Hello, kiddies. Here I am again, delivering sweet, sweet Dameron for you to feast on. R n' R and maybe I'll write a couple more.
Disclaimer: I don't own Damian McGinty, I don't own Cameron Mitchell. I don't own the Glee Project. Please don't sue me, I don't have any money.
WARNINGS: Triggers, and lots of them. If you've ever been a serious cutter, or had problems with eating disorders, then you might not want to read this. Read at your own risk. Also, it was meant to be slash, but you can squint it away if you try.
Please, if you didn't read that, at least go read the warning. Scroll up, good girl.
You can't do it again. You can't do it again. You can't do it again, Damian.
"What are you talking about; of course I can do it again." Damian growled under his breath.
He sat on the edge of his bed, contemplating his options. He had a razor in his bag, a safety one, but he could break it and use the blades inside. No, Damian. You can't. It's a bad fucking idea, I asked you to stop this. The kitchen is just down the hall, too, unlocked. Knives.
You don't want to disappoint me, do you? I said I'd tell if I found you doing this again. I meant it, Damian. Damian got up slowly, turning to the door and marching down the hall. The kitchen stood brightly, even in the pitch black of the night. He slid through the door, keeping silent, and fumbled his way to the drawers.
I'm going to be angry with you. Very angry. Damian grabbed a paring knife, the kind he'd used back in Ireland for this sort of thing.
Damian, drop it. Now. Put it back, we can all go to sleep and try to get past this setback. Damian made his way back to the dorm, into the bathroom. He clicked the bright light on, obnoxious and fluorescent, making Damian seem paler than he was. He locked the door, habits, and turned the tap on.
Please don't do this. Come on, you're better than this. Slowly, Damian brought the cold blade to his wrist, where so many scars were littered.
You got over it once, Damian. You can do it again. In one fatal swoop, he cut. The relief flooded him, his brain feeling lighter, his muscles absolutely floating.
"Thank God," he muttered, the pressure oozing off his skin.
I can't believe you. You gave in. You're stronger than that.
"Shut up! No one wants your fucking opinion, Cameron!"
Silence. Then a knock. Silence.
"Damian, let me in," a soft voice pleaded.
"Why the fuck should I?" The Irishman gasped through tears. He didn't know how they got there, but he certainly wanted them to go away.
"Because if you don't I'll go get Robert." Damian washed the trickling of blood from his arm again, and then unlocked the door. Cameron opened it with slight caution, giving himself time to use the door as a shield if needed.
"Hi," was all he said.
"What do you want?" the younger coughed out. I want to help you. I want to make you okay. Damian gripped the off-yellow counter in hopes of some stability. He got nothing but more knots in his stomach. Let me hold you up.
"Don't fucking touch me, Cameron. Stop talking."
"I never said anything."
Damian turned away, towards the mirror. He took a long gaze at the shell of himself, his dark, sunken eyes peering hauntingly. His bones were very visible underneath his light stretch of skin, the product of his recently re-found bulimia. He thought he looked pretty. A hell-angel. Dark.
Cameron also studied Damian, but all he saw was sickness. Mental, physical, emotional injury. The way Cameron could probably wrap one hand around Damian's thigh made him gag. What could make Damian think that this was so beautiful? That Cameron would want him like this?
The silence was killing them both. Slowly, Cameron lifted his arm, resting his hand on Damian's shoulder. Damian cringed, but let him leave it there.
See, I'm just trying to comfort you.
The silence grew unbearable again, until Cameron gather enough courage to do what he hoped would break through Damian's wall.
"Lights will guide you home," he sung. The thickness of his voice fled the room. Damian didn't turn, didn't even acknowledge the sound.
"And ignite your bones." Cameron pleaded with Damian through his voice. They locked eyes in the dirty mirror, the hollow blues meeting scared browns. With that, Damian spun slightly, giving Cameron a look of absolute pity, but at the same time it was of absolute wonder.
"And I will try to fix you." The Irish boy collapsed into the Texan's arms, letting himself break down in the only place he felt safe. Cameron stood like a pillar, hands rubbing every available space. He gently lay them down against the wall, closing his eyes and letting the teen cry into the crook of his neck. They slept like that.