WARNING: This chapter deals intimately with self-harm and suicidal thoughts. If you find these things triggering, I am happy to provide a summary of the chapter that does not include references to these things. This is not intended as glorification of self-destructive behaviors.

Jeff is exhausted to the point of crying and he cannot sleep. His body craves the rest it needs to heal torn muscles and fatigued limbs. His mind craves the sleep it needs to quiet it self and face a new day. His spirit craves the sleep it needs to find grounding and earn fresh perspective. But, he cannot find the rest needs. He cannot find the internal quiet to stop fighting everything and fall asleep.

He doesn't think he could sleep, even if he was in the safest place he could think of: back in his dorm room at Dalton, curled up in Nick's arms. He hasn't been sleeping well in days. He's been exhausted and feeding his caffeine addiction and completely unable to sleep. And, as his exhaustion gets worse, so does the panic filling his body. It's the third night he's been unable to sleep. It's the third night that he has been filled with the all-consuming empty fear. It's the third night that he feels the urge to destroy something: himself.

He's so tired of fighting, and so scared of what will happen if he stops. He's not sure the battle is worth waging. He's not sure that he is a battle worth fighting for. It would be so easy to just give in, and let himself give up on everything. It would be so easy to let his hand slip and destroy himself.

He is so tired, and he simply wants to sleep, but he cannot. The lights are too bright. The noises are too loud. Mr. Young snores. Jon snuffles in his sleep, a low, gentle sound that is endearing and obnoxious at the same time. Hunter's breath is even and slow. The heart moniters and blood pressure cuff continue their mechanical whispering, and the nurses come and go every hour, and they're not as silent as they think. Plus, the chair/bed is damn uncomfortable. He's not sure who designed it, but he's pretty sure they were a sadist.

He pulls on his jeans and a ratty OSU hoodie and shoves his feet into his vans. He feels the cool, calming weight of the silver lighter in his pocket, and the crisp thinness of the blade. He'd taken it out of a pencil sharpener his mum had bought at the beginning of the school year. He can sure them alone or in combination, depending on how much damage he wants to inflict. His cell phone weighs against his leg, where a wrinkle in his boxers and the weight of the small electronic cause a stinging pain.

He walks by the nurses' station, invisible to their eyes. He always feels the most invisible when he's at his most vulnerable. He agonizes over asking for help, and prays that no one will recognize the signs of a break down. He wants someone to come and stop him, and yet he makes an effort to insure that no one will be able to. There have only been a few people who have ever seen though the pain and the mask: Wes, Hunter, Sebastian, Thad and Jon. They've each gone through their own hell.

The late September air is cold, but not enough to bring him back into himself. The list of his problems rises in his head.

He has to get good grades so he can get into a good college so he can get into a good medical school so he can get a good residency so he can get a good job so he can help save lives.
He needs to lead the rugby team to victory so he can carry on his family tradition and make his father proud.
He needs to help the Warblers get to victory so he can carry on Dalton tradition and make the alumni and the school and his brothers proud.
He needs to figure out the perfect song to sing for Parent's weekend. He needs to determine how to balance his mother and his father. And Nick. Oh dear god.

The thought of his parents, together, in the same state, scares him. The idea of them with his precious Nick… the idea makes his blood run cold. He will fight anyone and anything to keep them apart and to keep his life under control. Even if it kills him.

He gets his passion and his drive from his parents. They are two of the most passionate people he's ever met. Two of the most similar. And two of the most incompatible.

His mother and father met in Barcelona in '92. His mum was a junior trainer for the American water polo team, his father played for Australia's football squad. Their romance had been as hot as the summer winds that wound through the streets of the city, as whimsical as the buildings of Antonio Gaudi, and as contentious as an argument between a sucessionista and a nationalista. His mother's eyes still twinkle with both tears and fond memories as she relives the passionate summer fling. She followed him to Australia, and found a job working as an athletic trainer for the Sydney Roosters as a trainer. They got married in March of 1995, and Jeff and his recently divorced mother found themselves trapped in the San Francisco airport on September 11, 2001, trying to immigrate back to Virginia, where she'd grown up.

He doesn't remember much of the five years that his parents were together. He had been a small child. But, he knows that things were not easy or calm. His parents fought, constantly. His mother was a big city girl, from just out Washington, DC. His father was a country boy from the bush. His mum was a health nut and a bit of a homebody. She liked to come home to a clean house, a light dinner with a glass of chardonnay and a romantic comedy after a long day of checking the injuries of sweaty, hairy men. Her husband preferred to go out with boys for a pint and a round of pub trivia in the arvo. They were both self-obsessed children trying to raise a child. It had been an explosion waiting to happen and part of him was amazed the eruption had held off for so long. After the divorce, his parents had only seen each other a few times. Most had been disastrous.

