trigger warning: graphic descriptions of self-harm, blood, depression, viewer discretion is advised, please be safe

Art. That's all it really was. Beautiful, misunderstood art. At least, that's what he told himself. He used himself as the canvas as he painted beautiful lines across his skin.

His preferred ink: his blood. His paintbrush: a razor from a pencil sharpener he had.

Sure, people would say that it's not art or that he's insane for thinking that, he couldn't find an ounce in him that cared, all that he could hear was that he had to make more art. The more there is then the less his mind will scream at him, the less mental and emotional pain there is. That pain, those feelings, all of them slowly disappear as new and better thoughts enter his mind.

It's art, it's how you express yourself and show the world what you're pain is.

That's right, he's just painting, he's not doing any harm. It's only art after all. A smile appears on his face as he pulls the blade across the skin of his forearm quickly, breaking the skin and feeling the pinch of the cut for a split second, then the blood started to surface. It came up in small dots, spreading in the cut until it was fully red, that's when it started to spill. It wasn't too bad, just one drop that was able to form and slowly make its way down his arm.

He made a few more cuts, the same as the first few, and soon most of his left arm had about 15 marks ranging from small to large, but all being about the same depth, luckily they weren't all that deep. But then he felt something falling down his cheeks, but he couldn't place exactly what it was, that was until his vision started to blur: they were tears.

Suddenly a wave of realization washed over him and he looked up into the mirror, seeing what he had done to his arm, to his body. There's red dripping down his forearm and to his wrist and his face was a bright pink with tears streaming down his cheeks at an alarming rate. He doesn't realize that he let go of the razor until he hears a slight clank as it hits the floor, it startles him and he looks down to where the noise came from, his eyes briefly seeing what his arm had become as his gaze trailed downwards. His eyes couldn't believe what they saw, how could he have done this? How could he have let himself do this?

His knees started to feel weak and he pressed his back to the wall, slowly sliding down until he sat on the floor with his knees pulled up to his chest. That's when the sobs started to leak from his lips, wrapping his arms around his knees and hiding his head so the sounds weren't too loud and his roommate, Smiity, wouldn't hear him.

"Help..." his voice was quiet and rough, no louder than a whisper as he tried to call out for someone to come and save him from the darkness that was threatening to consume his mind once again in a deep depression. More sobs started to come and he couldn't talk anymore, only cry harder. A knock at the door to the bathroom is what shakes him out of his state.

"Hey, John? You good, you've been in there for a while." Smit's voice rings out into the bathroom that was filled by John's quiet sobs and silence. He doesn't say anything, scared that his voice would reveal more than he would like it to. His silence must alert Smiity that something was up with his friend. "Talk to me, John, what's up?" the tone he used was calm and caring and it made John's eyes well up again with tears, and soon they started to spill again as thoughts flew through his head.

He doesn't care, he's just doing this because he feels obligated to as your roommate. You're nothing to him. He will never think of you in the way that you think of him.

"Woah, hey, are you crying? Do you need me to come in?" His voice grew more worried and John realized that he must've heard the cries spilling from his mouth, he had no idea how loud he was being until Smiity had said that and he quickly covered his mouth with his hand to mute the sounds escaping him, but it only seems to muffle them.

After a few seconds to compose himself, he pulls his hand away to speak up to his roommate.

"I'm f-fine, Smit, no n-need to worry, ab-out me." his voice start to peatier out at the end of his sentence, stuttering through some words and his voice cracking at others.

"You don't sound fine," His voice was more firm this time and it made John whimper lightly, "I just want to help you." he sounded softer than before, taking a more sad tone as opposed to an annoyed one.

John took a few seconds to breathe, not wanting to get up from where he was and show Smiity what he had done to himself, not yet at least.

"I'm fine, Smit. I'll..be......fine-" he trails off, his voice getting weaker and weaker as he continued his sentence, and when he looked down to see the blood staining his pants his breath hitched and he immediately stood up and walked to the door before hesitating to take the handle. After a beat of silence, John reached out and grabbed the door handle, opening it to peak out while still hiding his arms. "Promise you won't be mad?" his voice is soft and scared.

"Why would I be mad? John, you didn't?" His eyes drifted lower on the doorframe to where Smiity's arms should be, his eyes flashing with worry and fear. "John..."

