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Sebastian runs a thumb over the hollowed-out center of the razor, his gaze trained on the roiling haze beneath. Behind him, Pluto and Veo are fast asleep in the messy bed they usually shared.
He looks down at his thigh, pale under the faint moonlight. He could hardly see the scars there. He closed his eyes and lightly ran his fingers over the skin, feeling the tiny grooves. A rush of comfort overflooded him. They are still there. He took some sort of perverse pleasure in that. These ones from the days after he had sent Mouse to hell—those would never go away, he thinks, he had pressed too hard, a form of punishment that will never be enough—jagged and slightly raised; ones from his hedge mage days, barely a bump; the more recent ones, still scabbed over. It felt good to feel them.
He had always preferred to do it slowly. Other kids he had met in the Academy—similarly full of angst, scarred by society or their family or both—always did it quick. Press, and a sudden flick of the wrist, their skin and flesh blooming open before the mind could even process the cold feeling of blade against skin. They lived in that moment of exhilaration, between the parting of the flesh and the swelling of pain, where numbness danced through the body like sparks of lightning.
Sebastian always liked it slower. He liked the pain. A sort of torture; and he deserved every drop of it. The deliberateness of pressing the blade to his thigh, fingers pushing down, the instinctive fear of pain, revulsion at what he was about to do. Then the steeling of nerves, a short exhale, the image of blood staining his hands, his blade, growing uncontrollable. Then the slow, torturous—euphoric—process of pulling the blade across his skin, watching it part, the white beneath gapping in the dim light. He never cut too deep, only once or twice. Cutting too deep didn’t hurt as much as he wanted. He doesn’t want to do that these days, anyways; Veo and Pluto are counting on him.
The pain always sets in a few milliseconds later. Sometimes he’d stop, unable to handle the sting, but most of the time he’d press on, dragging the slit open longer, longer, ever longer. The white beneath exposed, blood not yet welling into the wound, like the vessels couldn’t understand that they had just been severed. When the blood comes it always comes slowly; pinpricks of red, slowly seeping out, until the whole slit swells with red, metallic and beautiful.
He relished in that moment, suspended, evidence of what he had done not yet dripping from his leg and fingers. Sebastian never understood why it felt so shameful, but the shame was ever so present, getting worse with each cut, how upset Veo and River must be if they find out, the disappointed look in his father’s eyes, and not to mention Pluto… Sebastian couldn’t even imagine how Pluto would react.
Sometimes he’d derive some sort of twisted pleasure from the idea of his friends finding out; their frantic looks, their concerns. A sick confirmation that he mattered to them. A vindication of sorts, with himself as the collateral, for all the times no one ever noticed. The empty vessel in his chest would be filled, ever so slightly, even momentarily.
Not that his friends didn't care. They care. Sebastian knows they do; instinctively he knows that, and each time he thinks of it, the guilt of assuming the worst of his friends would broil in his stomach until it all bubbles over and he had no other option but to turn to the blades again; to punish himself, to atone for that unspeakable sin. All he needs to do is ask. Yet he is so terrified of it, so frightened of seeking any sort of confirmation, because what if he appears too clingy, what if they grow tired of him, his antics, his angst, his refusal—inability—to get better; what if, what if, what if, what if—
Ah, well. He forcibly shut those thoughts down. As for his friends, he’d deal with those issues when it arises. Right now, he itched for it—needed it. The pain, the sensation, something to fill the gnawing, ever-growing emptiness inside him. The hollowness that had only widened since he returned to Drakkenheim, a gaping hole in his chest that he could reach into and grasp his beating, bleeding heart.
He rolled his sleeve up and set the blade to the skin of his arm. Not too hard. Not today. The blade glided, effortless. The pain bloomed almost immediately, a comfortable, familiar sensation that glowed warm in his chest. Only for a moment, half a second, beads of red seeping out.
Then another, and another, chasing that flitting high before the last one fades. It felt good, in a twisted way. Sebastian leaned his head back, letting out a shaking breath. Blood was dripping now, but he didn’t have the mind to clean them. His vision blurred, hyper-focusing on the line of red that bloomed on his arm. It wasn’t enough. Never enough. He shifted the blade to his thigh. Breath held; a trembling in his chest, a giddy fog settling over his numb mind. He kept going, ever inching closer to the crest of joy before falling back down, each cut bringing him back to the same spot but no closer. It was frustrating, but it was better than the all-encompassing emptiness. Anything was better than that.
Next one, surely, next one would be the one that sends him over the peak of the wave. It never was, and Sebastian kept going.
He wanted to laugh. The hysterical sound ripped through his chest, gurgling out in bursts. He curled onto himself, tears from the laughter rolling down his cheeks. He hadn’t laughed so much in ages. The highs are fading. They don’t last. They never do. The hollowness threatened to return, with each drop of blood seeping from the wounds, the apathy grow heavier.
He slumped onto the ground, arm and leg burning with a familiar, comfortable sting, staring into the gloom gathered under the ceiling. These cuts won’t scar as much, but some days he needed them to hurt more. He raised a hand, fingers stained red. The first time he did it, he couldn’t get past the third cut. These days he seemed to be in a competition with himself to see how long he could go. A strange detachment; like the flesh he is cutting into belonged to someone else. He let his hand fall back to the ground. Some day he’d have to explain this to someone, he’d have to stop, but that was a future-him problem.
Sebastian pushed himself up into a sitting position. Behind him, Pluto and Veo’s breathing sounded as smooth as ever. He tossed the blade into the night below, watching the thing fly a graceful arc into the haze. With a wave of his hand he cleaned up the blood and the mess. He didn’t bind the wounds.
He shuffled over to the bed, wincing slightly from the stings, then settled down next to Pluto. The Caspian shifted in his dreams, muttering something, then slung an arm over him. Sebastian held his breath, but Pluto didn’t wake. It had been a long day. Veo’s tail brushed lightly against him, but she was deep in her slumber as well.
Sebastian closed his eyes. It would be a good way to die, he thinks, here, warm, soft breathing of friends all around him. He could almost convince himself that he wants to wake up in the morning.