The mother looked distraught for a few moments, "Don't do that, honey. Don't ever do that."

I turned my head to face forward again. Don't talk like that. I am not mad. I swallowed down the words burning to get out. The words I wanted to badly scream out at them.

That lady walked me through the halls silently. She tried to talk to me, but I only responded with a nod, and I think that might have mentally chased her off. I'm good at doing that.

We stopped at a door, the lady stopping. I eyed her curiously, my eyes asking permission to enter instead of my vocal chords. I talked, I wasn't one of those people who doesn't talk, but I just find it easier to use less words. I can get where the people who don't talk come from though.

"This is your room," she said quietly, urging her head towards the door. I nodded, I could feel the awkwardness coming off of her.

I easily slipped through the wooden door, it made a quiet creaking sound which made me jump a little. Inside was a much more comforting room. It used dark tones for a cozy atmosphere, a window at the edge of the room, a deep purple loveseat chair sitting next to a nightstool. It almost made me want to snuggle down amongst some blankets and fall asleep. The room was warm too, a comfortable warm, a cozy warm.

Another male sat at a desk. He had straight brunette hair that reached his shoulders, green eyes, but they weren't that forest green like mine, more of a teal. He looked strong, maybe not buff strong, but he definitely wasn't skinny or wimpy. His body was well rounded, kind of like a log. But he still looked extremely gentle, his soft face, the way he looked at me. A golden nameplate rested on his desk that read 'Toris Laurinaitis'. He smiled at me, but it wasn't so much as a happy smile than a greeting smile.

"Good evening, Arthur, right?" He definitely had an accent, not a thick accent or anything, but I had an accent too, so it wasn't troublesome.

"Yeah," I said quickly, nodding as I stood there. I didn't know if I could sit or not. I swallowed, was this going to be weird? My fingertips started to stroke and pull at the bandages, anxiety thing I guess.

"You can sit," He said with a small laugh, nodding his head towards a chair. I bit my lip and nodded, taking a step towards the chair before the man asked me another question. "Need something to play with other than your bandages?"

I quickly nodded, it kind of hurt to fiddle with my bandages, so I should take up the offer. It's not like I constantly wanted to cause awful pain to myself and think about death all the time. I hardly thought about dying, if it happens it happens. It's not like I have a horrible urge to cause pain to myself, pain sucks. Cutting is just so much of a relief, it's hard to explain. Toris bent down behind his desk and came back up, holding one of those stress-balls or whatever. I had a few of those at home. He handed it over to me with a quiet "Here ya go."

I paced back and sat down in the purple chair, curling my legs against my body. I rubbed a piece of the ball between my thumb and forefinger, now quietly looking around the room. My front teeth still nibbled my bottom lip, pulling my lips back softly.

"So, Arthur," My new therapists voice snapped me out of my previous activity of looking around the room, "My name is Toris." I nodded. "I already know a little about you when your parents signed you up, your hospital visits, hobbies," Toris looked at a small stack of papers and shot me another smile, "Normal stuff."

I nodded again, not knowing exactly how to react. "Okay."

"Now, maybe if you would want to give me a little summary of things?" Toris said, cocking his head, "If you don't thats fine, we just met, so if you're uncomfortable that's alright." I'm not sure how I feel about this guy. He seems nice, maybe helpful? Well i've only known him for about two minutes, so I really can't say.

"Um, yeah," I murmured, nodding. I didn't mind telling him, he was my therapist, so I could trust him in the least. "Well, in uh, seventh grade I was diagnosed with Dysthymia. Long term depression, you know. After that in eighth grade my parents started to beileve I had post Traumatic Stress, but I was never tested for it. We think something happened to me when I was young, but I can't really remember," I kept my voice quiet and plain, not wanting to warm up immediately to this guy, "And I flash a lot. Like, if I get scared apparently I just freak out, and I never remember it afterwards." I swallowed, what else was there? Nothing completely heartbreaking has ever happened to me. Just dirty looks have slowly turned me into this. "I was kind of bullied, not really, but I got looks sometimes."

Toris nodded. I thought he was going to say something like 'sounds normal' or 'suck it up' like my father, something like that, but he nodded with that same kind expression. He finally spoke up, "It's hard, having depression when you're a teen. Especially since you were diagnosed in middle school, thats when social pressure really begins."

I nodded slowly. "We could also get you some testing for PTSD, but i'm guessing you don't want to have it done?"

