Author's Note: Hi everyone! I know it's been a while since I've last posted, but I thought I would put up this short oneshot. I know it won't be to everyone's tastes, but to me it is very honest and very important. I've combined the character with Alois Trancy with my own recent experiences. I've been quite ill for quite some time and recently I've been on meds and just started therapy (hence my recent absence.) I've been diagnosed with borderline personality disorder, which came as quite a surprise because for years I've always just thought I have depression. As you can imagine, I'm sure, it's difficult but at the same time it's a relief to put a name to my illness and be able to work on it and start getting the help I need. One of the things I've been trying to do is get back into the activities I love, one of which being writing. So this is the first stepping stone and hopefully I'll be able to keep it up. From what I've seen in Alois Trancy, to me it looks like he and I share a number of similar symptoms, so here I've simply portrayed him as having my illness and used him as a sort of vehicle to explore my experiences.

Warnings: Poorly constructed sentences and grammar (this is from a mentally ill person's POV and during episodes your mind isn't exactly the most structured of places.) Graphic descriptions of self harm, suicidal thoughts, and a depressive episode. PLEASE DO NOT READ THIS IF you believe it could be triggering to you and could potentially do you harm. Consider this one great big trigger warning. On top of that, throw in an inappropriate doctor/patient relationship and a touch of boy/boy but not too terribly graphic. Also, this has not been beta read as always, so please excuse any typos.

Disclaimer: I do not own Kuroshitsuji or the characters. The only things I own are my experiences in my job and my mental health.

Borderline

"Can I get you anything else?"

A slender body leant forward across the cold, cutting metal of the till that he was trapped behind (a butterfly in a web... a tiger in a cage) as his spiky little wrists criss-crossed over the top of the computer screen, glossy, hooded, sky blue eyes appraising the wrinkles in the old, leathery face before them.

"Forty Lambert and Butler."

The little ski-slope nose wrinkled as soon as his back was turned, a sway in his hips as he made his way over to the sliding doors enclosing the cigarettes (as if that would do any good - people will get what they lust after one way or the other, and telling them they can't have something will only make them want it more.) The faunlet felt those yellowed, bloodshot eyes on his figure as he stooped to retrieve the cigarettes - one of the cheapest on the market. The customer wasn't even being tasteful in his habit. Not to mention that disgusting rasp to his voice made it obvious that he really didn't need to smoke anymore. They were scanned in with an artful flick of his wrist and he dryly quoted the numbers on the screen, taking the crumbled, greasy pound notes swiftly. He was very aware of the fact that those dirty - dirty - eyes were more focused on him than on anything else.

"Thank youuu," he chirped with a subtle wink, "See you soon." The old man grumbled something in response and shuffled off, stuffing the cigarettes into rotting pockets as he did so.

"Who's next there?"

Alois Trancy really did detest his job.

:: ::

He felt so skinny - so brittle - and in a way he supposed he was. The blade felt as though it could slice right through his arm if he only pressed enough. As the weight increased on his flesh, that agonizing weight on his chest lifted at last. It didn't even hurt, that was the really sick thing. Even sicker than someone who would purposefully and willingly mutilate themselves. He knew his body wasn't pretty to look at, and he knew that it would make the old man sick if he only knew what the boy looked like underneath that pretty veneer. He was rotting, rubbish...

Everything looked so grey. Everything was so dark. He felt on the brink of the end and yet at the same time staring at vast, vast space as his remaining time sprawled in front of him. He would be young forever, he would never be that dirty, fat old man, and the blade was his magic little key, his fountain of eternal youth. He didn't honestly know why he did it, only knew that his whole body ached with the need to do it and he obeyed, he allowed it just like he would allow himself water if his body was parched. He was doing it a kindness, he was giving it what it needed, what it so desperately craved. He always felt a little crazy at times like these.

He could barely remember anything, not his environment, nor his past, nor who (what) he was. What was he what was he what was he what was he what was he? He was going to die, die, die, this would kill him, no-one can survive that, no-one can burn in the flames and the brimstone of hell and live to tell the tale and he couldn't do it he couldn't fucking do it anymore and his head was filled with screams and they wouldn't leave, and death didn't seem scary anymore, it was just a curiosity and curiosities don't hurt anyone.

He shook and panted as he stared into his own dilated, watery pupils in the bathroom mirror. He was inside and outside, he was himself and not himself, and this torture would never end. He cracked a shaky smile and the blood that dripped from his limbs was warm and warm is home.

