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Frank was running his hands over his thighs for the millionth time today, his boxers rucked up to his hips, his fingertips trailing over old and new scars. He lingered over one, deep but only two weeks old and still pinkish-orange. Lately, he’d been spending every night like this, tracing every mark and scratching at them. They were so goddamn itchy it’s as if his body was egging him on to do it again. He peered in the direction of the dresser drawer where he hid everything and weighed the pros and cons of cutting up his thighs. Pros: the itching will stop and he’ll be able to sleep; cons: he’ll have to wear the red sweatpants and Mikey knows him too well and he knows what the red sweatpants are code for. Frank huffed and rolled on his side to open his phone, maybe if he scrolled through twitter for long enough his brain will go numb and he can pass out.
Frank had been staring at his phone and mindlessly clawing at his thigh for maybe half an hour when he heard the front door shut. It was probably (hopefully) Mikey but Frank wanted to be sure. He rolled out of bed, tugged at his boxers, and sleepily staggered into the living room.
“Mikey? ‘S’at you?”
“Yeah. Had dinner with Gerard.”
Now that the potential threat proved to be just his lanky slightly nocturnal roommate, Frank plopped down on the couch. “How’s he?”
“He’s good, wants to have movie night next week.”
Frank mumbled a response and brought his knees to his chest, hugging himself close. He rested his chin on his knee and looked over at Mikey, who had joined him on the couch. His thighs itched again. He wanted to draw as little attention to the fact that he’s a cutter around Mikey because it made him feel guilty. He didn’t want Mikey to feel bad for him, and if Mikey felt bad for him then it’d mean he made his best friend sad and Frank couldn’t handle that. He resigned himself to gritting his teeth and digging his nails into his palms instead. Mikey had put on some late-night TV show but out of the corner of his eye he’d been watching Frank.
“What’s up?”
“Nothin’ just tired.” Frank bluffed. Oh fuck Mikey knows, that psychic bastard.
Mikey gave him a look.
“I know something’s up, you’re too obvious.”
“I wanna get hit in the ribs with a baseball bat.”
Mikey raised an eyebrow. “If that’s what you’re into, I know a guy who can set you up.”
“Of fucking course you know a guy who’d be into beating the shit outta me,” Frank laughed an earnest laugh.
“Well?” Mikey picked up his phone and gestured to it like he was gonna actually call up some sadist.
“Sounds kinda fun, but no not actually.” Frank’s composure shifted back and he felt himself retreating back inwards. “I… I haven’t done it in fifteen days,” Frank gestured to his upper thighs, “I wanna do it again so fucking bad. I close my eyes and it’s all I can think about. I miss it, I miss the hurt, the blood, the calm after I do it, I like the permanence of the scars. It- it feels kinda good. Oh god, Mikes, I can’t stop thinking about it. I don’t wanna do it because I don’t wanna get an infection and I don’t wanna make you upset but god it’s so hard.”
Mikey sat and listened. When Frank was done, he reached out and put a hand on his friend’s shoulder. When he didn’t jerk away Mikey scooted close and pulled him in for a hug. Frank melted into the embrace, clutching at Mikey’s shirt and tucking his face into the crook of his neck.
“We just gotta find somethin’ else for you to do,” Mikey whispered and petted at Frank’s hair, undoing the tangles. Frank had started to sob and he held tighter to him. Mikey rubbed his back and gently rocked him for a couple minutes. When Frank’s sobs had calmed down to a soft whimpering, Mikey pulled away from him and cradled his face in his hands. He leaned forward and pressed a gentle kiss to the top of Frank’s forehead.
“Hey,” Mikey gave him a soft smile, “things are gonna get better, trust me. Let’s go get cleaned up and watch a movie, okay?”
Frank nodded and let Mikey help him up. They walked silently together to the bathroom and Frank even let Mikey wipe at his face with a damp washcloth like he was a sickly Victorian boy. Mikey sat him back down at the couch and went to go change into pajamas. He came back a couple minutes later and Frank had picked out the first Hellraiser movie for them to watch.
Mikey sat close and wrapped an arm around him, occasionally rubbing at his shoulder. Frank, quiet for once in his life, curled towards his friend and rested his head against his chest. They stayed like that for the whole movie, comforting and quiet and safe together. As the credits rolled, Frank looked up at Mikey with heavy eyelids.
“I feel-” yawn, “I feel better, doesn’t itch anymore. Thanks Mikes.”
Frank shimmied up to eye level with an equally wiped Mikey and leaned forward to give him a soft kiss on the lips. Before Mikey could say anything coherent in response, they both passed out on the couch together, warm and safe.