Twelve little white pills lined out in a parody of a smiling face. Two gleaming razors laid out on a snowy white towel. One bottle of vodka right in the center like a deranged unicorn horn. Demyx, sitting cross-legged on the cold white tile of his college dorm bathroom, nodded with a smile. The door was locked, a towel blocked the crack at the bottom of the door, the window was cracked just enough to let the bitterly cold wind stir the curtains. He picked up a piece of paper and studied it for what felt like the thousandth time.
Demyx,
This association between us is no longer logical. It has become evident that I am destined for greatness while you seem content to play your guitar on street corners. You lack ambition and drive. You are also unable to commit to a task and do it properly. I have taken back everything of mine that I left in your living quarters so that there will be no reminder of me. I have already begun to see someone more suited to my future and personality; I recommend that you do the same as soon as possible.
Zexion.
Demyx choked out something that might have been a laugh or a sob, he couldn't tell. "An association?" he said incredulously. "That's what three years was? An association? Fuck, it's like he's talking about a crappy printer…" He shook his head and his limp hair flopped into his eyes. He hadn't styled it since—when?—Tuesday? Yeah, it would have been Tuesday. Zexion had ended the relationship—"Association," he spat—on Sunday. Monday he'd tried to face the world with his smile plastered on so firmly his face began to hurt after only a few minutes. That night he'd come home to his dorm, his tired brain shoving the reason for his hurt away and he expected to see Zexion sprawled out on the bed surrounded by snow flurries of notes in his neat, cramped handwriting. When the door had opened to a sterile room empty of even Zexion's scent, he had shattered into a million tiny pieces.
It was now Sunday, and everything had come full circle, circling around and around that damned piece of paper. He'd even typed it, taking away the comfort of a brief glimpse into Zexion's humanity. He set the paper aside and leaned back against the sterile porcelain of the tub that sent chills over his naked chest. Scooping up the pills, he tossed them back dry, grimacing at the bitter taste of the hydromorphone he'd stolen from the medical labs. After the last pill had shuddered its way down his throat, he twisted the top off the vodka and took a slow, lengthy sip.
Inability to commit to a task, huh? I did my research. Slow sips will keep everything down. He then felt a dizzying rush and he had to swallow rapidly to fight the surge of bile in the back of his throat. His pulse began to thrum through his veins and his head spun. Groping, he found the razors by slicing his finger, bright red blood spotting the white towel. With trembling hands, he braced the tip of the first razor in between the two tendons on his left wrist. A small droplet of blood oozed to the surface as he took several shaking breaths before jerking the blade down to his elbow. The sharp burst of pain made him gasp and he forced himself to duplicate the action on his right arm before letting the razor clatter to the tile, the sound surprisingly loud to his buzzing ears.
Leaning back, he felt disconnected from the reality of his situation, like he was looking down on the scene or watching impassively behind the screen of a television. There was a dull pulsing throb from the deep gashes on his wrist and his stomach burned, but as his head hit the edge of the tub with a thunk, Demyx conceded that this really was an easy way to go. He blinked once, twice; then the effort of keeping his eyes open became too much and he let himself slip away into the comforting darkness.
Shifting impatiently from foot to foot, the dark-haired man pounded on the blue door again. "Demyx!" he shouted, "It's Leon. We've got that group thing to work on so wake the fuck up!" His fist slammed against the door again, leave a small dent in the cheap wood. His eyes narrowed and he reached into his back pocket, pulling out a pair of steel-knuckled gloves and tugging them on. The little fucker didn't want to do his share and hide from the world, too damn bad. He pulled his arm back and slammed his fist through the door with a delicious tingle of pain running up his arm. Shaking out his hand, he reached through the hole he'd made and unlocked the door, letting himself in.
"Demyx!" he called again, his anger shifting to confusion as he looked around the room. He'd fully expected the music major to be sprawled out on his bed with noise-cancelling headphones on, but the blond bastard was nowhere to be seen. Running a hand through his hair, he huffed in disgust and turned to leave. As he stepped around a pile of guitar magazines, he heard a thunk from the bathroom and a predatory grin snapped onto his lips. "Gotcha now," he muttered, turning the handle of the bathroom door and frowning at the towel blocking the door from swinging open. He gave the door a shove and stepped inside, his booted foot slipping on something wet with a faint squeak. Leon took in the scene and promptly hurled outside the room, his body violently rejecting his breakfast.
Running out of the room, he pounded on the first door he came to, shouting, "Someone's dead in room nine! Somebody needs to help!" The door swung open and a shirtless man who was over six feet tall and about as wide as a pole scowled dangerously at him behind a mane of unnaturally red hair.