"Yeah," I nodded again, "I guess once I was diagnosed with depression I just kind of... Embraced it. I just hope I don't have PTSD, I mean, so that nothing truly happened to me." I did hope nothing happened to me, but yet, I wanted it to be true. Something to blame my depression on so people don't think i'm an attention whore, which the last thing I want is attention. Other people are not my favorite thing in the whole world.

"Yeah, I get that," Toris said with a nod and a soft smile. I put on the smallest smile possible in return. "Well, I would like to get to know you a little bit more before we really start therapy, hm?" I hummed in response, looking down at the stress ball. I didn't really want some man I hardly knew helping me, either. "Your mom told me you like to draw."

I perked up slightly at that. "Yeah, I do." I wasn't serious into art, I wasn't serious into anything, but art was something I could do easily. I didn't feel as if I didn't want too or it was hard for me. It was nice, and really just relaxing.

"Well, I was thinking about something called art therapy for you," Toris said, tapping his fingers on his desk. "You know about that, correct?" It sounded generic, but I really didn't know what it was entirely. I shook my head no. "It's where you draw whatever is on your mind, it's been pretty helpful with people with depression and PTSD."

"Whatever i'm feeling?" I asked quietly, "And no one sees it?" I did draw, maybe I had drawn some vent once or twice, but most of it was random lines on paper and people.

"Unless you want them too." I nodded in reply, biting on my lip again. That may be okay. I guess I had never tried doing that, maybe it could help. At this point there was really no more negative feelings left in my body, anyways. It couldn't hurt.

Toris explained to me how he hoped I could learn to trust him, which I did too. A friend would be nice, someone to talk to, even if he was an adult and i'm only seventeen. Someone to listen to me would be nice. Toris told me how the next three or so weeks would be more trust stuff so I was comfortable, and then we could get into the real therapy. Which didn't sound awful. I had nothing better to do, so it wasn't like it was painful to go. A lot of people say they were afraid to go to therapy, but I was messed up and I knew it, and I needed therapy. But I wasn't mad. Scared, sad, and messed up. Needing help. Arthur Kirkland, I, recognized that he, I, needed help.

I left with a new sketchbook and colored pencils in my hands. Into the scalding summer heat, a teenager reduced to a child as I shuffled to my moms car awkwardly, cradling my sketchbook in an arm and that arm in another arm. My scratched up, beaten arms, hiding under clean, friendly bandages shook despite the heat, my pale skin burned against the sunlight, my weak frame stumbling through the parking lot, I looked like a mess. And I was a mess, so it really didn't matter. I told my mom about the ordeal as she drove me home. She was gentle with me, especially gentle, this is the first time in two days I was talking like a normal person. My mom had always been the nicer one, but she was afraid of my father, she never stood up for me. But she was nice, and dad was scary so I couldn't blame her. I hated having to drive with mom, I used to have my own damn car that I got for my sixteenth birthday, but that got taken away as soon as my parents found out what I had been doing to myself.

But the sad part is i'm not going to stop. I want to, but I don't. I'm not doing this to hurt my parents, to hurt anyone, to get attention to myself, to even hurt myself. I'm not doing this to hurt myself. Cutting is such a relief, sleeping for hours is such a relief, avoiding social activity is such a relief, avoiding anything is such a relief.

Arthur Kirkland, I, was not happy no matter what, despite him, me, not being a wreck all of the time, he, I, was still going to cut because his, my, life wasn't very great, and cutting felt good to him, me.

X

This is the last place I ever wanted to go.

Highschool. As a senior. Stupid highschool, with it's weed smokers and crazy kids, crazy irritating kids. Loud teachers who didn't understand me, even stupider building design.

The worse part about it was dad had signed me up for a new school. He said it would help. It's not going to help, but I couldn't put up much of a fight. I let out an irritated grunt before retreating to my room, that's all I had the capacity for.

"Meet new people," He told me, "Get social, stop thinking about yourself, get a tan on that skin. New start. Maybe even friends." No friends, no social. No, hiss, gross. Well, I don't have too much to lose, as I already hated school in general. But this is going to be strange, because i've been hating the same people since middle school. It's going to be odd getting used to new people just to hate them. I wanted a friend, sure, but i'm not going to force myself to like anyone that I don't. I can live without a friend.

It's not even the end of summer. I have two weeks until I go back to school, this was some sort of an... Opening. A party at the schoolhouse to welcome newcomers and celebrate with people who had stuck around to senior year. It's some talent kind of thing too, get to meet and see what other talents people have. It's all seniors like me preforming too.