:: ::

His torn skin ached as he buttered his toast and he tugged his shirt sleeve further down so that his mother wouldn't see. His brain squirmed and squealed inside his skull.

:: ::

The clinic was misleadingly bright and sunny. He had expected the waiting room to be full of psychopaths and screaming schizophrenics, but the other outpatients smiled at him as he entered, feeling oh so pale and thin. They had painted the walls a calm yellow and they were plastered with posters about alcoholism and abuse and bereavement and recovery. The round table was full of leaflets and the green cushion of the armchair was going to swallow him whole and there was an advert pleading with him to give one pound a month to help save donkeys on the TV on the wall and there was a little sign asking him to approach the receptionist's window "slowly and with caution." Thank fuck for the NHS.

And then Claude was there, shortly stating his name, and he followed the man down the hallway as those sharp eyes peered through little windows through the square glasses until they found a free room.

:: ::

At first, Alois hadn't wanted to make eye contact with the therapist. He had preferred to stare at the flat surface of the wooden desk, closing himself off, not having to worry about those humiliating emotions shining through the "windows to his soul" and giving himself away. He felt like if he looked up even once, the love would just pour out of him and smother the psychiatric nurse. Now there were no secrets between the doctor and his patient and Alois found that he didn't want to look anywhere but at Claude. Claude's eyes were yellow like the waiting room, but they were not at all sunny.

He answered the questions shakily and hesitantly and clutched his 'homework' in his lap, his bright blue eyes straying at times to glance at the pictures of smily faces that were printed on the online modules. He had highlighted relevant parts and jotted down notes on them and hoped that Claude would focus on that, focus on how hard he had tried rather than the fact that his own blood was smeared on the notes as well. The therapist's face gave nothing away, but the boy cried when he wrist was gently lifted, the sleeve pushed away, and a large, warm thumb very gently ran across the ladder of scars and fresh slices out of his skin. And he felt ashamed.

:: ::

"Is there anything else you would like to ask m-"

"Can I kiss you this time?"

Glasses were removed only briefly so that long fingers could rub at those cutting eyes and Claude's eyes looked so naked without them, but his lashes were so long and black and now there was nothing in between them.

"Alois, I think you know how inappropriate that is."

"I know. But I want to."

"I know you do, but I cannot do that." Monotone.

"I'll ask you again next week."

"I know you will."

And before the boy could leave, those thin lips pressed against his own, and they were so soft and so warm, they were the only thing that warmed him more than his own blood did. And he just knew that something inside Claude wanted him the way he wanted Claude, even though the man fought to push it away. As soon as Alois was well, then they could be together. If only he would force the squirming madness from his brain, then he could make Claude love him, and not out of pity. He didn't want to be insane and he didn't want this label anymore and he knew that Claude was the only one who would love his body regardless of the map of scars that covered it.

His head was tucked beneath the doctor's chin and Claude was the protection of a father and the wisdom of a teacher and the excitement of a lover all at once and he wanted to stay glued to him, wanted the man to swallow him right up and keep him locked inside his body forever. The three poison words wanted to force themselves through his lips, but he knew that Claude wouldn't like it. He didn't really like it either, to be honest.

Eventually the man pulled away.

"I'll see you next week. Remember to do your worksheets and take your medication. You can call me if you have to."

"I'm still going to ask you next week."

"I know."

And he knew that Claude would't allow it, he never did. He wouldn't allow Alois to make the rules, wouldn't allow himself to give up control (because his Claude was a control freak and that was just one of the many shards of the man that made him love him even more, to the point where he thought his chest would burst open.)

He walked out of the door and didn't look back even though he wanted to and he caught his bus home and started scribbling over his worksheets to make Claude proud. He would see his doctor for his session next week... And he would see him in his car and in various locations early in the day during the week when anyone who would recognise him would be in school or at work. Maybe he could convince Claude to buy him ice cream, as long as he kept swallowing the pills that kept his demons at bay.

No matter what, he would extinguish the whispers from his mind and he and Claude would live happily ever after and, if he was being honest with himself, that was the only thing that made him want to fight for his own sanity.

He sucked on one of his knuckles mindlessly as his fingers stretched for his mobile, tapping in the familiar digits without even thinking about it, his body longing for his doctor's voice just as it did his blade. And he was always eager to give his body exactly what it needed.