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It’s frightening.
It’s honestly terrifying, to be trapped inside his own head, to hear himself think these things.
I want to throw myself against a wall.
I want to keep running into a wall until I’ve taken chunks out of my arms and face, until I dislocate my shoulder, until I hit my head so hard that I get dizzy and weak or fall unconscious.
I want to tear my own skin apart, with my own hands, my teeth, anything, anything to rip a hole in myself, anything to destroy and tear and hurt...
Jehan clenches his hands tight at his sides and shakes and shakes and shakes with the effort of holding himself together, of not giving in, of not ripping and tearing and shredding...
He wishes Courfeyrac was home. He knows he’s coming, he’ll be back soon, and then he’ll be alright, Courfeyrac will help him, Courfeyrac will save him from himself, but until then, self-control is hard. He’s been so good for so long. He doesn’t want to hurt Courfeyrac if he slips up.
He doesn’t have to know. Hide it.
He’d notice.
You’ve hidden it before, you hid it for years. Do it do it do it.
He won’t, he won’t, he won’t.
Tears are welling in his eyes, burning behind his eyelids, clogging and tightening his throat. He whimpers quietly, but he doesn’t let himself cry loudly. Everything his mind throws at him frightens him. Every reason to resist has a counter argument, and he’s aware it’s not logical, he’s not thinking straight, everything is warped and distorted and he hates it, he hates it, but he’s so, so frightened that he’s going to run out of reasons, that he’s going to break, that he won’t be able to keep his control. He’s terrified, god, he’s terrified, of himself, of his brain and his teeth and his wrists, he’s petrified.
He wants to scream, until his throat is raw, until he can’t scream any more, he wants to scream.
He stays silent and whimpers and shakes.
He jumps at the sound of the lock turning, it’s Courfeyrac, he’s here, help me, help me, and he opens his eyes to look at the bedroom door, watching for his boyfriend’s appearance and there.
“Jehan.” Courfeyrac breathes, and he rushes over to the bed, pulls Jehan to his chest, near-crushes him there in a tight, safe, secure embrace, and hushes calming nonsense. “Hush, it’s alright, love, I’ve got you, I’ve got you, whatever you need, hush, hush.”
The sobs tear from Jehan’s throat, unable to be silenced even as he tries to restrain them. His whole body convulses with them, and he clutches tightly at Courfeyrac, tightly enough to hurt, and he cries.
“There, there, love, don’t hold it in, just cry, it’s alright.” Courfeyrac murmurs into his ear. “Do you want to scream? Joly said something about that being therapeutic or something, it’s alright Jehan, you don’t have to be quiet, just cry.”
Jehan isn’t sure when the half-restrained sobs become wailing, when the wailing becomes screaming, screaming so loudly that his throat feels raw, that he’s sure people in the apartment above them must be concerned. He’s hardly aware of the fact that he’s beating his hands against Courfeyrac’s chest, that every now and then he thumps his head against Courfeyrac’s ribcage, that he’s probably not being gentle and he’s quite possibly hurting Courfeyrac. He stops the hitting after a few minutes, letting Courfeyrac take his hands and squeeze them. He squeezes back and tries not to break bones.
After a few minutes he stops screaming, partially because his voice isn’t working properly anymore, and partially because he’s exhausted. He cries for a little longer, hoarse wails still escaping his mouth.
“I don’t want to hurt myself.” He cries. “I don’t want to, I’m so scared that I’m going to, I want to so badly, I just want to tear myself apart, but I don’t, I don’t, please, I don’t, I’m scared...”
“I’ve got you. I won’t let you. I’m here, you don’t have to be scared.” Courfeyrac soothes. His voice is shaking. Jehan shudders in his arms and eventually slumps, exhausted. Courfeyrac holds him close, stroking his hair, rubbing his back, rocking gently back and forth. Jehan doesn’t want to scream, or cry, or tear or rip; he’s suddenly hit by a tidal wave of exhaustion, he’s so tired, so tired of it all.
“I’m tired.” He whispers. His voice is wrecked. It’s so quiet, he’s almost surprised that Courfeyrac hears, but he does.
“Alright, alright, rest for a bit, I’m right here, I’m not going anywhere.” Courfeyrac says, pulling Jehan and rearranging him until he’s lying on Courfeyrac’s chest, holding onto him as tightly as Courfeyrac is clutching him. “Go to sleep, I’ll be here when you wake up.”
Jehan wouldn’t have the energy to protest, even if he had wanted to, but as it is he doesn’t. Courfeyrac is warm, and soft, and the steady sound of his breathing and heartbeat is dimly soothing, and the hand tracing patterns along Jehan’s spine is familiar and gentle, he’s surrounded by Courfeyrac and it’s safe. It’s safe, and Jehan falls asleep against Courfeyrac’s chest.