Our Glory is Now //Jeffmads Oneshots

Scars

TW: depression, cutting

James couldn't help it.

He couldn't stop himself from looking down at his arms every moment he was alone. He couldn't help that the faded scars were screaming at him to slit his own throat. He didn't know what to do when he felt invisible knives against his wrist, begging him to relieve his stress.

James couldn't help any of it.

And he knew that it was affecting him. He knew that he was much more distant, and that he probably wasn't taking care of his husband like he should be. He wanted to get up and make dinner and prepare something good for Thomas, but he just couldn't bear to move. He drifted in and out of sleep without ever getting less tired. What could he do about it? Nothing.

So he slipped under the blankets and curled up for the afternoon, sleeping his time away. He had called off sick for the past few days, which he never did, and Thomas was starting to get worried.

"Hey, Jemmy, I'm home," he called softly.

When James didn't respond, he searched the bedroom for his undoubtably sleeping form. He sighed upon finding it, and decided to finally confront him on it.

"James,"

James yawned adorably and pushed himself up. "Hey, Tommy," he said rather flatly.

Thomas felt concern flood his features. "James, what's wrong with you lately? You seem sick and sad...let me help you,"

Something flickered in James' expression. "I'm fine,"

"James, we're married. You can tell me anything, I'm your husband and I love you,"

"Maybe just bad allergies," James mumbled. He knew it was an incredibly feeble excuse.

"No, Jem, it's worse than that. Tell me what's wrong. Did something happen? At work? With someone else?"

James shook his head.

"Then what?"

James looked deep into his eyes, searching the dark pools for something he wasn't sure he could find. What did he want? He wasn't entirely sure, but he thought he would know it if he saw it. "My arms,"

Thomas brightened in hope. "What about them?"

"They're marked up,"

Thomas cocked his head, putting a tentative hand against James' wrist in a request to see them. James pulled up his sleeves and offered them up, closing his eyes against the memories that flooded him instantly.

Thomas gulped as he traced every mark with precision. "James... I had no idea,"

James just sighed.

"It's okay,"

Thomas said those two words and James' head cleared. "It is?"

"Of course. Do you still cut?"

"No, but I think about it,"

"Don't do it, sweetheart. Talk to me,"

James sniffled and composed himself. "It started when I was a kid. I didn't do it often, so there's not too many marks, but they're everywhere. Lots of them didn't scar. But they ache every now and then, and all I can do is remember what happened. What's still happening,"

"Are you taking your medication?"

Another sigh. "No. I want it to hurt,"

Thomas surged forward and wrapped his arms around him. "You don't deserve that,"

James but his lip, his hands hovering just over Thomas' back. Thomas smiled and pushed up slightly so they connected.

"Do you want to to back to the therapist?"

"I'd rather be with you,"

"Then lets go back to telling each other everything. You don't have to hide things from me, Jem,"

"I know,"

And in that moment, James couldn't help but smile.