"The fuck you talkin' about?" he growled, shouldering Leon aside and tossing him a slim cellphone. "Call 911 then, ya idiot!" Leon fumbled the numbers in and rambled out the situation to the calm operator, numbly following the shirtless neighbor into Demyx's bathroom. The stranger was kneeling at the musician's side, both wrists wrapped in a blood-soaked towel and gripped in a white-knuckled hold. "I need more towels," he snapped at Leon. "Hurry up."
Leon rummaged around in the single cupboard and pulled out some old and thin towels. The stranger let go of the boy's wrists long enough to snatch the towels and pile them on top of the soaked ones. "Shouldn't you—take the other ones off first?" asked Leon, his stomach churning.
"No. These have already formed a seal an' takin' them off would rip the seal," was the reply. A few minutes passed as the musician's breathing slowed even further, his lips turning a soft blue and his face as white as the tile below him. Well, the tiles that weren't covered in blood that is.
The sound of sirens reached them just before a team of paramedics burst into the room with a stretcher and they immediately began to work. "Axel," acknowledged one shortly. "Deets?"
Axel began speaking at once but waited until he was sure the pressure on the boy's wrists could be maintained before releasing them. "Class IV hemorrhage, suspected suicide attempt. Empty bottle of vodka found near patient, probably pill and alcohol cocktail."
"Fuck," muttered the head paramedic. "This kid really wanted to die, didn't he?" He then threw a look at Leon. "Look, kid, get outta here. I don't care if he's your boyfriend or whatever, but we need all the room we can get in you're in the way."
Leon shook his head and said, "I don't really give a shit about him." He turned and left, his boots leaving a faint trail of blood down the hallway until the blood was worn off.
Axel growled deep in his chest as he assisted the team with Demyx's unconscious body. He was surprisingly—concerningly—light and Axel frowned. Part of it might have been the nearly two liters of blood lost but he suspected something else was at hand. Twitching up the boy's shirt, he sighed and pointed out the map of silver scars criss-crossing the boy's chest like railroad tracks. The team shook their heads and gave the boy a sympathetic look.
As they left, the oldest turned and said neutrally, "We could use your help with his recovery, if he makes it."
Axel glared at the man's one eye and scowled. "I'll think about it." He got a short nod and a sympathetic look of his own before the man left. "Fuckin' Xigbar," Axel whispered as he watched the boy from the window. He looked so small as he was loaded up into the ambulance, but Axel was seeing another blond boy, just as pale, just as hopeless, only whereas the boy in the ambulance had a chance, Axel's boy was cold and in the ground. Tears stung the back of his eyes as he entered his own room, stripping his pajama pants off at the doorway and heading straight to the shower. When the water was as hot as possible and steam fogged the mirror, he stepped into the spray and let a single choked sob out before he started scrubbing at his hands and chest with soap, his vigor turning the pale, creamy skin bright pink. As he watched the pink water swirling down the drain, he wished he scrub away the memories as easily as he had the boy's blood.
Pain. Cold? Pain! PAIN!
"Looks like he's awake," said a soft female voice, and a warm hand touched his cheek. Touch? Wait, wrong. Dead. He squeezed his eyes together as his chest tightened. Zexion had been right. He couldn't even succeed in killing himself. He tried to lift his arms but they were strapped down. His eyes flew open in a panic.
The owner of the gentle voice and warm hand leaned into his field of vision. She was a kind-looking woman with long brown hair braided and tied with a pastel pink ribbon. Her name tag read "Trauma Nurse-Asst. Director of Recovery" with "Aerith Gainsborough" just below it. "Demyx, is it?" she said softly, her eyes filled with a warmth he'd never seen before.
He tried to reply but heard only a hiss of air and felt a sharp stab of pain. There was a tube sticking out of his throat, the end just barely visible from his position. His eyes widened and he felt the urge to run away, but his body seemed almost completely unresponsive.
"We had to intubate you on the way to the hospital," said Aerith quietly. "Your respiratory functions shut down and this was the only thing that we could do to keep you alive." Demyx glared at her. She sighed and patted his hand. "I noticed you've got guitar callouses on your fingers, and I've got some bad news for you." Demyx's stomach dropped. "When you slit your wrists like that, you damaged some of the nerves. Two fingers on your left hand and three on your right are unresponsive. We don't know if it's permanent or temporary, but there you have it."
She patted his hand again and stood. "I'll let you rest. Your tube should be taken out later today." After spinning a small dial attached to the IV shoved into his arm, she silently left the room and shut the door behind her. As a small rush of numbness flooded his veins, Demyx closed his eyes and let the tears seep from beneath his eyelids.