A/N: The second chapter, the final chapter, and it's much shorter than the first one :'D

To be honest, I regretted writing this fic because there was no easy ending, and I wasn't exactly sure how I was going to put across what I was trying to say. This second chapter was pretty difficult. Anyway, I hope it's a satisfactory ending.


It's a week later during lunch. Antonio hasn't bothered with wearing full sleeves. It's hot. He can't care less, honestly. The scars are deeper, very easily noticeable. But nobody has called him out on it, so it's fine. At least, nobody yet. The thing is, when he wants to be, Gilbert is both observant and direct. So when he stops in mid-sentence, his jaw hanging open with shock, he doesn't even have to say anything for Antonio to realise that yes, he's noticed.

But Gilbert still says, "Toni, what is that on your arm?" in the slow, cautious, treading-on-thin-ice kind of way.

Francis's gaze turns rapidly between Gilbert and Antonio, before his blue eyes also rest on those eight thin lines over Antonio's skin. "Oh my god."

Well, shit. Shit, shit, shit.

Antonio cannot, will not look away. If he shows submission, he's over and done with. No. He makes a show of touching his scars, ignoring the slight twinge of residual pain from them, before giving his two best friends a calm, confident smile. "I know what you're thinking. These are very, very old."

Gilbert and Francis blink. Francis is far more tactful. He scoots his chair over to Antonio, his gaze firm and tender. "You used to self-harm?"

"Yeah, you know." Antonio waves his hands about like it's no big deal. "Teenage drama is just. You know. Teenage drama." Antonio's got a storehouse of lies to dip into. He's very good at it. So he picks one off the top of his head and goes on, "I did this when I was freaking out over being gay. Kept at it for, like, a couple of months. But then eventually I got a grip and stopped."

Gilbert and Francis are both looking at him in the same damn way. Finally, Gilbert says, "And you've…definitely stopped?" He is studying chemistry, and is now looking at Antonio like Antonio is a chemical reaction he can't quite understand. Gilbert looks…suspicious, actually. "Because I didn't see those scars a few weeks ago."

Goddammit. Antonio hates that Gilbert is so smart and observant. Francis's eyes widen and he stares at Antonio's arm. "Gil's right. I don't think I've seen these on you before."

Fine, then. Time for plan number 2.

"Okay. I see that you two have no faith in me when I'm trying to tell you something personal. So, you know, fuck you. I don't care." He makes a move for his tray of food and stands. "Let me know when you two are done being dicks."

"No, no, Toni, wait!" Francis calls, reaching out for his elbow and pulling him back. "Sit down. Don't get so worked up. We're sorry." He shoots Gilbert a look of warning. "We're sorry, aren't we, Gilbert?"

"Yes," Gilbert says automatically, although he's giving Antonio this long, thoughtful look that says otherwise.

Antonio sighs. His heart is calming down. He sits, giving both of them a practiced look of wariness. "It was a difficult time for me. I'm sorry if I overreacted, I just…well, Gilbert, you honestly scared me. I didn't plan on telling. I mean, it's so embarrassing and pathetic and—whatever, it's in the past. I'm all fine now." And he gives them a salesman smile of assurance and security. They believe him. Well, they seem to, anyway.

Francis puts his hand on Antonio's. "If you ever feel that way again. Ever. You know we're always here for you."

Antonio chuckles. "I really appreciate the thought, Francis. But really, I'm fine now."

It's when he's putting his tray away that it suddenly strikes him how good he's feeling. Not stressed-out-happy but I-feel-strong happy, which comes by so rarely that he's almost deemed himself incapable of it. Like while trying to convince Gilbert and Francis that he's fine, he's convinced himself, too.

He lets the feeling be, for now. He lets himself experience it. Because he knows it's going to crash and he'll be cutting by the end of the week.

"I have to resist," he tells himself firmly in the bathroom mirror.

But the more he says it, the less confident he feels.


Lovino is sick. Maybe it's a dust allergy or something. Maybe it's just bad luck. But he's got a headache and can't stop coughing. Feli sits by his bed and hands him a cup of tomato soup, although Lovino doesn't really want to drink it. Feli's tinkling chuckle shoots inside Lovino's brain, each sound like a piece of broken glass.

"How do you manage this, Lovi?" Feli giggles, rubbing his brother's back as Lovino coughs. It's close to evening, and Feli is all dressed up for a date. He and Ludwig are only going to get some ice cream—it's a school night after all—but still, Feli's in his best shirt.

Lovino is ignoring Antonio's concerned text messages. He'll be fine by this time tomorrow, there's no need for everyone to get so damn worried. He's not dying, for pity's sake. Lovino takes the soup from Feli's hands and takes a few grateful sips. Beside him, Feli has started talking about Kiku's anime designs and how cool they are, and by the time Lovino is halfway through the cup of soup, his stomach reacts.

And in a flash, he's out of bed and retching in the commode, with Feli shrieking worriedly beside him.

When he finally settles, washes his mouth and is directed back to bed, Feli takes out his phone and sends a hurried text. "I'm telling Ludwig I can't come," he declares, "You're too sick, I don't want you to be alone."

