Chapter Three

Sinbad poked his head into the room, uncharacteristically meek. Ja'far would have laughed if it wasn't so awkward. Sin was many things, but meek was not one of them. He radiated pride like an egotistical sun. He entered every room with the confidence of one who knows that everyone within should be honored to be in his presence. It was disturbingly comedic to see the man who had conquered seven dungeons practically tiptoe through the door, like he was walking into a lion cage instead of an office. Of course, seeing one of the few stable people in his life have a break down would shake anyone's confidence.

"I've got bandages," Sinbad stated, breaking the silence, "And ointment, too. Is he-"

"I'm fine," Ja'far answered before he could finish the question. It was disconcerting, hearing the nervous quaver in Sin's voice and knowing it was all his fault. The familiar sensation of guilt gnawed at him, eroding what little self-worth he had managed to salvage. He should be the only one effected, it was his problem after all, but it never worked out that way. His lack of self control and his inability to hide his feelings from the others just dragged them down with him. Now Sin was just as miserable as he was, and he felt awful.

Sinbad walked toward Ja'far slowly, holding the bandages out like a peace offering. "So, uh, do you need help with the, uh, you know?" he stuttered, making wrapping motions with his hands.

"I'm fine," Ja'far repeated, grabbing the roll of bandages. He winced as the motion reignited the pain in his palms. He ignored it though, and began clumsily wrapping the soft fabric around his hands. Soon the pristine whiteness was smeared with bloody fingerprints as he struggled to knot it off.

"Here, let me do it," Sinbad said as he shoved himself into Ja'far's personal space and quickly tied the bandages off before moving on to Ja'far's other hand, not bothering to ask Ja'far for permission. In less than a minute his wounds were hidden from sight, though the pain still lingered. He flexed his fingers, making sure that the bandages weren't too tight in a weak attempt at delaying the inevitable. He could feel Hinahoho's gaze boring into the back of his head and he was sure that if he looked up, he could see Sinbad doing the same. They deserved an explanation, he was well aware of that, and they wouldn't let him slink away without giving them one. He wasn't a kid anymore, he couldn't just run away and hide until it blew over.

"I'm fine," he said again, though he didn't quite know who he was trying to convince, "I just, well, I'm not-"

He fell silent again as he tried to organize his thoughts, to line them up in neat little rows instead of the roiling mess that was twisting through his gut. He opened his mouth again, and gave the only explanation he could think of: "I've just been really stressed lately."

It was a pathetic excuse, and he knew it. Everyone in the palace, the city, and even the country had been stressed out lately, and they all seemed to be handling it well enough. Nobody else was crying like a baby and hurting themselves by accident. Unconsciously, he started picking at his bandages as he tried to think up a way to explain, or even better, to get out while he still had a shred of his dignity left. He could tell the truth, he supposed, but then what? How would Sinbad and Hinahoho react to knowing that he broke down because he was planning how to kill-

"That's bullshit," Sinbad said in an incongruously soft tone, "Tell us what's really going on."

Ja'far jerked, his eyes meeting Sinbad's for a moment before looking away just as quickly. Sin's gaze burned like molten gold, searing into his reddened, puffy eyes. He could more easily stare into the sun than meet his king's accusing stare.

"Look at me, Ja'far," Sinbad said in that quietly commanding tone that brooked no arguments. A hand gently pushed Ja'far's chin upward, forcing him to meet Sin's gaze.

"I can't fix it if I don't know what's going on," Sinbad murmured, eyes still ablaze with emotion. Ja'far hated those eyes. They always made him tell the truth.

His mouth started moving without his say-so, words pouring out like blood from of a cut throat. He told them every gory, reddened detail. He told them about every murderous idea that stuck in his head and refused to leave, every flashback that made him scratch at his skin until he bled, every time he nearly did something drastic because he just couldn't take it anymore. Once he started talking he couldn't stop until he was empty of words.

Ja'far didn't realize he was crying again until he felt tears soaking through his bandages. Hinahoho was touching him again, rubbing circles between his shoulder blades. Sinbad was touching him too, resting his hand on Ja'far's arm. He wanted to shove them both away. He felt scared, and dangerous, and scared of being dangerous. He didn't want their kindness or their sympathy, and he especially didn't want the gentle, soothing words they were murmuring at him.

"Its okay."

It wasn't.

"You're okay."

He wasn't.

"We aren't afraid."

They were.

"We'll help you."

They couldn't.

"We'll always be here for you."

They won't.

"We love you."

They do.