Self harm, eating disorder, suicidal ideation trigger warning read at your own risk

Chat Noir stood in his room, staring at a cellphone with the text that Ladybug was going to go to bed. He'd sent a meme and then a goodbye, but she hadn't seen it. That was alright; she needed her sleep. Still, even though he'd had an alright day, tears pricked his eyes and threatened to spill onto his device.

He didn't understand why it was so painful. It felt like a kitchen knife had been thrust through his stomach, a little pressure at the back of his throat telling him he needed to relieve the pressure by crying. He couldn't however, he would have to endure question upon question about why he was upset, what was happening, what was going on, and he just couldn't take that right now.

He knew that he'd purposefully ignored Ladybug's texts because she'd replied an hour after he'd last sent his, and they were in a back-and-forth conversation. Chat knew it was manipulative and a bit cruel, but he couldn't bear the idea that she'd think him annoying, so he made up that he'd fallen asleep and joked about it before she went to bed.

The knife turned a little, strings of his anemic, dark blood turning with it. It was huge splatters on the front of his catsuit, and he clenched his jaw together to prevent from any more coming out. Obviously, the blood was metaphorical; and that hurt even more-there was no physical evidence that he was hurting, and he hadn't self-harmed in a bit, so all he had were healing scabs. He knew he'd endure more abuse, more questions, more pain if he ever told anyone, because they could report him to his father, and then he didn't know what they'd do to him.

Chaton was forced to keep it all locked up, all inside, all within him. He dealt with the same problems over and over again, so he knew that even if he let someone in, they'd just leave because it was the same thing over and over and over. Well obviously, trauma runs deep, and how could he ever be expected to recover from a mental wound which had the physical equivalent of tearing your ACL within a few days? No, he'd need weeks, months, if not years, and trying to get better all on his own was, quite frankly, exhausting.

Ah, yes. The tears and pressure in his throat were climbing.

What...what is wrong with me? he asked himself. Why am I like this? Today wasn't even that bad!

To put it simply, Chaton was touch-starved and lonely. Lonely, lonely, lonely, the emotion reared its ugly head time and time again, almost every single day. Without a distraction, it became known to him how awfully lonely and boring his life was, and it'd send him spiraling face-first into depression.

He remembered exactly when the pain had gotten worse. When he was seven, and hated the way his appearance looked, despite him getting signed into modelling contracts. The makeup artists would always pick apart every one of his flaws, and he'd cry to himself about how horrid he felt. At eight years old, he'd lost his only friend (he met Chloé a bit after), and started having suicidal thoughts, going so far as to write a note. At nine, it hadn't stopped, and he felt even more alone. Ten, it seemed like he finally caught a break, but at eleven, his supposed 'best year,' he'd still struggled with mental illness. Twelve was where it all came crashing down again, he'd picked up self-harming with a sharper tool and started starving himself. At thirteen, he attempted suicide and survived, but he hadn't told anyone for fear that he'd be harmed further by his father. And now, at fourteen, it seemed that taking his life fully was inevitable.

Why delay the inevitable when you know it's coming anyway?

Aren't you ever tempted?

I know I sure am.

"Claws in," Adrien mumbled, and he watched as Plagg flew out of his ring. He sighed softly, closing his messages and laying on his bed. The feeling of tears had reduced; his mental summary of his problems had actually...helped? him to feel better.

"Hey, kid..." Plagg murmured, usually joking with Adrien, but now more concerned. He'd listened to Adrien manically tell him about his suicide attempt, and reassured him that people wanted him there.

"I'm just sad," he replied, unable to really hide his pain. He just wanted someone there, someone to hug him and cuddle him-it didn't have to be romantic or sexual in any nature, he just wanted to be touched.

Touch-starved.

Of course.

Constantly cold, Adrien sat up in his bed, eyes drooping from weariness and depression. Severe mental illness was never even remotely comfortable to deal with, and it was always a war in his mind. He felt like a war-torn soldier, ripped to shreds by the battle wounds and scars that it'd left on him. A civil war between his mind and body was going on currently-his mind desperately wanted to let go and throw himself off his balcony, but his body wanted to survive and live, as all physical bodies do. Suicide was a femme fatale and Adrien was the lead character.

Thunder roared in his ears as he just wanted to let go, please, he was so fucking tired of being here, but he couldn't. He couldn't leave. No, Ladybug was there. He couldn't leave Ladybug.

And maybe, just maybe, it'd be enough. Maybe he could overpower the loneliness and live for her, even though he thought it'd foster codependency. Well, wasn't being a person codependent on another better than being a person six feet under?

Adrien took a deep breath in and let air out. It felt good, and he relaxed a little. His mind was telling him the wrong thing, he remembered. And this probably came from knowing that Ladybug had different things to do, more people to talk to, a better life than him. Sometimes he felt angry and envious towards her, and sometimes he just wanted to be good enough for her, but the important thing to remember was that she did care about him. He reread a few of their texts-she did care. She did love him. And if she was in better circumstances, so what?

The important thing was that she cared about him. Adrien would care about someone far worse off than him, so why wouldn't she? After all, that was why they were both Miraculous holders. It was why they were both good friends.

And maybe, instead of feeling envious, he could learn to realize that they both had things. Acknowledge his own strengths, and try to get better.

After all, he's gonna make it out of here one day. One day, he'll be alright. And he just needs to get through these next few years, because when he does, he'll no longer be touch-starved, no longer be lonely.

The pressure in his throat was still there, yes, but the tears were a different type. Bittersweet tears. The kind in which you feel both good and bad. The hopeful kind; acknowledging his pain while also realizing that he'd be okay.