Work Text:
Jehan sits, shaking, staring down at his wrist with silent tears falling.
It doesn’t feel as good as he’d somehow imagined it. Somewhere in the long months of abstinence he’s invented some beautiful flood of relief, some feeling of calm, some positive outcome.
It doesn’t come and he just feels ashamed and upset and angry and in pain.
It stings.
He doesn’t want to disturb the wounds so he keeps his wrist tilted upwards, resting on his knee, unmoving while he gives the torn skin a chance to start repairing itself.
He feels vaguely disappointed in himself. You should have been stronger. You should have resisted. You went so long. You got so far. You failed.
He’s afraid that he’s going to anger Courfeyrac. What happened to justify this? Nothing, nothing. It was a selfish impulse. You upset him and so you hurt yourself. Disgusting.
Mostly he doesn’t feel all that much of anything. Back to Day 1. Really, what a shame. You’d done so well.
It’s going to be a pain to cover up.
It’s going to hurt if you stretch or bend your wrist too much.
The scabs are going to be a pain.
Do you have excuses?
Are you going to tell anyone? Really, they deserve to know. Didn’t Combeferre say, “If you need help, please feel free to come and talk to me.”
Didn’t he also say “I’m so proud of you for not relapsing. That’s very good. You’re very strong” last time as well?
He’ll be disappointed in you too.
You have to tell Courfeyrac. You have to, you promised him.
But that’s selfish. That makes you look attention-seeking. Look at attention-seeking Jehan, weak Jehan, cry-baby Jehan, overreacting over something stupid. Did you hurt yourself, Jehan? Why, Jehan, would you do that? How stupid of you. How weak of you.
You just want attention and sympathy. You want to make it about you. Don’t you, Jehan? Oh, poor Jehan, look, he made a mistake and he upset someone, so he got himself worked up and hurt himself. Poor little baby Jehan.
Useless.
Weak.
Pathetic.
Fuck up.
Stupid.
Stop it. Look at you. What are you doing? Pathetic, pathetic, pathetic.
It doesn’t stop.
You want to do it again? But look, you just did it; did it help? No it didn’t, stupid boy. Stop feeling sorry for yourself.
He doesn’t want to do this anymore. Why is this happening to him? Why is this so hard? Why is he addicted to pain, why should he want to punish himself?
You have it so good. You have no right. You have no right to do this to yourself. Look at the people around you. Don’t they have reasons? Their sadness is justified, but you, no, you’re just sad. You’re just so needy and spoilt and greedy and you’re sad.
And you hurt yourself.
Why do you do that? You don’t have justification. You don’t deserve it really, do you? Well, maybe you do.
He wants it to stop.
Maybe you should make it stop. Permanently.
No. No he won’t do that. No, he doesn’t want to do that.
He’ll sleep.
He’ll go to sleep and his wrist will sting when his pyjamas and bedclothes touch it and he’ll stare at the marks for a while and hate himself. He’ll worry that someone will see them if they wake him up in the morning. He’ll worry about hiding them for the next week or so. He’ll scold himself for not thinking of these consequences beforehand. He’ll tell himself he’ll talk to other people, and then he’ll back up when he actually tries.
For now, he’ll sleep.