American Horror Story Imagines

Stop. (Tate)

TRIGGER WARNINGS: Mentions of self harm.

I sigh, pushing my hair back from my face. It's been a year since I drowned, and I haven't aged a day. I don't really want to be stuck as a 16 year old for the rest of my existence.

"Hey," Tate appears next to me.

"How long have you been there?" I ask.

"Long enough to see you make these," he pulls back my sleeve and exposes the recent cuts. I knock his hand away and tug it back down again, not wanting them out in the open. "You need to stop, (y/n),"

"I can't. You, of all people, should know that," I tuck the blade into my pocket.

"I do know. But I also know that it won't make things any better,"

I give him a stare and push the chair back from the desk. "It helps me cling on," I say simply. We both start as footsteps crash up the stairs. I raise my eyebrow and transfer myself to the attic. Beau looks up at me, expectantly.

I sigh and roll the small red ball to him and sit as we rhythmically push it back and forth. The motion calms me, somehow, even though I'm sat in a dusty, weird smelling attic with a disfigured boy.

Then it's not just one boy. "Why are you following me, Tate?" I roll the ball again and stand up.

"I don't want you to cut again,"

"That doesn't really answer my question," the ball taps against my ankle. "Not now, Beau,"

"I want to make sure you don't cut again," he rephrases it.

"You can't stop me,"

"It doesn't do anything though! You're dead! It won't hurt half as much as it would if you were alive!" He shouts.

"Then why do you care?" I say, loudly.

"Because it means you're hurting. For you to try and cause pain to yourself," he lowers his voice and so does his head.

I stare at him and Beau crawls back into the shadows, probably sensing what is going to happen next and not really wanting to watch. I step forward and push his hair back from his face, smiling slightly. "I care about you too,"

He smiles (looking adorable, might I add) and presses his lips to mine.