God, no. Lovino can't stand the guilt.

"No, Feli, it's fine. Go have fun. You're overreacting."

Feliciano lowers his phone and regards Lovino with a cool, firm golden-eyed stare. "There's no way I can go out and not worry about you here alone. No, Lovi, I want to look after you. You're my brother and I love you."

No, you don't.

Maybe you do love me, but I don't matter as much.

I don't matter at all.

I don't deserve to matter.

"You need to shut it up," Feli says coldly, but his glare is not directed toward Lovino, but toward something inside him. "That bad voice in your head. You need to make it go away."

"What are you—"

"Lovi, please. I know how you see yourself. I can hear you cry yourself to sleep sometimes. You say things sometimes, things that make me wonder about just how much you hate yourself. And I don't know what it would take for you to see that we love you. And if there's a bad voice inside your head, Lovi, you need to counter it with a good voice."

Lovino's throat is dry. How does Feli know? Feli isn't supposed to know. This is Lovino's problem, Lovino's alone. "Good voice?" he whispers.

"Yes. Everyone feels insecure now and then." Feli's eyes drift to the window. "It's natural. But every time the bad voice in my head tells me that I won't make it, there is a good voice that shouts the bad voice down. The good voice tells me that I will! That it'll be all right! And eventually, things are okay again." Feliciano smiles. "That good voice in my head, Lovi? It sounds like you."

Lovino is coughing and crying. He feels so fucking vulnerable as he allows his brother to hug him. Feli doesn't understand. After their parents had that divorce, after the brothers were separated, Lovino's mother would scream at Lovino. Never hit him, but scream. Then when their grandfather discovered the messy situation and took both boys away from their respective parents, Feli became the favourite child. Over and over again. In school and at home. All the time. Feeding the badness, the insecurity. What good voice? Lovino doesn't know what that would even sound like.

"How can I trust a good voice when I can't even believe it?" Lovino asks softly.

"Pretend to believe it," Feli says seriously. "And then eventually one day, you will. Fake it till you make it. That's what they say."


No. No. No. Calm down. Please calm down. It's all right. You're all right. Everything will be—

Antonio needs a blade and he needs it now because he's feeling blood red blood red blood red but Lovi has thrown them all away so Antonio breaks open a new shaving razor with a thumb tack drops his jeans and cuts his hips until his mind is quiet and he's expressed everything that he's feeling and he's okay now and it's all very very okay.

Antonio: Lovi, I'm sorry. I felt red again and I cut.

Lovino: Oh god.

Antonio: This will be the last time. I promise.

Lovino: Do you really believe that, or do you tell yourself that to make yourself feel better?

Lovino: Are you there?

Lovino: Hello?

The fact is Antonio believes it when he says it. He'll believe anything about himself after he's cut. That's when his mind is clear and he can think about highly complex things in systematic ways. He believes he is stronger than this. And then each time, each and every single time, he breaks.

These days, he isn't sure anymore. He's not sure what to believe. But Antonio just feels weaker and weaker. He doesn't see the point of resisting anymore.

Francis walks in on him sitting with his back against his bed. Thankfully, Antonio has dressed his wounds, is wearing his pants, and has put the blade away. But Francis knows something is wrong. Antonio's sort of dazed. And…sad, really. He feels like such a failure.

"Do you ever feel sort of…" Antonio's voice trails away as he rests his head on Francis's shoulder. They're both sitting on the floor. "Sort of lost…" Antonio finally completes. "Trapped, lost…without hope?"

"Of course," Francis replies quietly, stroking Antonio's hair.

"What do you do?"

Francis gives out a very long, sad sigh. "You know when Jeanne broke up with me?"

"Yeah?"

"You know how I basically stopped functioning?"

Antonio cringes despite his high. That hadn't been a good time for any of them. He'd never seen Francis so distraught, so broken.

"Yeah…" Antonio says, his voice barely audible.

"And I kept seeing Jeanne with her new boyfriend…it was horrible. But I didn't want to show her how torn up I was. It wasn't her fault she fell for him, it wasn't her fault I cheated on her."

"Yeah…"

"Anyway, I pretended that everything was fine. I told myself I was already over her." Francis paused for a moment. "And eventually I got over her."

"You lied to yourself." Antonio lifts his head from where it rests and blinks tiredly at the other man.

Francis's smile is small and wry. "That's one way of looking at it, yes." And then in a way that is so beautifully, characteristically Francis, he says, "Antonio…did you cut yourself?" He's so perceptive, Antonio shouldn't even be surprised at the question.

He stares at Francis, at the moment too tired to care about hiding this side of him. But then somewhere he registers that maybe he ought to be lying, and so he says, "Don't be ridiculous. I told you, I'm past that stage. I'm just…exhausted, that's all."

The other man's eyelashes flutter as his gaze slides away. "I see. My mistake. I'm sorry."

Antonio knows that Francis doesn't believe him.

But what if it were true, though? What if one day he can tell his friends he used to self-harm, but now he's completely over it? That conversation won't be very heavy, would it? In fact, it would feel like a relief.