It's late, and I want to go home, and my mom dropped me off, and I look like an idiot. I have a sweater in the summer to cover my bandages and it makes me look like a crazy person. I look somewhat nice for once though, i'm trying to make myself as threatening looking as possible so no one will think that I'm someone who can be pushed around. Which at this point, yes, I can be pushed around to a certain extent. Doesn't mean I don't like being bossed around and bullied, and i'm going to try and prevent it. I wore Black sweatshirt and grey skinny jeans, eyeliner, combat boots with heels, normal threatening punk stuff. I'll try to look like someone who shouldn't be messed with, and I won't be straying to far from my comfort zone.

I shuffled inside, the school being a decent temperature was nice. My heels clicked against the floor causing somewhat of an annoyance for me. There was signs to the party, plus I think I would have been able to find the party just with the sound of music. I don't like parties, I don't want to be here.

I opened the swing cafeteria doors, wearing an almost invisible frown as I saw the 'party'. It was more of a crazy gathering, not a party. A step down from a party. Normal lighting, everybody was sitting and drinking what seemed to be punch, some girl on stage singing. Okay, not too bad, I'm not sure what else I expected from this. It is a party at the highschool with teachers around. I sighed, shuffling in, clutching my messenger bag, which held that sketchbook. My only fear now is that somebody notices the bandages and teases me.

I made my way through the cafeteria, easily sliding through the crowd with little difficulty. I wasn't into sports, but I still had good footing, I wasn't clumsy. I went to a small table on the other side of the cafeteria that was completely empty, slumped down in a chair, and sighed. It smelt like dust and sweaty highschoolers, and the noise filling the room was murmurs and the sound of that girl singing. I slid out my sketchbook and began to draw lines with a pen. Just random lines. I drew, and drew, until my lines formed a bed I'd much rather be sleeping in. Everything became muffled as my drawing took it's shape, and I became every line, every blank spot of paper, every dot, every pen stroke. I could almost feel the comfort of sleep.

Until I recognized something. A beat, and chord, and a tune. I looked up, my eyes scanning the crowd until they fell upon the stage. A group of four, three males one female. A small set of drums in the back, the other three each having a different kind of guitar. I'm not much of a music person, I listen to it of course, but it's not my life or anything. But, I recognized the song. Face Down by Red Jumpsuit Apparatus. Even if it was a alternative rock song it was still rather popular.

The boy in the middle, the tallest, strongest looking out of them all, caught my eye. He looked an awful lot like a jock, his build, his face, the blonde hair and blue eyes. But the way he dressed wasn't. It wasn't punk-look or anything, similar though, with a raggedy tank top that had the American flag on it, a leather fall jacket wrapped around his waist, khakis tucked into combat boots. Two wristbands littered each of his wrists, probably having some slogan on them I couldn't read from here. And one thing was for sure, he was awfully handsome. That tall, strong build, those broad shoulders, just the way his lips cracked into a smile. He didn't seem like someone i'd be interested in, personality wise, but he was awfully good looking. He didn't match the other's as much, but their style fell into somewhat of the same category.

I watched them with interest. And once that blond boy opened his mouth, it sounded like I was being sung to by a famous Singer. Okay, maybe not, but he was a very good singer, especially for a high schooler. The girl started singing eventually too, and the two of them were very, very good.

This group could be someone I had interest in. Maybe. I don't know. They seemed okay.

Arthur Kirkland, I, had an interest in this group of kids. Maybe they could be his, my, friends?

...Ehh, probably not...

X

I waited until everybody left before I did. I didn't want to be caught up in a crowd, so I started to pack up as very few people were left in the cafeteria. I'm so glad this was over, it was pretty boring, I just sat there and listened to people sing and play instruments. I'm glad there was some bands, though, those were nice, even though I didn't know half the songs. Music may not rule my life but it doesn't mean I don't appreciate it.

I threw my sketchbook in my bag, buckling it up before throwing the bag over my shoulder. I walked out, stumbling once because I placed my footing wrong on my heels, but kept going. Glad no one was around to see that. I shoved my hands into my pockets and kept going.

I exited the cafeteria, hearing a quiet commotion. The singers and the bands were all collecting their stuff still. My eyes quickly scanned the group of seniors before continuing my way. I tried to look for that one band, but I decided looking for them would seem odd.

