A/N: So. There's a lot of weird shit in this chapter (tw for eating disorders), but at least it's longer! Some of you may not like it, though. Please proceed with caution.

Chapter 13: Just a Dream

Jack rifles through his underwear drawer, finding a particular rolled up pair of plain, gray socks. To anyone else they would just be normal socks. But Jack knows better. He lifts them, letting them unravel until it falls out.

As the blade lay atop his dresser, shining in the moon's light filtering through the blinds, Jack's mind goes blank. It is new, completely unused. And sharp. It's exactly what Jack needs.

He stares at his arms then, pale, hairy, and utterly blank. He had managed to keep his self harm directed towards his legs, but a small part of him had always wanted to carve up his arms, just to see what it would be like. Too obvious, his mind tells him.

I don't care, Jack replies to the voice, and he's too far gone to realize that he shouldn't be talking to voices in his head. It isn't normal. With a shrug of indifference, Jack grabs the blade and heads towards the bathroom. He's quiet about it, treading lightly to keep from waking Mark, who's still snoozing away on the couch, head tilted back in a silent snore.

Finally in the bathroom, Jack carefully shuts the door behind him, locking it. He definitely doesn't need Mark barging in on him halfway through. Pulling down his pants, Jack looks upon his bare, naked legs and sighs. He really shouldn't be doing this. But at the same time, he needs to be doing this.

He lines the blade up, ready to strike, but pauses. His thighs are already littered with inflamed red lines. After a brief moment of hesitation he directs the blade to his arms instead. Slicing down, Jack makes sure to use just enough pressure to make it bleed. The blood pools up from the cut, so dark and red it reminds Jack of a cherry.

But it isn't enough.

No, Jack needs to go deeper.

With a frown, Jack brings the blade down, much harder this time. His skin splits open, yellow puffy fat showing through just before the blood bubbles up and covers it, flowing down his arms in deep red rivers. He goes again and again, each time adding more pressure to his arm, each time the skin parting and showing off more flesh underneath.

A wicked grin splits across his face as Jack finally, finally carves up his arm like he's always wanted to. There's some dark satisfaction to be held in that. There's blood everywhere, pooling around his feet and staining his dirty white socks. He can't even see where he's cutting anymore; there's too much blood covering his arm, but he just keeps going and going and going.

The room spins for a brief moment, and Jack reaches out to the wall to steady himself. A dry laugh escapes him as he slides unsteadily to the bloodied floor.

Soon enough there's pounding on the door, and Mark's worried voice calling out for him. Everything sounds muffled, and there's this awful pounding in his ears that just won't go away. There's darkness seeping into the corners of his vision, and rather than fighting it, Jack accepts it and embraces the void with open arms.

Jack shoots awake with a start, covered in sweat and breathing heavily. It takes an inordinate amount of time to determine where he is, but the familiar surroundings of his living room eventually click with him. He's seated on his sofa, still wearing the same clothes from earlier. Mark is still snoring to his right.

He shakes his head, letting out a defeated laugh, stomach churning with dread. The second he spots the open bathroom door he lunges for it. Jack makes it to the toilet just in time to empty the contents of his stomach, mostly bile, and then continues to vomit until he's gagging and body shaking as he dry heaves. There's tears and snot dripping from his face, and Jack grimaces.

When it's over, Jack shakily flushes the toilet, strips, and then climbs into the shower. The water is icy cold at first but Jack sighs out in relief as it splashes over his heated body. The cool water washes away the sweat and traces of vomit, but the lingering echo of the dream remains, clinging to his skin and refusing to let go. Jack scrubs at his pale skin until it's raw and red, and then tips his head back beneath the spray, sighing to himself.

That was one fucked up dream.

It had more or less made Jack realize his secret desire: to continue cutting and slice up his wrists like some twelve year old girl begging for attention. Jack scolds himself for even thinking like that. He knows better. He shouldn't be stereotyping people with depression. Besides, everyone deals with pain in different ways. Jack's just happens to be cutting. And drug abuse. And some minor alcohol abuse.

