Work Text:
The urge had grown strong.
You liked to think you were stronger. You’d been clean for two years, happy and distracted. You’d thrown out your blade once you and Rafayel became serious, declaring your days of split skin behind you now that you were in a committed relationship. After all, there was no need to harm yourself and your lover.
Whenever the ugly feeling reared its head, you took to your skin a marker instead of a knife. Rafayel, however, remained oblivious to the truth behind your artwork. He’d watched numerous times before as you drew flowers and vines branching from your scars, watched as you transformed the remnants from your sorrow into something gorgeous, and he would praise you for finding beauty in pain. He’d always assumed the scars were older than they truly were, that you’d quit long before you met him.
But lately, you’d been slipping. You weren’t sure exactly when the urges grew more frequent, or when you’d started to spend hours staring at your scars, picturing them gaping once again, but it was all you did anymore. You’d grown solemn, quieter, taking up less space. You still smiled when spoken to, but it was hollow. You were no longer present. You drifted from day to day, speaking only when spoken to, though most days you never left your room.
Rafayel noticed. Of course he would. He’d watched as you retreated inward, and he could only tolerate you ignoring his messages for so long.
Which is how you found yourself still in bed at six in the afternoon, under a mess of blankets and pillows, staring at your vibrating phone as it displayed Rafayel’s contact. It rang once. Four times. After the eighth, you succumbed to guilt and answered it.
You were rewarded with a dramatic gasp. “Cutie, you actually answered! I was beginning to think you’d forgotten me again.”
“Sorry, Raf. I’ve just been tired.”
“Well, I’m bursting with energy. I miss seeing your face. Come over?”
You shut your eyes, pressing your forehead into the mattress. You imagined the effort it would take to drive all the way to Whitesand Bay. To get in the car. Hell, just to sit up. “I’m super sleepy,” you said, your voice muffled.
“It’s six o’clock,” came Rafayel’s incredulous reply. “The sun hasn’t even set. If I didn’t know any better, I’d think you were avoiding me.”
You paused. You were neglecting your lover, weren’t you? You’d ghosted him for who knows how long. With a deep intake of breath, you forced yourself up on shaky arms. “Alright, alright. I’ll be there in… an hour?”
“It’s only a fifteen minute drive, though?”
“Yeah, I know. Just let me….” You blinked the dizziness away, vision swimming as you sat upright, your head heavy as concrete. “Just let me get outta bed.”
“Alright. I’ll be waiting, cutie.”
+++
The second you entered Mo Art Studio, you made a beeline to Rafayel’s art supplies.
“Whoa,” he said, watching you move. “That’s the fastest I’ve seen you go in a month.”
“I’m very inspired,” you lied. Nothing was inspiring to you lately; you could barely even keep a coherent thought in your head for longer than a minute.
He bought the lie, allowing you to sift through the various pens, pencils, and markers. “What are you working with today? You didn’t bring your sketchbook.”
“I’m gonna doodle again. Where are the Sharpies?”
He gestured to a bin nearby, then sat down at his easel. “They’re over there. Knock yourself out, cutie.”
The canvas in front of him already had an odd combination of colors smeared across it. It seemed he was mixing his paint on the canvas instead of using a palette. You watched as he picked up his brush and began peacefully working on his piece, then you uncapped your Sharpie.
You were being quiet, Rafayel noted, though he let you be. He understood you had more on your mind than you could say, and if you could not speak to him, he would not force you to. He was content to allow your silence to remain until you broke it yourself.
You reclined on the couch behind Rafayel and stared at your arm, the tip of the marker hovering over your skin. Your arm wasn’t entirely ink-free; remnants of faded artwork that hadn’t fully washed off stained your skin, leaving odd, scattered splotches. You could trace over them, prolong their life as Rafayel had unknowingly prolonged yours. Or, you could ignore them and create something entirely new.
Except, you didn’t know what to create. The tip of the Sharpie remained in the air above your wrist as you stared at your skin. At your scars. God, there were so many, a whole decade’s worth. Having them right in front of you, so close to your face, you couldn’t help but remember when you’d made them.
Slowly, you brought the Sharpie down and traced the fattest scar.
You remembered that night, kneeling on the ground with your arm resting on the side of the tub. You were fourteen. You weren’t upset at the time, just addicted. A junkie getting their fix on the sticky liquid leaking from their arm. The rush invigorated you, and your eyes had greedily drank up the sight of the large red puddle in the tub, dripping from the yawning cavities you’d made in yourself. You’d gotten a little too excited, went deeper than you meant to. It was the first time you’d ever cut so deep.
You didn’t stop then, and your hand wielding the Sharpie didn’t stop now. You traced each scar on your forearm, all the way from your wrist to your elbow, without realizing it.
You’d come here with the intention of creating something beautiful, a monument to your strength. You’d only recreated your weakness.
Frustrated tears welled in your eyes, and you dug the tip of the Sharpie into your skin and yanked, leaving a big, ugly line of ink in its wake. There was no sting, no searing pain like you were used to. You did it again and again.
It wasn’t helping. Why wasn’t it helping?
As you dragged the Sharpie across your wrist, Rafayel concomitantly dragged his paintbrush across the canvas. He was in a trance of his own, swirling red and blue together, eyes half lidded. His painting was progressing smoothly, warm and cool colors sprouting individually from the edges and meeting in the center of the canvas, twirling around each other in an intimate dance. He took a calm breath-
-and the serenity of the atmosphere was shattered by your shaky, panicked voice. “It’s not working.”
Immediately, Rafayel turned around, dropping his paintbrush at the sight of your trembling form and striped arm. He rose from his stool, quickly making his way over and sliding a protective arm around your shoulder.
“It’s supposed to make it better,” you rasped, a poor attempt at an explanation. Before Rafayel could fully process what was happening, you hastily added three new marks. “Why isn’t it-” here you emphasized your words by abruptly stabbing the tip of the Sharpie against your skin “-better?!”
“Hey!” As gently as he could while maintaining a sense of urgency, Rafayel slid his hands over yours, wrenching the Sharpie out of your vicelike grip. “Hey. What’s the matter? What’s not working?” But the question was redundant. It didn’t require much thought to see just what you were thinking.
Finally relinquishing the marker, you curled into yourself with a sob. You clenched your fingers around his, squeezing the tips of your nails into his soft flesh. He, in turn, squeezed your body against his in a tight hug.
You stayed sobbing into his chest for a long time, and when your tears dried, you still could not find the strength to move. Rafayel kept you pressed against him, one hand resting against the back of your head and gently scratching at your scalp. Past him, you watched through the window as the moon rose over the ocean.
“Raf,” you eventually sniffled. “Can I stay the night?”
He stilled. Inhaling a shaky breath of his own, his hands slid down to grasp your biceps. Tilting his head downwards, he gazed into your eyes with conviction. “You don’t have to ask. You are allowed to stay as long as you want, whenever you want, at any time. I would hand over the deed to the studio to you right now if you asked for it.”
You gave a wet laugh, a trembling smile on your lips. “You’re so dramatic.”
He huffed, pressing his upturned lips to the crown of your head. “I’m being serious, you know.”
With another sniffle, you nuzzled into his chest again, your heart lighter than it had been in a week.