tw: graphic depictions of self harm, suicidal thoughts, heavy in general. hucklerobby hurt/comfort.
Shaky hands, sticky with blood, held over the sink.
It drip drip drips onto the porcelain, blooms the white surface red. Dennis stares at it, and part of him breathes deeper now, almost elated, lips tugging up as he glances over the wreckage of his arms. The blade discarded, the flesh torn through. He's never cut this deep, never allowed himself to.
Fucked in the head, he knows, but he can't lie to himself anymore— he wants the scars. He's been craving them for years, always wishing he could carve a little deeper, leave something permanent.
Look at me, look at me, look at me. Here's proof. Here's proof that it hurt. I'm not lying, I'm not making it up. It hurt, it hurt, here's proof.
Tremors shudder through his weak frame, rippling from the inside out, swaying him. Tears slide slow down his cheeks, drip into the sink to mingle with his blood, painting pink trails in the growing sea of red. He feels everything and nothing. Numb and tingly, buzzing, adrenaline pumping his heart painfully in his ribcage.
"I hate you," he whispers, to his arms, to the blood, to himself. He grins as he says it, laughs a little, eyes wide. Insanity colors the emotions that zing off of him, bounce and refract and burrow back into his skin. He is not all together. "I fucking hate you."
His face crumples, a sob hiccuping out of him, veering dangerously back and forth between elation and devastation, mostly permeated by shock. "I hate you... I fucking hate you..."
He stumbles and slumps, curls into himself on the bathroom floor, so shaky now that it hurts, that he can't stand. He wants it to stop, stop, stop. It'd feel so good, if he could just be enveloped by nothingness. He hopes the atheists are right. He doesn't wanna go to hell. He just wants to die.
Drifting in and out of consciousness, the pain searing in his arms takes over, emotions on a backburner to the physical sensation.
Time is a concept that slips through his fingers, and whether it's hours or minutes til the bathroom door creaks open, he couldn't tell you. He registers a choked gasp from the doorway, blinks blearily at the tall form.
"Baby, my baby," Robby hiccups, blinking back his tears, horrified and sinking to his knees. "Fuck, Den, why would— how could you—?"
It's what Dennis wanted, right? This is the reaction he wanted, needed, someone fucking finding him like this, noticing and caring and seeing. Needed someone horrified over what he'd done. Wanted this, wanted someone to know he was broken. Why doesn't it feel validating like he thought it would? Instead, shame broils sticky in his gut, rising to his throat and garbling his words.
"I can't— I can't take it back," he chokes, realizes, shaking his head. Permanent, he made it fucking permanent, etched his pain into himself like it was worth the trouble. They're not battle scars or proof of his hurt, they're reminders of how he's pathetic, weak, how he couldn't even win a fight against his own mind. "I'm— don't— please don't, mm, don't look, don't— I— mm," he can't make a coherent sentence, really breaking down now, the grief a tidal wave, a tsunami that he can't outrun. There is no ground high enough to avoid it, this crash of saltwater over his wounds. Arms stinging, eyes stinging, every noise that tumbles out of him something more animal than human, wounded.
"Angel, angel, baby— oh, sweet boy, Jesus Christ," Robby's hands hover and tremor, unsure and unsteady, not knowing where to touch. For a moment they're two twin souls, both broken and gasping, grief heaving their chests.
Robby snaps himself out of it first, forces himself to gather alcohol, bandages, sutures. He swallows bile and kneels next to a curled up, shattered Dennis.
"Don't.. don't do anything to numb it," Dennis mumbles, weak, feeling eight years old and crying to God for help that never came. A fucking sham, that's what the whole thing felt like. Praying and pleading and obeying for nothingness, for emptiness. Searching for God in the spaces between the lines, the rustle of the tree leaves, finding Him in every place but where Dennis needed. He had decided, then, that God was meant to help everybody but him, that he was below it, somehow, unworthy.
Surprisingly, Robby listens, and the burning pain of rubbing alcohol jolts him away from his swirling thoughts again. "Shit," he hisses, clenches his teeth, squeezes his eyes shut.
It's Dr Robby that takes care of him, cleans his wounds, sutures the too-deep cuts. Wraps clean bandages around his arms, silent as he works. Dennis huffs a small noise of protest, but he's too weak to fight as Robby slips painkillers on his tongue, tilts his head up with a drink of water that slides the medication down his throat.
He's spent, sore, aching, but stitched together. Regret is a low hum in the marrow of his bones, black and rotting. "Sorry," he whispers, small, eyes fixed on the ground, unseeing. The bathroom tile doesn't project into his brain, doesn't make it past the TV static.
Robby's movements are slow, like he's handling a feral dog, careful not to trigger a bite. It's warm and achingly tender as he scoops Dennis up, deposits him in his lap.
"...I love you, Den," he whispers, for the first time.
It's a punch to the gut and a gasp of relief, Dennis slumping against Robby's chest. "I wan' go home," he sniffles, like a child. "Please. Wanna go home."
"I know, baby, shh, I know," Robby whispers, and he seems to realize that Dennis doesn't mean a physical place. He just wants to be okay, for once. "Oh, I know. It's okay. It's okay. We're going home, baby, it's alright."
"Robby.." is a weak whimper, a gentle plead.
"Dennis," is the breathless response, voice low and safe, warm arms cradling him so gently, so carefully. He's shattered glass in Robby's arms, but the older man doesn't seem to care about getting cut. "Oh, Dennis, baby, my beautiful boy. I gotcha. I gotcha."
Dennis can hear the heartbreak imbued in every word, and the guilt threatens to swallow him up, tug him down into an inky pit. "M'sorry," he whispers again, and again. "M'sorry, sorry, m'sorry, Robby please. I didn't wanna— mmmmm, mm. I didn't wan— wanna hurt you," he shudders, and it feels like the breakdowns he used to have as a kid, back before he swallowed his emotion.
It progressed naturally this time, for the first time in years, wails to sobs, sobs to whimpers, whimpers to shudders. There's something comforting about the type of exhaustion that settles on his shoulders, that comes after the release. Robby feels like a father, like a savior, like a soft bed after a long day. So much of it feels so good, in a way Dennis hasn't ever experienced. He's never been anything but alone after his breakdowns, until Robby.
"Hey, baby, shh," Robby soothes, rocks. "We don't have to talk about it, okay? Not now. Let me hold you, baby, I'm here. Why don't you close your eyes?" He coaxes, gentle, and Dennis sighs as he obeys, droops against Robby's shoulder.
"There, there you go," Robby whispers, pressing a kiss to the top of Den's head. "There you go, shh, shh. Love you so much."
Dennis's arms are a vague hurt, the fuzziness of Robby's treatment distancing himself from his body. He feels weighted, but not wholly unpleasant.
It wasn't worth it, wasn't worth it, but Robby's here now. He's safe now. He doesn't have to do it again. He won't do it again. Robby won't let him do it again.
Robby would understand if he did it again.
He's home now. Robby's here now.
Shh, shh. Here now, baby. I love you. We're gonna work this whole thing out. Just be good for me and go to sleep, okay? Just rest, now, you can rest now. We'll take care of it later. You're okay.