He shakes his head, little water droplets flying everywhere. He should not be beating himself up over this shit. His thoughts continue to race, almost too fast for Jack to keep up with. He thinks about cutting his arms again, and how easily it had been to get to the fat in his dream. Then he thinks about the consequences of having such obvious scars on his arms. For one, he wouldn't be able to wear short-sleeves in public anymore. One part of his mind argues that he almost always wears long-sleeves anyways, but he pushes that nagging thought away. He then thinks about Mark, and how disappointed he would be to find out about Jack hurting himself again.

That thought lingers with him, buzzing around in his mind like an angry bee with no escape.

Shutting off the water, Jack steps out and shivers. He towels himself dry, wrapping the patterned cloth around his waist like always. Unlocking the door and stepping out into the hall, Jack runs smack dab into Mark. He jumps back, raising his hand to his wildly racing heart.

"Jesus, Mark. Scared the life outta me."

Mark grinned sheepishly. "Sorry?" He didn't sound sorry in the least.

Jack was about to reply until he noticed his position: half naked in front of the man he has a crush on. A blush creeped across his cheeks as Jack skirted around Mark and scurried into his room, a laugh echoing behind him.

Once fully clothed, the two migrated back towards the living room. Mark was stretching; obviously his little nap on the couch had done him some harm. Jack felt it as well, his back was aching. He definitely couldn't wait to sleep in his own bed again. They sat on the couch once more, a respectable distance between the two. There was silence, neither quite sure what to say. Light was just beginning to fill the room as the sun rose.

"Hungry?" Mark finally asked, turning to Jack a little.

Jack smiled. "Starving."

And so the two finally got to making themselves some food, their breakfast consisting of cheese omelettes. They sat across the little kitchen table as they had just days before, just this time with less crying and heart wrenching conversation. Instead, they spoke of their plans for their upcoming collaboration videos and about the possibility of Mark finding Jack a therapist.

Honestly, even the thought of going to therapy terrified Jack. That meant admitting he actually had a problem, and consequently having to face said problem.

But for Mark's sake, Jack would give it a try.

One part of him argued that trying to get better for another person actually wasn't a healthy way of going about it, but Jack really didn't give a fuck. He was going to try to get better, wasn't he? Besides, Mark was his best friend and had proven time and time again that he would be there for Jack and that he cared about him to no end. The least he could do for the man was try and get better.

After breakfast, Mark shut himself in the recording room upstairs to make a 'reading your comments' video, while Jack had some alone time downstairs. The food sat uncomfortably in his belly, a heavy and unpleasant feeling spreading through his limbs. He ran his hand over his clothed, fat thigh, healing cuts stinging underneath. He sighed to himself.

He remembered when his self harm first started that he was upset with his body. No amount of dieting or exercise had helped with that. He had always looked at his figure in the mirror with a frown, hands tracing over his curves with disappointment. No matter how many of his friends had voiced their approval of his looks, Jack couldn't help how ugly he felt.

One night when his body dysphoria had been particularly bad, Jack had taken the first sharp object at hand, a pair of scissors, and sliced down on his thigh. The blood had pooled up slowly, not a very large amount, but enough for Jack to realize the consequence of what he had just done.

He had also realized that there was no turning back.

From then on things had progressed, Jack testing out different tools to cut until he was satisfied with how the razor blades worked. A small voice told Jack that he was a fucking idiot and that if he was unhappy with his body in the first place then he would be even more unhappy with it covered in fresh scars. And it was true; the red lines marring his pale flesh brought even more disappointment and harvested more resentment and contempt for his body.

He just stopped caring from that point on.

With the scars crisscrossing his skin, packed so tight together and overlapping one another, it was too late to stop. Even if he did stop harming, he had already marked his body enough for it to not matter anymore. There were too many scars to count. He was already upset with the way his body looked, adding a few more cuts wouldn't change that.

Jack bit his lip. He really shouldn't have eaten that omelette.

