#thekillswitch

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the kill switch

pilgrims

(zack connolly -- the kill switch)

aka a gwydion character

A/N: friend recommended it, had to write it because it was too cute. if you’ve not seen tks, don’t watch it lol, the acting is terrible but it talks about sensitive topics and it’s really sad. 

summary: zack comes home from a bad day of classes (college AU) and s/o comes home an hour after and finds out that he’s not taken le meds, made bad choices in classes, and self-harmed while they were gone. s/o cleans him up, comforts him, and does a little scolding because they did tell him to take his meds that morning. 

warnings: mentions of mental health meds, mental health problems, descriptive self-harm, mental illness, blood, knives, a razor blade i think

word count: 3k

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The wind picks up and the previously sprinkling sky has turned into more of a drizzle than anything else. It’s raining a little harder by the time that Zack reaches the door to his apartment. He’s tired from the long day and climbing all the way up the stairs, but he’s even more tired because he didn’t take his medicine this morning. Specifically the anti-psychotics and his stimulant. He figured that he’d be fine going one day without them, right? Everyone needs a break sometimes. 

    Meowing up at him, Ralph is waiting on the arm of the couch when Zack opens the door. He closes it, locks the handle, and ignores the cat. Name won’t be home for another hour and he’s got some crying to do. Unfortunately for him, he’s about to get lost in it and it’ll be abruptly interrupted. Obviously not knowing that, he makes his way to the back--and only--bedroom and slams the door. Ralph scratches at the bottom of it and waits to be let inside, but he won’t be this time. 

The bed is welcoming for him. He sits down on the edge and roughly throws his school bag down onto the floor. His head falls into his hands and he’s got one hand on either side of it, tugging at his light brown hair. He’s trying not to do anything bad. He’s been good lately, he can’t mess it up now. Name’s been talking about how proud of him they are, this would be a setback for sure. They might go back to Name not trusting him to be on his own again. They’ll have to cancel their afternoon class and come home with him on time like they used to. He knows that he can’t have that, Name loves their last class of the day. The only reason that they took it up was because Zack promised them that he’d be alright by himself for an hour or so. 

Then again, the blade lingering in the bottom of his bag says otherwise. He’s not yet thrown it away, he just can’t. He’s been clean for almost four months now, but it’s calling to him or something. The skin of his inner arms itches and itches more. He pulls the fabric of his jacket down and takes his fingernails to the sensitive scars, running his nails along the delicate marks. Up and down, up and down. It scratches the itch, but makes it burn. There’s a needy feeling creeping up on him, one that he’s not going to be able to outrun this time. He can tell that it’s getting worse as time goes on. He can’t be getting bad again…can he? He’s made so much progress in the past couple of months, he can’t just relapse and throw it all away now. 

Reaching into the side pocket of his bag, he feels around for a second for the familiar cold texture of the pencil sharpener blade. He gasps at how cold the little object is and pulls it out with the intentions of only looking at it. He just wants to feel it, maybe it’ll calm down the urges a little bit. He’s just gotta see it for a couple of minutes, then he’ll put it back away and never open the pocket up again. 

Seeing it is too much for him. Thick, warm tears fill up in the bottoms of his eyes until they’re heavy and his vision is blurred. He blinks lightly, feeling the hot liquid roll down his cheeks and onto his hands below. He blinks again to clear up his vision and try to actually see the blade in his palm. It works, and he breaks down all over again. 

‘Maybe just one…’ he thinks, intending on just barely breaking the skin a little bit. Hopefully it doesn’t turn into anything else. He can just make a little slash and hide it from Name until it’s healed. It won’t take long because he won’t go that deep. They won’t notice that he’s wearing his jacket for a couple of days, he does that most of the time anyway. His jacket is a safe item for him. It provides comfort and warmth, it also shields him from most of the world for as long as he wants. Bad day? Grab the jacket and watch a movie with Name. He vaguely thinks about doing that right now, instead of using the blade, but he doesn’t think that he’ll last long enough for them to get home. By the time they get there, he’ll have lost his mind in all of the waiting. He thinks about using multiple coping skills, but that shit never works for him, does it? All that ever works is Name, and they’re not here. He can’t say that to their face or they’ll make the decision to drop their favorite class again, though. 

“God damnit,” he says out loud, knowing that his options are limited. He can’t do it, he doesn’t need the blade, right? He can get over this by himself, he’s a big boy. He sighs and looks back down to the little silver object in his hands, wishing to God that Name would hurry up and open the door before he makes the biggest mistake he’s made in a while. Then again, he did make a colossal mistake in one of his morning classes. He hopes that nobody told Name about that one. 

