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Swallowing back tears, Sprout stirred the batter. His wrists stung, his sleeves sticky. The physical pain triumphed over the mental struggles he faced; though, it could only work for so long. It was temporary. Every night, he’d do it and swear he’d quit, only to find himself with the blade between his fingers once more.
Taking care of everyone took such a toll on him; everyone constantly seeking his assistance, seeing his friends all bloodied and beat up, it all cut deeper than it should. He loved his friends, he really did, but the pressure was breaking him. He could hardly keep up.
He was supposed to protect and care for the other toons. How could he do that when he can’t even protect him from himself?
Cosmo shuffled into the kitchen, yawning as he wiped the sleep from his eyes. “Mm, Sprout,” he called out softly.
Sprout looked up from the bowl, plastering his best friendly smile on his face.
“Oh, hey, Cos.”
“What’re you doing up so late?”
Sprout wiped his hands on his apron, his smile not once faltering. “Ah, you know me! Just baking.”
“At this hour?”
Rubbing the back of his neck, he chuckled nervously. “Well, I just couldn’t resist making something.”
Cosmo rolled his eyes. “Of course…”
He eventually made his way over to the counter, resting his elbows on the countertop.
“Whatcha making, anyway?”
“Just a simple vanilla cake,” he replied, holding up the batter-covered spatula.
“Sounds good.”
Sprout nodded. The room fell silent for a few moments, the only sound the soft humming of the A/C.
“Sprout,” Cosmo said, breaking the silence, “You’re okay, right?”
He froze at that. Okay? Of course he was okay! Hell, he should be asking Cosmo if he was okay, not the other way around!
“Of course, why?”
“Well, for starters, you’re baking at an ungodly hour. And lately, you’ve just been… weird.”
He waved his hand dismissively. “I’m fine, Cos. Just under a lot of stress right now.”
“Do you want to talk about it?”
He shook his head, looking back down at the batter. “There’s not much to talk about, really.”
Cosmo rested his hand on his back, his expression soft. “Well, if you’re so stressed, surely there’s something bothering you, no?”
What was he supposed to say? He couldn’t tell Cosmo about what he’d been doing to himself. The thought of the disappointment, the sadness that’d be on his face was already too much to handle.
“It’s just my regular responsibilities. Nothing you should be concerned about.”
Cosmo reluctantly removed his hand from his back. “Okay… I’m always here if you need to talk, though.”
“Mhm, and I appreciate that very much.”
He toyed with the hem of his shirt, his eyes downcast. “Just let me know…”
Sprout wanted to tell him so, so badly, but he bit his tongue. Why should he dump his small, insignificant problems onto Cosmo? Nobody knows about it, and it should stay that way.
Suffering should be silent.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Sprout laid in bed, his mind wandering to his conversation with Cosmo. Part of him regretted not speaking up, the other desperately trying to keep quiet. He kept imagining the look on Cosmo’s face if he found out about his pitiful situation. Shock? Disappointment? He’d never know for sure.
He swung his legs over the bed, the soft comforter falling to the floor and pooling around his feet.
He needed it again.
He retrieved his blade from his nightstand drawer and rolled up his sleeve. Holding the blade between his fingers, he pressed it against his wrist.
Swipe.
Swipe.
Swipe.
Three thin lines carved into his wrist, and beads of ichor slowly started forming on them.
It hurt so good. It satiated the pain that once lingered for so long.
He didn’t have to worry about what the world did to him when he could worry about what he was doing to himself.
He pulled down the sleeve of his burgundy sweatshirt and laid back against the bed. So exhausting it was to repeat the same routine over and over. He begged that one day he’d break the seemingly endless cycle. Maybe one day, he could.
God, how redundant life could be.
The black blood seeped through his sleeves as he stared at the ceiling. Caught up in his thoughts, Sprout didn’t notice the turning of the doorknob.
As the door opened, light from the hallway spilled into the room, illuminating the dark room.
Sprout looked over and saw Cosmo standing there.
Shit.
He hastily hid the blade under the covers and himself along with it.
“Hey, Sprout,” he said gently as he came over and sat on the edge of the bed.
“Mm, hi…”
“Oh, c’mon, I know you’re not sleeping. I saw you scrambled under those covers,” he teased, flicking Sprout’s forehead.
“Ahah, yeah, I’m awake!”
“Sorry for not knocking. Just wanted to check in,” Cosmo apologized, his hand stroking Sprout’s back.
He smiled at the feeling of Cosmo’s hand on his back, his body relaxing. “It’s fine.”
“Whatcha got under here, anyway?” He playfully drew back the covers. The comforter was tossed aside, forgotten.
Cosmo’s expression shifted as he took in the sight before him: blood-soaked sleeves, a black-stained blade beside him.
“Sprout…”
Sprout felt like a tight rubber band was bound around his chest. His mouth was dry, his words gone. He quickly tried to cover himself with the blanket again, though it was pointless.
Cosmo already knew.
Gently, Cosmo took Sprout’s wrist in his hands. He pushed up the fabric, wincing at the sight.
“What’s wrong?” he asked as his eyes welled up with emotion.
Sprout stayed silent and avoided his gaze as his own eyes filled with tears. He bit his trembling bottom lip.
Cosmo ran his fingers over the cuts, the skin sensitive to his touch.
“I’m sorry,” he choked out.
Cosmo shook his head. “No, don’t be. Just please, tell me what’s wrong.”
“I-I’m tired, Cosmo. I’m tired of this. I just want to relieve myself.”
“By doing this? How long has this been happening?”
“A month? Maybe two.”
“Sprout… you know you can talk to me, right?”
He fidgeted with his hands as he felt Cosmo’s eyes burning into his wrist. “I know. I’m sorry.”
Noticing his discomfort, Cosmo shifted the topic slightly. “You don’t have to talk if you don’t want to right now. Let’s just focus on getting you cleaned up, okay?”
Nodding, Sprout wiped his damp cheek with the back of his hand.
Cosmo took his hand and led him to the bathroom.
The air felt so much thicker than before, the dimly lit halls so much scarier. Portraits lined the walls, their gazes fixed on Sprout.
They eventually made it to the restroom. The coldness of the linoleum tiles felt harsher than it should—everything did.
How pathetic does one have to be to stoop to such a level? To stoop down to the level of self-harm.
Cosmo ran his loving, callused hands over the broken skin. Fresh cuts over old scars lined his left arm. His right arm was perfect, unscathed, untouched from his destruction.
He took a damp cloth, wiping the blood from Sprout’s skin. The subtle scent of copper filled the air, mingling with the floral aroma of Sprout’s cologne.
Silently, they stayed there while he cleaned Sprout’s damaged skin.