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Somehow, therapy hadn't helped.
Rohan actually wondered if it made things worse. Ever since Josuke begged him to see a psychologist, he was forced to confront his feelings instead of suppressing them. He didn't like that.
Everytime he thought things were getting better, a major wave of depression or mania hit him, and he was back to square one. Of course, Josuke was with him at every step, but it didn't make it any more pleasant.
Why weren't things getting better? Rohan took his newly prescribed meds ritually every morning; he had been on them for almost two weeks and hadn't missed a day. Even though the doctor told him that it would take time for it to work, Rohan physically could not accept that truth.
Why weren't things getting better?! He was doing all the things– taking medicine, getting fresh air, attempting to eat well– hell, he even tried writing down his feelings. Things weren't getting better. They were getting worse.
Rohan had heard about it before: self-harm. Like all other things, he had researched it for the purpose of being the greatest mangaka, but he never expected his research to aid something other than his art.
It was his last-ditch effort: unscrewing a cheap pencil sharpener until the shiny metal blade fell out, sitting on the floor of the bathroom. If it didn't make him feel better, he would earnestly never do it again. Rohan didn't expect it to work. He expected it to be unpleasant.
With the first gentle drag of metal along his left forearm, it was as though an angel descended down onto him. His pupils blew wide the moment the blood began to ooze out in a clean red line. It was beautiful. It was art. And a comforting feeling washed over him.
Rohan didn't stop at just one. How could he? He felt great. One turned into two, and two turned into three, and sooner or later, his entire forearm was covered in bloody red lines. At the sight, Rohan almost felt guilty. He stood up and washed his arm under cold water, enjoying the subtle sting and the water tinted with blood as it disappeared down the sink. It felt nice.
Even though it felt nice, that stabbing feeling of guilt was still at him. He threw away the pencil sharpener. He'd never do it again, right?
.
.
.
He fished the blade out of the trash the next day. Thankfully, Josuke hadn't noticed it thanks to the few long-sleeved shirts he owned. Maybe he'd buy some more just so he could keep his secret hidden longer.
By the evening, no part of his left arm was left unscathed. It truly was a horrific sight, but Rohan felt calm as he stared at his reflection in the mirror. He wanted things to get better, but at the same time, he wanted them to get worse.
Rohan got what he wanted.
As usual, Rohan and Josuke shared the household chores like any domestic couple would. Josuke stood wiping down the counter as Rohan washed dishes with the right sleeve rolled up and the other left down.
Josuke watched him, a look of admiration in his eyes. Even seeing Rohan do basic things made his heart flutter. He really was in love. Setting down the towel, he wandered up behind him, resting his head on his shoulder to kiss his temple. Rohan smiled.
“I hate when my sleeve unrolls itself when I'm washing the dishes,” Josuke lamented out of sympathy, assuming that's what happened to Rohan's. He reached down to roll it back up for him. “Here, let me hel–”
His blood ran cold, eyes met with the sight of Rohan's raw arms. He hadn't been bandaging them since he liked the feeling of the cuts catching on his sleeves. Josuke stared at him in disbelief, too stunned to speak, mouth half open.
Rohan snatched his wrist away and yanked his sleeve back down. He turned off the sink, wiped his hands off, then began to leave the kitchen.
“Rohan, get back here,” Josuke hissed, catching him by the back of the shirt before he could leave. Rohan stopped in his tracks but said nothing. “What was that? We need to talk about that.”
“There's nothing to talk about,” Rohan said sternly through gritted teeth.
“Yes, there is,” he insisted. “Turn around and look at me.”
Rohan did so begrudgingly, only because he found himself backed into a metaphorical wall. He turned to face Josuke but refused to meet his eye.
He didn't expect for Josuke to engulf him into a gentle hug. Based on the look of Josuke's face, Rohan expected him to be angry, but he wasn't.
“Let me heal you, and then we can talk about this,” Josuke requested.
“I don't want you to heal me,” Rohan replied, but he was too tired to fight or argue and didn't even react when Crazy Diamond appeared next to Josuke. He just stood stiffly as the Stand healed his arm.
Josuke took his hand, leading him out of the kitchen and to the couch. Rohan followed listlessly. He felt defeated as he sat down next to Josuke.
“Hurting yourself isn't the right way to cope with how you're feeling.”
“I know,” Rohan said honestly, staring at the floor. “I knew that. I knew it was wrong when I did it, but it felt good. I needed it.”
Josuke nodded, still holding Rohan's hand.
“I… I don't know what to say,” Josuke admitted. For once, he was at a loss for words.
“You don't need to say anything.”
Josuke shook his head.
“We have to talk about this. I don't want you to hurt yourself anymore.”
“I don't think I can promise you that,” Rohan admitted.
“I know, baby. I know.”
Rohan studied Josuke's face. He looked more distraught than Rohan even felt. Something about that caused a twinge of pain in his heart. He took a deep breath and climbed up into Josuke's lap, wrapping his arms around his neck and leaning against him. Josuke's arms were immediately around him. Was there really anything to say?
“I want to be better, Josuke,” Rohan muttered into his neck. “It's just hard. I want to be better for you since I love you, but I don't know how. I don't know what to do.”
“I know. I wish I knew how to make you feel better. I really wish I did,” Josuke whispered back.
They just held each other. Neither of them really were okay, and they both knew it, so they held each other tightly, determined to keep each other from falling apart.
.
.
.
“The weather looks nice out here,” Josuke observed heartily as he stepped onto the back porch, wearing a sunny yellow tank top. “Mind if I join ya?”
“As long as you keep your hands to yourself,” Rohan teased with a light smirk. He set down his pen as he sat down next to him.
“How are you feeling today? That sketch looks nice, by the way.”
“A little better,” Rohan answered honestly, lounging against Josuke. “I think the meds are finally kicking in.”
Josuke smiled warmly and played with his hair. “I'm glad.”
He had been there for Rohan. He was there to heal Rohan when he hurt himself again. He was there to wait for him during therapy. Josuke was there for him.
“I love you so much, Josuke,” Rohan said into his shoulder, voice muffled.
“Huh? Sorry, Roh’. I didn't hear ya,” Josuke teased.
Scowling, Rohan's hands found their way onto either side of Josuke's face, feeling the rough stubble starting to grow in.
“You need to shave,” he murmured, pressing his forehead against Josuke's, “but I said I love you. Thank you for loving me. Thank you for being here.”
Josuke leaned in for a welcome kiss, kissing him sweetly. Rohan eventually pulled back and laid against him once more.
“I'll be here for you whether you're happy or sad,” he promised. “I'll always be here for you.”