"I'm sorry," the older man says as he pulls the door open more to reveal his arms, his head down and tears staining his cheeks. Smiity's mouth falls open and tears prick his eyes as he sees what happened, he took a step into the bathroom and took John's hands, pulling him into a tight hug. John allowed himself to be hugged, not struggling against the grip around his shoulders and holding his hands to the other's chest. He pressed his face into Smiity's shoulder, trying to hide from all the bad thoughts and have a moment of safety and a moment to feel loved.

"You have nothing to be sorry about," Smiity's lips press to the side of his head for a second before resting his head next to the older's. "I could never be mad at you for this, I just wish you felt you could talk to me instead."

"I wish- I wish that I didn't do it, I regret doing it so much." The tears stain Smiity's shirt and blood starts to paint onto the fabric that was being held up to John's arms as the man pulls his head away to look down at his friend. Smiity looks down with a sad look.

"Let's get you cleaned up, ok?" John nodded and the two reluctantly pulled away from each other as Smiity led the other to the toilet and motioned him to sit down before walking over to the sink and opening up the cabinet to pull out hydrogen peroxide and some gauze. He soaked the gauze and reached out his hand to lift up John's arm and gently dab the wounds. It stings and feels almost as if burning the skin, but the older man bites his lip and pushes through the pain, letting Smit clean his cuts. After each cut was cleaned, Smiity would lift John's arm to his lips and press a small kiss to the marks.

When he had finished cleaning up the wounds, he grabbed something to wrap up his friend's arm, slowly making sure that you wouldn't be able to see the red lines that were drawn in intersecting lines on John's skin.

"Ok, do you wanna talk about it?" John shakes his head and looks up into Smiity's eyes, seeing how they were red and slightly puffy from crying, no doubt he looked the same, maybe even worse.

"Can we just watch a movie?" His voice is weak and shaky. Smiity smiled at the man before him and held out his hand for him to take.

"Of course." The two make their way to the living room where Smiity lets John get comfortable on the couch while he makes the two of them hot cocoa and popcorn. The man on the couch reaches over to grab the tv remote, turning it to Netflix and selecting Scott Pilgrim vs. The World and pausing it so his friend can get back and watch with him. Smiity smiles at the screen when he sees the movie, sitting down next to his roommate and handing him his mug of cocoa. "Good choice."

The two fall into a comfortable silence after that, letting the movie play, laughing lightly at parts. Gradually, they move closer and closer as time goes by, and slowly John's arm finds its way around Smiity's waist and Smiity starts to play with John's hair.

Soon the movie was over and neither of the men wanted to move from the comfortable position they found themselves in, not wanting the moment to be foiled by small talk or thinking. But all good things have to come to an end, no matter how much we want them to last.

"Why?" The question was vague, sure, but it was all that Smiity could seem to pull out of his tidal wave of thoughts that were drowning his mind. John pauses for a moment, thinking about what it was that drove him to do what he did.

"You ever have that feeling of where, like, the world- your world is just- just crumbling at your fingertips, and that, no matter what you do, you can't seem to make it any better? Or- or do you ever want to feel something in a state of numbness, so bad, that you would harm yourself, just to feel something?" Smiity was speechless, how could he even begin to formulate a response to that. John took the silence as a 'No'. "I kept telling myself that it was just a deranged form of art that would make me feel better and that no one understands how beautiful it actually is, but once I looked down and saw this," he gestured to his arms, "I realized my mistake and it was scary."

"How was it scary?"

"I was surprised at what I could do to myself, it made me realize that- that it's not all- all going to be alright." John was stuttering on a few words, his brain trying to get out into words what his brain was saying and desperately hoping that Smiity was understanding his incoherent babbling.

"Hey," The soft tone of voice made John look up and into his friend's eyes, "you shouldn't have to feel scared of yourself, you shouldn't feel like you're a live bomb that could go off any minute. You should feel like you can trust yourself."

John looked into the younger man's eyes and saw how much he cared for him, he saw the feelings that lay below the surface of his features. He knew there was something that they should talk about, but he wasn't sure if he was ready to unearth those thoughts and spill them out to his friend. All he could think to do was hug the Canadian. So he did.

They sat there for the rest of the night, cuddling and conversing in small banter, both men always being quick to answer, that is until they both fell asleep in each other's arms, holding away all the bad things that might hurt them and, in their dreams, a world of happiness and love awaits.