Positioning the blade against an unmarked piece of skin on his wrist, he takes a deep breath and lets a couple more tears fall. One, two, and then he’s sobbing. He gasps for air, the silent sobs wracking his body and making him shake in fear. He’s trembling whilst rocking himself back and forth, back and forth. Maybe he shouldn’t do this. As he looks back down, his vision is blurred and it makes him angry. He presses the blade harder into his skin and slides it quickly across, watching as the little pink line pools with tiny dots of red liquid. He smiles at the sensation that it brings, but it isn’t enough. He groans out in frustration; it isn’t enough. He knew that this was going to happen. 

In a blinding rage, he positions it back where it was before, on the same mark, and slashes the blade against his skin, watching it rip the previous little wound into a wide open gash. He gasps again, his eyes going wide with fear as the white-and-yellow wound turns red, the blood oozing out of it and dripping immediately onto the stained carpet. He’s too stunned to move for a moment; he’s never done anything this bad before. Sure, it’s only one, but it’s one really bad one. It’s not going to be clarified as a ‘cut’ or a ‘scratch’ like it usually is; this is a full-on laceration. He can see the flesh and muscle inside of his wrist. He didn’t go as far as the bone, but it was damn-near close. 

There’s a thirty-second window where he’s just sitting there as the blood drips onto the floor below him. He’s mortified. He wasn’t aiming to kill himself, so the severity of the wound is scary. Had his intentions been darker, this would have been good news to him. Considering the circumstances, he’s freaking out internally. He stands, grips his wrist, and walks to the bathroom. He turns the water on, not bothering to make sure that it’s warm, and yanks his arm under the cold stream. It stings and he pulls it away, scowling at himself for being so stupid. Is this what he’s supposed to be doing? Cleaning the wound, right? That’s what Name has taught him to do first, but they’ve never had to deal with a gash as harsh as this one. He’s not sure if he’s going to need something else. 

“Zack?” His heart stops and he looks up into the mirror, making eye contact with himself. His expression turns to one of fear and utter horror as the sweet voice fills the apartment. The sound of a pill bottle shaking is what brings him back to life. He covers his arm and steps out of the bathroom, hiding both arms behind his back to seem casual. 

“Yeah?” He asks, his voice cracking as each letter leaves his lips. He tries to make his expression turn calm and collected, but it doesn’t move. He doesn’t move. “In--in the bathroom,” he stutters out, panic flooding through him once again when he hears their footsteps against the hardwood floor of the kitchen. Hardwood turns to carpet and suddenly they’re right in front of him. His breathing is harsh and ragged, making them raise a single eyebrow in confusion. 

“You didn’t take your meds this morning, huh?” They ask, their voice low and soft. They’re trying to be nice about it, but they did remind him to take them right before they drove him to his first class. He did this on purpose, and they both know it. There’s nothing he can say to fix it, and they both know it.

In other words, there’s going to be some arguing. Or, well, there was going to be some arguing, and then Name notices that he’s holding both hands behind his back suspiciously. They don’t think anything of it at first because it’s been four months, but it clicks pretty quickly. Instead of assuming the worst, they play dumb. 

“What are you doing?” They ask, crossing their arms over their chest. They don’t reach out for him at first, they’re giving him the chance to be honest about it and tell them what happened without force. They won’t be mad. They can’t be mad at him for it, he can’t help it. “Zack,” they start, leaning against the wall for support. “Show me your hands.” They’re talking to him like he’s a child, but he doesn’t mind it. It calms him down. They’re using small, easy words that he can understand in this state of mind. They know that they have to be careful when he’s like this, he can easily change course and switch into something more violent. 

“I’m sorry,” he looks them directly in the eyes as the words pass his lips. They quiver afterward and he bites the bottom one to stop them from doing so. He’s embarrassed, frustrated, and still upset because of the day that he had. He didn’t expect them to be home so early, he’s a little caught off guard. “I didn’t mean to.” He gives them both of his hands without breaking eye contact, not daring to look down at the blood still dripping from his wrist. He tears up again, thinking that they’re going to be upset with him, or worse: yell at him. 

“You didn’t, I know you didn’t,” they whisper, taking his arms gently and rolling the sleeves up very slowly, making sure that they don’t directly touch his skin. Their eyes go wide and he looks at the ground, humiliated again. He’s ashamed of himself, even though they’ve told him hundreds of times that it’s nothing to be ashamed of. He just needs a little extra help sometimes, there’s nothing bad about that, is there? Everyone needs help sometimes. “Come on, buddy.” They gently pull him back into the bathroom and turn him around, stripping him of the blood-soaked jacket and discarding it on the floor. 

