Work Text:
Envy wasn't an unfamiliar feeling to Thim.
It was the kind of envy that slowly bubbled up in your chest, hiding inside of you and festering before it was strong enough to force itself out of you in filthy, hurtful words.
That was the envy Thim had felt when he was introduced to everyone. The man that Thim was so hopelessly in love with, the man that they wanted to kiss senseless and be at the same time.
Oh, how stunning he was. Vibrant, painted blush, swooping eyeliner, perfectly curled lashes and the prettiest smile. A man that Thim wanted to make theirs.
But why would anyone ever want you? That same voice that Thim hoped he she had cast away, the one that always came back no matter what he she did. The voice that was there when he she opened the drawer, slashed up his her arms, thighs, legs, anywhere. Anywhere he she could find, until he she was destroyed and torn beyond repair. Until stuffing was leaking from every. Part. Of. His Her. Body.
Her disgusting body. Too curvy in the wrong places, ugly and vile. Thim wanted to cry, staring at themself in the mirror. They despised the way they looked, so much that they had started to wear looser clothing; anything to hide their real shape. They looked horribly tired, now that they payed more attention- the bags under their eyes had become more prominent, and some of their previously mended cuts were starting to leak again.
You did this to yourself. It's your fault anyway.
Thim swallowed hard, the familiar ache curling tight in their chest. That voice — the one they thought they’d buried beneath discipline and duty — slithered back in like it always did. It never needed permission. It never knocked. It simply arrived, whispering its poison.
He’ll never look at you the way you look at him.
Thim’s jaw tightened. They hated how easily those words sank in, how quickly they could unravel everything they’d worked so hard to stitch together. They were supposed to be strong. Composed. A soldier. Someone who didn’t falter, didn’t break, didn’t let longing turn into something sharp and ugly.
But watching Meistro on stage- radiant, confident, effortlessly beautiful- made something inside Thim twist. Not because he meant to make them feel small. No, never. It was because he shone so brightly that Thim couldn’t help but see every shadow in themselves; every torn spot, every piece of fabric pulled too tight. Everything that they would forever keep hidden from the others.
They looked down at the fresh new lacerations on their arms, wet stuffing spewing out of the wounds. They would have to clean this up. Thim felt exhausted- maybe it was from stuffing loss, but everything they had felt today was a bit too much to bear.
His thoughts went back to a faint buzz in the back of his mind as he threaded the needle back through his arms, messily stitching each wound back up. How would he explain this to Jellybell if she saw? Or, even worse, Meistro himself? What would he say?
...There was no accident that could have possibly caused this many cuts. He was doomed, and he felt...lightheaded...
Sitting back on his bed, he glanced over at the time- 2 A.M. And he hadn't finished any of his work. Great. There was also stuffing all over the floor, which he should clean, otherwise his room would look like a crime scene-
Meistro would be disappointed to see someone like you talking like him.
"Fuck this. You're a soldier, there's no point wasting your time sitting here and moping." He talked to himself, but he didn't move. He didn't want to. "Get up." His body refused. He’d meant to get up. Truly. He’d meant to force himself out of bed, to clean the floor, to finish his work, to be the soldier everyone expected him to be. But the moment his head hit the pillow, the exhaustion he’d been ignoring all day finally caught up to him.
His limbs felt heavy, like they were filled with sand instead of stuffing. His eyelids drooped, the room blurring at the edges. The needle on his desk glinted faintly in the dim light, a reminder of the mending he’d done… and the mending he still needed.
He hated that he felt so weak.
He hated that he couldn’t just push through it like he always did.
He hated that Meistro’s voice- that bright, melodic voice- echoed in his mind even now, making his chest ache with something he didn’t have the strength to name.
Thim curled onto his side, pulling the blanket tighter around himself. The fabric brushed against the freshly stitched seams on his arms and he winced, a small whimper making its way up his throat.
Pathetic, the voice hissed. He’d never want someone who falls apart this easily.
Thim squeezed his eyes shut, trying to block it out. He focused on the sound of his own breathing, slow and uneven. He focused on the faint hum of the factory machinery outside his room. He focused on anything that wasn’t the voice.
But then, unbidden, another thought slipped in- softer, quieter, almost hesitant. A thought of Thim's, not the hateful voice.
He smiled at you today.
Thim’s breath caught, because it was true.
He had. Meistro had smiled at them. Not the theatrical grin he gave the crowd, not the exaggerated flourish he used on stage, but a small, warm smile meant only for Thim.
It had lasted barely a second. But it had been real, the medic was sure of it.
Thim’s chest tightened, but this time it wasn’t from envy or self loathing. It was something gentler. Something that made them giddy, excited, loved.
Maybe Meistro didn’t see them as a burden. Or a shadow. Or a mistake.
Maybe, as scary as the thought was, Meistro saw something in them worth noticing.
Thim let out a shaky breath, the tension in their body easing just a little. The voice in their head didn’t disappear, but it quieted, retreating to the corners of their mind.
For now, that was enough.
Their eyes drifted closed, the exhaustion finally pulling them under. Just for tonight, they could accept this small shred of hope, something tiny that didn't weigh down on their conscience any more.