His father has been planning to come for parent's weekend for almost a year. His mum's football schedule is interfering; she and her Trojans were scheduled to play that day. And nothing comes between his mum and football. Not even her son and his accomplishments. So, it seemed like a good time for his dad to visit. An opportunity to make his father proud, before he breaks the man's heart. He's pretty sure that the combination of "I'm top of my class and captain of the school Rugby team and run competitive track and might be getting a sports scholarship" will out weight the blows of "I'm a soloist in my school's show choir" and "I'm currently in love with my male roommate."

He knows he has a battle coming. Not just a battle to keep his parents from destroying each other (and taking Dalton Academy, Westerville and possibly the entire state of Ohio, out as collateral damage), but a battle for them to accept him for who and what he is.

The problem is that he's not sure he can keep fighting. And he's not sure he can stop.

Nick, who watches him and take care of him and worries about him and loves him, watches almost impassively as he gets angry and a little obsessed and starts ranting. The Texan will roll over on the beds they've pushed together and ask him a simple question. "Babe, is this worth fighting for?"

He leans against the rough brick wall of the hospital, and the cold of the embedded stones sting his cheek. Is this worth fighting for? Am I worth fighting for?

God, he doesn't know. Is he worth the energy to fight for? Is he worth the effort to keep from destroying himself? Can he implode without a supernova? Apoptosis instead of Necrosis? End with a whisper? Can he end this fight with minimal harm to himself and no harm to anyone else?

He's so tired. He just wants to stop fighting and lay down his head and disappear into an oblivion.

He does not want to die. He will hurt too many people. He will leave things un finished. He will be unworthy, and unlovable and cowardly and broken and the world will go on without him. If he dies… if he kills himself, he will have lost the battle. Even if the battle wasn't worth fighting to being with. And, he's afraid. He's so afraid.

But, there is no rest for the weary and miles to go before he can sleep.
He needs strength for the journey; manna in the desert.

Not wanting to die doesn't mean that he doesn't want to hurt himself. He wants a violent reaction. He needs a violent reaction. He needs energy to fuel him, energy to release him from his paralysis. He needs a discharge, a lightening strike, a way to return to ground.

He shrugs out of the big red hoodie. He slides his thumb out of the hole he's worn in the sleeve. His mum bought him the windcheater as a peace offering just before she abandoned him to go be with her boys in California. In all fairness, he could have gone along. He was just sick of the macho locker room culture and his mum never being home and the way the assistant coach at USC had eyed him. If he admitted it to himself, he'd been a pretty little boy. Even after all this time, the hoodie still retains some of the scents that reminded him of home. So, he wears it for comfort and strength.

It's cold in his singlet, and he shivers. But, the resolve and the quick, rising panic flowing through him keep him from truly feeling the cold. He's not thinking, not really. He's acting on impulse. Nothing will be right until he takes care of this. Nothing will be right until he comes back to his body, until he's whole again. Nothing will be right until he breaks himself.

He looks down at his arm. There's the fresh white bandage that Nick insisted on applying this morning. The one that he hadn't mentioned to anyone until Jeff went for his noontime run. And, there were the old silver scars from other times things got bad.

And there are names. Scrawled over and over again in blue-black ink. He tried butterflies, once, but they were too girly. Names are gender neutral. He reads through them, and they give him hope.

Nick. Wes. Jon. Trent. Blaine. David. Thad. Sebastian. Callum. Hunter. Ari. Neal. Samuel. Lex. Jocelyn. Joe. Sid. Abby. Nick. Christian. Marie. Steph. Hannah. Ray. Tim. Lindy.

He can't do it. He can't burn himself over their names. He cannot betray their trust that way.

But he's running when he needs to fight. He needs to stop and make a stand. And it's nearly three in the morning. He can't go running now. He can't go anywhere now.

He flips through his phone, and goes to his contacts. His finger hovers over the button for Wes. He shakes his head. He loves the older boy to death, and even though Wes hasn't said anything, his fatigue is worse. He's pretty sure that Wes is getting sicker and not telling them. Which would be typical Wes. Hell, it would be typical Warbler. Jon is the same way. But, it means that he cannot call Wes. Because he cannot wake his friend and he cannot stand it if no one picks up.

He moves down the list. There's the number labeled HOPE. 1-800-273-8255. His fingers hover. He wants to call it. But he doesn't think he deserves to. He doesn't want to kill himself. And he doesn't know what he'll say to the person on the other end. "Hi, I don't want to kill myself." … "Hi, I'm crazy." … "Hi, I just want to go to sleep." He'll waste their precious time. He'll waste their resources. Resources they need for people who are actually a danger to themselves. People who are actually considering taking their own lives.

Tears are running down his face, and snot is filling his nose, and he doesn't know where it came from. He wipes his face on his singlet, and considers his options. He's got his lighter, still, and the blade. And maybe, just maybe, if he cuts himself, he'll be able to go back up and sleep.

He doesn't want to worry the ones that can handle it.

Jon doesn't need any more worry. Not with the PET scan tomorrow (A small, detached part of him is a little bit jealous that they're going to inject anti-matter into Jon. It's that horrible bit that enjoyed cutting up the cats in biology and running his fingers through their intestines and stretching their mysentary. The part that he keeps under wraps as much as he can). If the cancer is back… if its spread… in Jon's bones or his blood or his lungs or his brain, it will be a blow. Jon will need comforting. Nick will need comforting. Cancer is a scary bastard.