Pale blue eyes flickered over to the open bathroom door, mind swarming with thoughts. Should he try purging again? Sure, he had tried purging before, but it hadn't really worked. He had shoved his fingers down his throat, and only managed to hack up spittle. The girls on television dramas had made it seem so easy. The only times he had actually managed to vomit were when he was genuinely sick, like earlier that morning or when he had taken those pills.

Instead, Jack had taken to starvation. It proved much easier to restrict what he was eating then to try and throw it up. His YouTube job with unreliable and unpredictable hours had helped with that as well. Rather than fixing himself meals at respectable hours, Jack had focused on his work and gotten more recordings done. It was one reason why he was so efficient with his unwavering upload schedule.

The dull thud of feet on the stairs snapped Jack out his train of thought. Mark appeared at the bottom of them, eyeing him warily.

"You okay?" he asked.

Jack cleared his throat to keep his voice from cracking. "Fine. Just… lost in thought, ya know?"

Mark gave him a sad smile. "Yeah." He cleared his throat as well. "Wanna go for a walk or something to take your mind off of things?"

Jack kept a groan from escaping his lips. He really didn't feel like going outside on a walk, but with company it might be okay. Besides, physical activity was one of the recommendations to help combat depression. Alone, he would never go on a walk. But with Mark… "Yeah. Sure, I guess."

"Great." Mark grave him a genuine smile, and Jack could immediately tell how much this meant to the other man. He also felt a little guilty. He didn't even want to go out, but agreeing to it was at least showing Mark that he was making an effort to get better.

Rather than continuing to sit at the kitchen table doing nothing, Jack got up and joined Mark outside. The two walked down the street in silence, Jack silently thankful that the rain had let up for today, giving them clear enough weather to actually walk outdoors without needing an umbrella. It was chilly, it still being January and all, and Jack shivered, stuffing his bare hands in his jacket pockets and unconsciously shifting closer to Mark for warmth.

An equally cool hand joined his in his pocket, and Jack turned to Mark with a start. The other man had his head turned away, but Jack still caught the hint of a blush dusting his cheeks. Grinning, Jack gave Mark's hand a gentle squeeze. He got a tentative squeeze in return.

The two continued their walk, doing a few more laps down the road and back again before returning to Jack's apartment. After all, all good things must come to an end at some point, and Jack had some recording to do.

After uploading his next video, Jack joined Mark in the kitchen, where the other man was making lunch. BLT sandwiches, how American. They sat across from each other at the table, flirtily joking and laughing loudly. They were in much higher spirits than they were that morning; it seems the walk had done them both good.

For their second upload of the day, they did a collaboration of Prop Hunt, connecting with Wade and Bob overseas. Their recording setup was a little different, as Mark and Jack sat side by side in a single video frame, Mark playing on Jack's small but powerful PC and Jack on his desktop. Jack rather liked the setup, as it meant he got to sit right next to his favorite person playing one of his favorite multiplayer games. It was a very different change from how they usually played Prop Hunt, since Jack was normally alone in Ireland and Skyped the other three in America, but having Mark right here next to him only made it that much better. His knee bumped up against Mark's under the desk, and the two grinned, knowing that this little bit of contact was only between them, as Bob and Wade remained oblivious.

Finally it was nighttime, and Mark stood at the stove, sticking some frozen fish filets into the oven. It seemed as though he had easily shifted into the position of 'caretaker' during his stay with Jack. Mark seemed determined to keep his friend well-fed and physically active, which Jack simply went along with.

Though as he stared at the fish on his plate, he felt more than a little guilty. This was his third full meal that day, which was way more than he usually ate…

"Jack?"

His eyes snapped up and met Mark's. "What?"

"Aren't you gonna eat?"

Jack lowered his gaze to his food again, which he had done nothing but play with so far. "Yeah," he replied, though he only continued to move his fish around the plate.

"Jack," Mark said seriously. This time he kept his eyes glued to his plate. "Please eat."