How exactly does one lie to oneself and believe it? It's like a child closing his eyes, holding his breath, puffing his cheeks and thinking, I want to have superpowers, I want to have superpowers, I want to have superpowers, as though just that very dream would give him the ability to fly. Or perhaps it should be something like, I HAVE superpowers. In which case, why wasn't the child flying already?

You're making an ass of yourself.

Stop.

Back away.

They're going to laugh at you.

Shut the fuck up. I'm going to ask them if they want to go to this new restaurant with me, and they're going to say yes, because anyone should fucking JUMP at the chance to spend time with me.

I matter.

I am amazing.

They want to spend time with me.

It's not true and you know it.

They hate you.

They hate you so much.

They love me. They're my friends. I am not a burden, I am a privilege.

You keep telling yourself that.

Fine. I will.

Not a burden, but a privilege. That's the truth.

Uh-huh.

I matter.

"Hey, bastards. There's this new Italian place nearby. They've got a happy hour. We should go." Lovino crosses his arms over his chest, defensive. Alfred, Arthur and Matthew are regarding him with collective expressions of disbelief.

"Dude, did you just voluntarily ask to hang out?" Alfred questions after a short, stunned silence.

Shit. Shit. I told you, you're making an ASS of yourself.

No. It's all right. I'm telling you, it's all right. Just answer the question.

"Yes," Lovino drawls. "You should be thanking your luck."

That's right. They SHOULD be thanking their luck, because hanging out with you is amazing. A pleasure. A privilege.

"I'm up for it," Matthew says, already throwing his sketchbook into his bag. "Where is this place?"

"I'll come too," Alfred adds. "Anything to get the hell away from Arthur's cooking."

"Hey! I'll have you know that scones are incredible." Arthur gives Alfred a half-hearted glare, but then his gaze slides back to Lovino. "But who can pass up a happy hour?"

It worked.

It worked.

It worked.

They like you.

They pity you.

THEY. LIKE. YOU.

And that is the truth of the matter.


The good voice, Lovino notes absently as he's smiling slightly at some crazy story Alfred's narrating, has Feliciano's gentility and Antonio's accent. It's in-between. It feels nice.

It's a lie, it's a soft cushion of a lie, but it still feels nice. All Lovino needs to do is to muster it. To continue to produce it.

Positivity grows where positivity is. So if he wants to keep the good voice happy, if he wants to give it strength, all he needs to do is laugh along to all the nonsense his—friends, the voice tells him—are saying.

Lovino is feeling wanted, at least for now.


I need to cut, I need to cut, I need to—

Why?

Because I'm feeling—

Red?

Yes.

What does red feel like today?

Panic. Fear. Failure. God, I don't know, I don't know, I just need to cut so badly right now.

What are you afraid of, Antonio?

I'm afraid of…

Of…

Of fighting.

So are lots of people. But the fear before the fight is what makes the fight matter all the more. Courage. That's not the absence of fear but the strength to overcome it. Of course you're afraid to fight your self-harm urge. Who wouldn't be?

But it's okay.

I promise, it's okay.

Now why don't you go sit with Gilbert and Francis over there? They seem to be having lots of fun, teasing Ludwig. That sounds nice, doesn't it?

What if I break and cut myself?

You won't cut yourself, because you're already over that stage. You've already won this battle.

Right.

I have already won.

"Gilbert! Francis! Stop bugging Ludwig. Let's go watch a movie."


What exactly is the difference between a liar and a believer? Antonio doesn't know. All he understands is that he lies. He lies and he tells himself he's all right, he forces himself to believe he is all right, and eventually—like Maggie in that Tennessee Williams play Lovino had borrowed a few months ago—the lie becomes true. At least for a fraction of a moment.

And what exactly is a moment? Antonio has heard of short ones, lasting less than a second. But the books also talk about long ones. Long moments that can span several minutes, in fact. There's an emotional element to these things. And the trick is to stretch out that moment of strength for as long as he can. To hold it in his hands, protect it and nurture it for when he feels like he's going to break.

Lovino is the same. That's the thing. They lie to themselves. Lovino tells himself that he isn't wanted. Antonio tells himself that he can resist. These claims are both completely false.

But they also lie to themselves. Lovino tells himself that he matters, even though he doesn't entirely believe it. Antonio tells himself that he has already recovered, even though that can't be further from the truth.

It's the quality of the lie, Antonio supposes. And the blind faith that it takes to believe something that they don't see as the truth. But Antonio isn't sure what the truth is anymore. All he knows is that they are both liars, believers, and painfully human.

Perhaps that is the only truth there is to it all.


A/N: In some ways, I feel like this chapter is rushed. But honestly, I think this encapsulates the essence of what I had to say. What do you think? I'm not sure if I even like this fic, to be honest. But it is what it is, and despite my mixed feelings, I am glad I wrote it.

I'm sorry this didn't turn out to be as romantic as I'd originally planned. But as I wrote, it just didn't seem to fit. It seemed almost...disrespectful, really. I don't know, it's hard to explain. Haha, you can probably tell how conflicted I am about this weird fic.

Thank you for reading this strange little non-story. Please review.