A/N: Warning for self-harm, depression and suicidal thoughts.
It itches. Unbearably so. And so he scratches.
He scratches and scratches and scratches his wrists. The skin gets sore and red and inflamed but he doesn't really notice it or even care. The only thing he can feel is this goddamned itch. He taps his feet on the ground, boots thudding to the rhythm of some half-forgotten song, in an attempt to distract himself.
Anything. Anything to disrupt this ITCHING. For a few minutes, the combination seems to work, the scratching fading to the back of his mind as his focus shifts.
Until from across the room, he hears an aggravated sigh. His foot freezes, and with a wince, he turns his head to meet the source.
He probably shouldn't have, because Marco has pinned him with a peeved stare.
"Quit it, yoi."
With deliberate actions, he pulls his hands away from each other- the blonds eyes not leaving him for a second- and sets them down on the table firmly. He gives Marco a questioning look, as if to say, well, is that enough?
It is apparently enough, as the irritable man turns back to his work, to the papers cluttered all over the desk. Quietly muttering about physics and other stuff that tended to go right over Aces head.
It's not to say that he's stupid, but if you ask him what the coefficient of whatever is, he'll probably give you a blank look. Science is just not his thing, alright?!
Still. It makes him feel horrible. He's here, at his boyfriends apartment - that word still makes him so happy to say- and he can't even keep quiet so that said boyfriend can concentrate. It's his final thesis, an important work that will ultimately determine his final grade.
In short, he can't afford to have Ace distracting him with this crap. If Marco got a bad comment or even failed because of Ace, he'd never forgive himself.
Ace was so absorbed in these thoughts, that he didn't even realize he was scratching his wrists again. It wasn't until he felt a sharp stab of pain that he noticed the blood.
His fingers were caked in it. Blood was everywhere. His wrists, under his nails. Some had dripped and smeared on the table and probably on his clothes as well, though his pants today were black and he couldn't tell for sure.
Letting out a low sound of pain, he quietly set his hands down on the kitchen table. Marco was going to flip out when he saw this. This was the last thing the blond needed right now, as the stress caught up and the pressure was on near the end of the year. An idiot hurting himself.
It wouldn't be hard, Ace figured, to just wrap it up with some bandages. God knows he's gotten into enough fights over the years to know some basic first aid. The only challenge was getting over to the cabinet in the kitchenette without the other noticing.
Seriously. The last thing Marco needs is to have to worry about his stupid airhead boyfriend, Ace, hurting himself. Even if it wasn't entirely conscious on his part. There's enough of a history -and Aces eyes flicker darkly for the briefest of moments- that it'd quickly turn into an interrogation and inevitably an argument.
He hates those fights. Absolutely can't stand it when he and Marco end up shouting at each other. Something in his chest clenches at even the idea, and he shakes his head to clear the thoughts out.
No. It's time to get up. No more delays. He quietly stands up, the chair scraping obnoxiously loud in the silence which is otherwise interrupted only by the occasional mutter or the scratch of a pencil.
"Water?" He mumbles, trying not to sound suspicious. It probably comes out a bit stiff, but Marco doesn't even look up from his desk, full attention on his work.
Really, he thinks to himself? Is that the best you could come up with to ask? Dumbass...
It's a few minutes of quiet, in which he awkwardly waits, fingers idly rubbing his wrist. "Ah... No thanks, yoi..." is the eventual half-hearted reply. Thank fuck for small mercies, Ace thinks to himself as he slinks over to the sink.
As he leans down to get the first aid kit from under the sink, Marcos voice sounds from behind him. "Actually..." He pauses for a moment, scribbling something in the carefully organized mess, "Could I get a glass after all?"
Ace freezes, his hand on the handle of the door. "Yeah, sure." His fingers slip off and go up instead. His hands shake, and he grits his teeth. Stupid hands. Stupid arms. Stupid wrists.
Stupid Ace. He pulls the door open, ignoring the way the pressure hurts his wrist. Grabs the first glass- stained some kind of smoky bluegreen - and goes to fill it from the faucet, so he could take it over to Marco, so he could wrap his stupid arms, make an excuse and leave for home.
Sometimes, it was the most simple of things that tired you the most. Pouring a glass of fucking water. It was just too much. Being in a quiet room, the itching, his torn up skin. The final straw.
He wants to curl up in Marcos arms and sleep. The way their bodies fit together is perfect. Marcos fingers running through his hair.
But he refuses to be selfish. To drag people down. So he's going to take this glass over and go.
Unfortunately, fate had other plans. Or at least his stupid, shuddering hand did.
The sound of the glass shattering in the sink was like a gunshot. Ace swore. Marco let out an undignified sound, somewhere behind him.
The chair scraped on the floor. "What happened? Are you alright, yoi?" His voiced laced with obvious annoyance.
Ace didn't turn to look, instead stepping to the right to get something to put the glass shards in. "It's fine, just a glass, I'll clean it up. Clumsy me, haha." He laughed, and wasn't sure how he kept his voice steady.
"Don't worry, I'll be fine."