"Hey buddy!" A hard, forceful hand fell onto my shoulder.

I wheeled forward, spinning on my heels to see who it was, my lips lifting in somewhat of a scowl. Who the hell would sneak up on me like that?

It was that girl. That one girl who had performed with my handsome-blonde-guy. She had a short haircut, like that Jennifer Lawrence haircut, but she was definitely a girl. No mistaking that, she looked like a girl. Pretty pink lips with some eyeliner starting to drip from sweat. "You um, you did good tonight!" I think I discouraged her with my reaction, which I didn't mean of course. She just startled me, so...

"Uh," I murmured, cocking my head slightly. Good job tonight? Did she think I played or something? "I uh, I didn't, I didn't play."

This time the girl looked confused, "Really? You sure look like ya did," She murmured, biting her lip, "Isn't there an instrument or something in that bag?"

"No, it's my uh, sketchbook." Jeez, I was awkward. The girl nodded slowly, like she was slowly starting to understand my words.

"Okay, I get it," She said with a soft smile, "So, you're new, right?"

"Uh, yeah," I rubbed the back of my head. Was she trying to be my friend? Well, she was clearly trying to socialize. I didn't mind of course, she was being nice, maybe she was a little too loud but that was really no problem. Plus i'm going to have to get used to this once I go back to school.

"Well, I'm Liz," The girl said proudly, puckering her lips slightly, "Or Elizabeth, but everybody calls me Liz. Don't call me Elizabeth."

I nodded, the forcefulness in the last comment was almost funny. She stared at me as if she was expecting me to say something, and eventually she squinted at me. I panicked, "What?"

"What's your name?"

"Oh," I muttered stupidly, rubbing my cheek, "I'm uh, Arthur."

"Got a nickname? I like nicknames, you need a nickname." Okay, maybe this girl was a little straight forward. And a little, teeny, tiny bit bossy. I shook my head. "How about Art? No, that doesn't sound right... Uhm, Artie? No, that's to kiddish," Liz bit her lip and I stared at her nervously. What was she doing. I don't want a nickname.

" I don't-" I said, I sounded funny, I haven't had social interaction in a while. Just need to get used to it again. Then, once again, another voice made me jump.

"Hey Liz!" Everybodies so loud, sheesh. Maybe they popped their ears while playing or something. I looked in the direction of the voice, that handsome blonde guy bounding out of the crowd. "Dude where have you- oh, hey," He looked at me, a smile slowly growing on his face. "Liz, who's he?"

"He's new," Liz said, almost as if she was bragging.

"Did he play?"

"Nope."

I was pretty confused, just staring at nothing as it would look awkward to stare up at the blonde kid and Liz was inches from me. I was confused on if I was making friends or not. Like, these people just come out of the blue and start giving me nicknames.

"Hey, wait a sec, I think I recognize you,"The blond kid muttered, turning to look at me again. Man, he had nice cheekbones. My eyes widened slightly with that comment.

"Really? How so?"

"I think we live on the same street," He said with a murmur, rubbing his cheek, much like I do when I'm nervous. But I don't think it was a nervous thing for him. "Parker ave, right?"

Oh, so we do live on the same street. Thats cool, I guess. I've never seen him before which is surprising, this guy looks hard to miss. "Yeah, that's my street," I said, shuffling my feet. I didn't mention anything else, really, I didn't want to force myself upon the either of them.

"Well that's nifty," Liz said with a smile. The blond guy elbowed her playfully, which made her stumble, but she came right back with an even harder one that made the blond stumble as well.

"Well I'm Alfred," He said, holding out his hand. I swallowed, slowly reaching out to shake it. "Alfred F. Jones!"

"Ooh, so royal," Liz said dramatically. Alfred's hand was so big, and warm, and slightly calloused. His strong grip on my hand felt funny because I just met him, but yet it was strangely kind and comforting. I liked the feel of my delicate little baby hands against his much stronger ones.

"Well, um, I'm Arthur." I said, my thin, injured arm shaking along with my hand , "Arthur Kirkland."

That was the first time I had said my full name in a long, long time while introducing myself. I didn't know why I disliked my last name so much, it just, didn't sound right on my tongue I guess. Made me anxious. I usually said my last name to myself, but, I just didn't like it. It was more of just 'it sounds stupid', something else was behind it. Something big. But I have no idea what.

But despite my hate for my last name, and even though I felt anxious after saying it to them, I left with two phone numbers written on my hand in pen.