“You’re not mad at me?” He asks, not focused on how bad the wound is anymore. He’s completely tied to the fact that his partner isn’t yelling or degrading him. They’re calm, which is exactly what he needs right now. “You promise you’re not mad at me?” He needs reassurance, for someone to make him feel better in the moment. Name is perfect in this situation. 

“I’m not mad at you,” they cup his face, not meaning to smear blood against his cheek. They giggle a little and wipe it away, tears forming in their own eyes. “I could never be mad at you for this,” they explain, moving him and making him sit down on the edge of the bathtub so they have room to look under the sink and grab the box in the back. Zack knows what that box means, he remembers the box under the bathroom sink all too well. It’s the accident box, it’s for when he makes mistakes. 

“I’m really sorry,” he tells them, flipping his wrist up and laying it on his thigh so they’ve got full access to it. Name knows this, they know that he didn’t mean to and that he’s sorry and he’s trying to do better. Believe them, they know. 

“I know you are, but I really can’t talk right now,” they rummage through the box and pull out gauze, bandages, peroxide, iodine, and some cream. They move his arm to hold it over the sink and open the bottle of peroxide, waiting to pour it. “Hold my hand, okay?” They hold out their free hand and he snatches it, locking their fingers together. He waits for the pain to come, closing his eyes harshly. As soon as they pour the cold liquid onto the wound, he hisses and squeezes their fingers. “I know, baby, I know,” they tell him, rubbing their thumb against the back of his hand. ‘You’re doing great, a few more seconds.” The peroxide bubbles inside of the flesh, cleaning the wound of anything that couldn’t gotten in there in the time between him doing it and them getting home. 

“It hurts,” he tells them, tears re-forming in his eyes. 

“I know.” 

Once the chemicals stop bubbling, they put the lid back on the bottle and set it back into the box. They grip the iodine and he grabs their hand again, even though this one isn’t going to hurt. 

“It’ll just be cold this time,” they quietly promise, letting the deep orange liquid drip little droplets onto his skin so it doesn’t get infected after they’ve put the bandage on it. He still hisses at how cold it is and they smile, thinking that it’s a little cute. 

After the iodine, they let it sit there for a couple of seconds. It’s silent, so they try to fill up the void with random conversation. 

“We can still go to the bookstore tomorrow,” they tell him, leaning over to press a gentle kiss to the top of his head. They linger there for a moment, pressing their foreheads together. “And we can watch a movie together tonight, if you want to.” Usually, when they get home on Friday nights, they’re both much too tired to do anything but go to sleep after eating dinner. That’s all fine and everything, but it’s not great for their relationship. Zack’s love language is spending quality time together, alongside small gifts of appreciation. Name’s love language is physical touch, but that sometimes overwhelms the other. 

“Marvel movie?” He asks, looking up at them with his big blue puppy dog eyes. They cave immediately, nodding their head at his questioning look. 

“Of course,” they run their fingers through his hair. “You wanna watch X-Men again?” By now, they’re applying the ointment to the gauze and lying it down on his wrist. They make sure that it’s in place before grabbing the tape wrap and sliding it around his arm a couple of times, being very gentle but applying a good amount of pressure so it doesn’t continue to bleed in the bandage. They’re not sure if he’s going to need stitches, but he hasn’t even thought about that. It’s not crossed his mind; he’s never needed them before. It’s never been this bad, though. And this incident was awfully close to the bundle of veins on his wrist. 

“Yeah,” he smiles then, looking down at the fresh bandage and taking his arm back. He traces his fingers over the outline of pink beginning to form on the white cloth. It’s still bleeding, but it should calm down soon. “Can we start with X-Men Origins, though?” Zack Connolly loves Wolverine, he’s his favorite superhero, and probably his favorite movie series ever. He could watch the movies over and over again without stopping. He could talk about the plot and subtle details for days on end, he’s been watching the movies since he was a little kid. 

“Anything you want,” Name bites at their bottle lip and cleans all of the supplies up, putting them back under the sink and closing the door. They pull Zack up very softly by his arms and walk him into the kitchen, toward the sink. He knows what’s coming. 

“Isn’t it too late?” He asks, and they almost laugh. 

“Never too late, baby,” they pull three little pill bottles down from the cabinet and take one tablet out from each of them, setting them on the counter one by one. They reach over and fill up a cup with water from the sink and hand it to him. “I’m gonna make you show me afterward, okay?” They clarify, just so he knows that there’s no getting out of it. He wasn’t planning on it anyway. He dry-swallows the medication and then drinks the water after, opening his mouth to show them that he really took them this time.