A match made in hell (SP//Dip)

Why'd you do it

final tw, mentions of suicide and self harm. this is a running theme so if that is a problem please don't keep reading

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Pip's POV
I let Damien guide me back to his house. I have no intention of going into my own, scared of what I might find. If possible, I'd like to stay at his, forever. He leads me upstairs and shows me where his bathroom is, finding me spare clothes and a towel so I can wash. I take my time, letting the warm water run down my body for at least 10 minutes.

I wash carefully, gently over my forearm, letting the water wash away the soap suds and grime. Once I'm finished, I step out of the shower, drying and looking at the clothes he's given me curiously. He's given me some plain black boxers and a baggy red shirt, alongside some black pajama shorts. I shrug and dress, pulling my jumper out of the tangle of clothes and pulling it on. I dry my hair as best I can, leaving it to hang damp.

I step out of the bathroom, leaving my clothes in the basket he'd instructed me to put them in earlier. I saunter downstairs, finding him in the living room. He's wearing shorts and a black hoodie now. I watch him chew the draw strings anxiously as I sit next to him. It's quiet for a second, until he starts speaking.

"I know I said this earlier, but if you want to talk about it, then I'm here for you."

I take a few deep breaths, pondering over the option. He kept talking as I thought.

"I know how hard it is to settle in here. Especially when you shouldn't really be here. But I want to help you feel, somewhat better, about this whole shit hole."

I pull my hood up, chewing my sleeves nervously. My second day in hell and I've already told someone why I'm here, run away, fucked up, made it up, developed a crush, practically move in with said crush and stole his clothes.

What. The. Fuck.

I want to stay silent, to just wait for him to give up, but I find myself talking without making the conscious decision to.

"I want to talk about it. I really do. But I find it hard... To, to talk about something without someone asking about it. Unless they ask, I don't know, a really specific question, I find it difficult to answer. I think it's because I want to give them the answer they want, but when they don't ask it's hard to tell. Do you get it?" I say, glancing at him fearfully.

He nods, holding eye contact with me, "yeah, I get it. Do you.. Do you want me to ask?"

"You can, if you want to." I say, chewing my sleeves again. I watch him get up and leave the room, disappearing upstairs. He returns, holding a black zip-up hoodie. He offers it to me.

"It might be more comfortable, and then I can wash that hoodie. If you want."

I nod, taking the jumper from him. He turns his back, hands over his eyes. I peel my hoodie off, the cold air hitting my arms. I pull his jumper on quickly, covering my arm and pulling the hood up.

"You can look now." I mumble, chewing the sleeves of HIS jumper. He nods and takes my jumper upstairs, probably shoving it in the basket with my other clothes. He sits closer to me when he comes back, still leaving some distance, but a lot closer than before.

"So.. Do you want me to ask?"

"Do you want to know?" I say, turning the question onto him.

He nods hesitantly, sitting cross legged. I pull my knees to my chest and turn to face him.

"Ok... How did you.. You know?" He asks, almost afraid to say it out loud.

"Overdose." I answer simply, looking for something to focus on. My eyes land on his thighs, the ragged scars nested in his skin.

He must feel my eyes on him, because he sits with his legs straight, letting me see them better. I subconsciously reach a hand out, tracing the lines with my fingertips. He shivers a little at the touch, but doesn't pull away. Eventually, I gather my senses and stop, still staring.

"They're pretty ugly aren't they?" He asks, but I can tell he doesn't really want an answer.

"No."

I hesitate, before pulling the sleeve of his jumper up. Our scars almost match, as though we were destined to be. He readjusts, sitting on his knees and reaching out. He follows the direction of the scars with his finger.

He withdrew, sitting even closer next to me. I rested my head on his shoulder, not really thinking. He rested his head on top of mine, before asking another question.

"Why'd you do it?" His voice shook a little.

I stayed silent for a second, unsure how to answer.

"I-... I guess it was just too much."

"What was too much?"

"Everything. The bullying, t-the standards, the pressure, the oppression. Everything."

I could tell he wanted to ask more, but he stayed silent.

"Why'd you do it?" I asked.

"To get away. But then I fell right back into the problem." He answered.

"What was the problem?"

"Me."