He smothered his sobs. 

Tears trickled down his cheeks which were no longer flushed a vivant amaranth. 

His hand hung motionless on the ceramic tiles which were stained a pure crimson. 

In his right hand, he held a rasor blade. 

In his left hand, were splotches of blood, his blood. 

Large gashes which were crossed over each other decorated his arm. 

They were the scars he wore of his fight. 

Old and new, they would appear every so often. 

He knew he had to stop; but it was his escape. 

It felt good to cut. 

It releived him of all his troubles. 

But soon, cutting wouldn't be enough. 

There were some nights he wanted to end it. 

When he was absolutely alone and there was no one. 

He pondered why he was still there when he thought no one cared for him. 

He barely got through them; it was hard. 

At other times, he felt a little bit of happiness. 

But when he was alone. 

The wave struck him over and over. 

It manipulated his mind and created a false reality for him. 

He needed someone to open his eyes...

Before it became too late. 

Just a little fic about my favourite pairing.