Hunter doesn't need any more worry, not with the physical and psychological trauma (must ask Jon what he meant during the call with Wes). The new boy is so jumpy, so disinclined toward touch. It's not just the diseases, although physical caution probably weighs heavily on Hunter. No, there's something else there. A haunting. A past history. A demon. He's glad that Hunter was willing to hold his hand when the nurse came in, but he's afraid of testing the tentative friendship.

He's pretty sure that Sebastian is back to his old ways again. The ones where he doesn't eat, and then he does and doesn't take insulin, and then he "forgets" his pump. Because nothing tastes as good as skinny feels, unless it's sleeping off low grade ketoacidosis on a Saturday while effectively losing ten pounds.

Wes … Wes is Wes. And Wes is sick. He doesn't talk about it, but there was an exhaustion in the older boy's voice. The sound of a flare and cachexia and steroids and bloody stool and hospitalization and surgery and feet of intestines. He know stress agrivates Wes' flares. He can't be responsible for making the older boy sicker.

And Thad is pushing for college, and worrying about his father. Tip-toeing around his parents when ever he goes home. He's trying to figure out how far he can get away without actually being cut off, and how much he can wiggle before the hammer comes down. For Thad, there has never been much room. For Thad, the idea of carrying problems different from his own is overwhelming. Thad's not ready, but Thad could understand.

And, he cannot tell the others. Because they will not understand. And that will hurt him more. There will be pity. There will be confusion. There will be judgement and shame and blame and guilt and anger and emptiness and it will just MAKE EVERYTHING WORSE. He can still hear the disgust in Lex's voice when he admitted it to her. Depressed as she was, Lex couldn't imagine needing to hurt herself to feel release. He can still see the sadness, emptiness and hurt in Nick's eyes when he admits how badly he wants to hurt himself is almost as bad as not doing the deed. Oh, Jeff is glad that his love, his soul mate, his roly-poly half (he really needs to stop reading philosophy before bed) doesn't understand what it is to need a violent release. But, he hates it that Nick thinks it's his fault, or that he could intervene and save Jeff. And he hates how angry and frustrated it makes Nick to think that his love is failing. It's not imperfect love. It's imperfect Jeff.

He pulls on his sweatshirt, still fingering the blade in the pocket, and walks back into the hospital. He takes the silent, eerily bright elevator up to the silent floor where his classmates and teacher sleep. Moving through the hospital like this, it feels like he's in a parallel universe.

He goes into the bathroom. He turns on the light. He locks the door.

The blade is cold against his skin. Cold and sharp and wonderful.

He traces the outline of his shoulder blade, and crosses it with a straight line down his back. He traces the outline of his spine. He runs the blade along his ribs, carving a cross hatching on the sensitive skin.

He strikes over and over again.

The violence and pain reminding him that he is alive.
He is not dead.
He is still fighting.

He finishes with a grand gesture: sticking his finger down his throat and gagging until everything inside him – his dinner of a burger, poptarts and gummi worms, and the apple he'd eaten as a snack and the bacon he'd had for breakfast and possibly some egg and maybe last night's beans – everything in his stomach and his intestine comes pouring out into the bowl, and he's left empty and shaking and cold and grounded on the tiles of the bathroom.

He washes his mouth out in the sink, and brushes his teeth with the travel tooth paste as his finger.

And then he pulls on his hoodie, and goes and curls back into the recliner chair.

Even though the springs poke him in the back, he's asleep in the time it takes for Hunter's blood pressure cuff to inflate, deflate, inflate, deflate, and trigger an alarm at the nurse's station.

A/N: This is an intensely personal chapter for me (closer to some of the early to mid chapters in Control and more concrete than Battles). I don't want to glorify self harm, I don't want to pretend that I have all the answers or even necessarily know the questions. But, I also wanted to explain what Jeff was doing and where he was and why. I love the idea of Jeff fighting for something, and fighting himself.

The number in his phone labeled as HOPE is, in fact, the US National Suicide Hotline. (Again, 1-800-273-8255 in the US) They do not only deal with suicide, but also self-harm, anxiety, etc. It's a 24/7 free national hotline, and people will take your call at any time. Jeff's logic about not calling was stupid (although is logic that has been used). If you need help, its seriously good to call.

For wonderful international people:
01-713-3374 (Australia),
1-800-SUICIDE (US, UK, and Canada and Singapore)
8457-90-90-90 (UK).

I want to thank everyone who has read/reviewed in the last twenty-four hours. Shout outs to B00kw0rm92, Eraman, NiffAreForever, PenMagic, and Pi-on-a-skateboard. I will get back to all of you, I promise. But, data analysis waits for no girl, and apparently neither does a lost blond Warbler who refuses to let me sleep until his battles have been fought.

Feedback welcomed and celebrated. –C65