He nodded numbly, using his fork to cut off a bit of fish before bringing it to his lips. He hesitated for a moment until finally biting down on the fish. Chewing slowly, Jack eyed Mark as the other then went back to his own meal. He swallowed shakily, guilt increasing as the food entered his belly. He really shouldn't be eating this. But he really didn't want to upset Mark…

Deciding fuck it, Jack quickly ate the rest of the meal, eager to get it over with. Dinner was continued in silence, both men burned out from their long day.

When they were getting ready for bed, Jack felt his face heating up. He knew what he wanted to offer Mark, but it was a little awkward to actually bring up. "You know," he started, Mark's attention shifting to him. "My bed is big enough for the both of us."

Mark scoffed, though Jack could tell by the way he turned his head that his own face was reddening at the thought. "Yeah, sure. Two full grown men sharing a queen-sized bed. Sure, Jack."

Jack shrugged with embarrassment. "Beats sleeping on the couch."

The other seemed to consider this for a moment, before nodding. "Might as well, then."

They both changed into their pajamas, Mark taking the bathroom while Jack dressed in his own room. A knock sounded on the door, and Jack cleared his throat. "Come in," he replied, moving to his bed and pulling back the covers.

Mark entered the room, wearing patterned pajama pants and a tight white tank top. Jack was definitely not staring. He himself felt a bit too exposed now, wearing boxer briefs that showed off his hairy chicken legs (No, not chicken. Fat, ugly legs.) and a baggy t-shirt. He quickly got into bed to hide his embarrassment, pulling the blankets up and over him. Mark joined him after a brief moment of hesitation, climbing in on the opposite side.

Jack switched the lamp on his bedside off, and the two were cast into darkness. The bed was much more comfortable than the couch had been, especially since they had been in a sitting position. But laying in the same bed next to his crush was just plain awkward. He tried to keep his breathing even, relaxing so he could try and get some sleep.

He closed his eyes, taking several deep breaths, in through his nose, and out through his mouth. Time passed, though Jack still couldn't fall asleep.

Eyes opening lazily, Jack sat up and turned to Mark. Even through the darkness, Jack could tell by the peaceful expression on the other's face that he was already asleep. Body moving on its own accord, Jack rolled Mark onto his back and straddled his middle. His hands moved up, coming to rest at Mark's throat.

Tightening his grip, Jack pushed down on the throat in his hands. Mark's eyes snapped open in a panic, settling on Jack with confusion. His hands latched onto Jack's wrists, trying to force the other off. But Jack was stronger than he looked. He merely applied more pressure, Mark opening his mouth and letting out a choked sound of desperation. Mark was flailing now, twisting in the sheets to dislodge the smaller man atop him, but it was no use. Jack held him tight, digging his thumbs into his windpipe. Mark's thrashing eventually slowed, until he lay there, completely motionless.

Only then did Jack release his grip. He was breathing heavily, unwarranted tears leaking down his cheeks, and shaking wildly.

"Jack?!"

He bolted upright, smacking his face right into Mark's forehead. Both men let out grunts of pain, and Jack rubbed his face where he had hit it.

"Wha- what happened?" he asked shakily, breath coming in sharp gasps, twitching and eyes darting around the dark room.

"You were having a nightmare, I think," Mark replied, rubbing his own forehead. "You were calling out in your sleep and everything."

Jack let out an uneven breath. "What was I saying?"

Mark shrugged. "No words, it just sounded like you were scared. Are you alright?"

Jack fell back into the sheets, feeling wetness on his cheeks. If he thought his dream the night before was scary, then this was just plain terrifying. Why the fuck was he dreaming about murdering his best friend and crush?

"Hey, no, it's okay, Jack," Mark cooed, scooching closer to Jack who buried his face in his hands and wept silently. "Whatever it was, it was just a dream."

Steady hands wrapped around his smaller frame, and Jack leaned into the embrace, clinging onto the other like a lifeline.

It was just a dream, he reminded himself. It was just a dream.

That's it for now, folks. The intro to Jack's eating disorder and his fits of nightmares. Fun stuff.