Don't Leave Me

Chapter Three

-You deserve the whole universe, but I am only a star-

(Oliver's Point of View)

He woke up screaming. He wasn't used to the sleep, to the dreams. He had forgotten about the night terrors. He supposed he had hoped they would go away. But they hadn't so here he lay, frozen, sweat dripping down his skin, his heart racing, hyperventilating.

He struggled to calm himself. Breathe in, breathe out. When at last, he could breathe without impending suffocation, embarrassment crept up to his cheeks. Why was he so weak? Why was he such a burden?

"I'm sorry," he murmured to no one in particular, absentmindedly scratching at his wrists.

"Don't do that." He jumped at Xavier's gentle scolding. He hadn't realized that his roommate was on his own bed, his laptop open on his lap, fingers running across the keys.

Oliver flushed red, bowing his head in utter embarrassment. You idiot, he thought, frustration building up inside him. "Sorry," he managed, then quickly pulled himself out from under his covers. He stumbled to his closet, clumsily pulling open the doors and running his fingers over his options. Short sleeves, short sleeves, short sleeves. He couldn't wear short sleeves. His breathing hitched as he desperately dug though his closet, for a long sleeve shirt.

Behind him, the clicks of laptop keys paused. He could feel Xavier's gaze burning holes in his back. He let his hands drop to his sides, sucking in a panicked breath.

"Wear one of mine."

"Wha-what?" Oliver stammered, his mind spinning. Had he only imagined it? Or had Xavier actually...cared? No, he scolded himself, you're just a burden.

"Wear one of mine," Xavier repeated, casually sliding off his bed and walking over to his closet. He pulled open the closet doors to survey the mess of clothes on the floor and thrown over the closet hooks. He pushed a pile of graphic T-shirts to the side, and pulled out a plain black long sleeved shirt. "Here. This should fit."

"But-" Oliver hurriedly tried to think of an excuse for why he couldn't accept the shirt, but deep inside he knew there was none. He couldn't just say I'm a burden, could he? Or that he didn't deserve his kindness? So he just kept his eyes on the floor as he reached out for the shirt with one hand, cheeks bright red with embarrassment. "Thank you," he mumbled, quickly.

"Don't worry about it," Xavier gave him a small smile, slightly embarrassed at his roommate's soft thank you. He ducked his head , his long black hair falling over his eyes, and quietly returned to his bed, his fingers once again hitting the keys in a rhythmic pattern.

Oliver stood alone in the bathroom. The empty wall where a mirror had once hung loomed before him, making him feel small and useless, reminding him of yesterday, of the pain. But the pain had felt good. He wanted to feel it again, even if it only lasted for a few seconds.

Fighting the urge to claw at his skin with anything sharp that he could find, he slowly slipped into a pair of jeans, but hesitated before he pulled the shirt over his head. He slid his hand across his stomach, eying it with disgust. It was flat, a pale white color. But the usual dips of a six pack that most of his friends had wasn't there. He pinched at his skin, enjoying the pain while it lasted, but then realized that underneath his pale skin was fat. You're disgusting, he realized. You need to be perfect, but you're disgusting. Disgusting. He let the word echo a few times in his mind before shaking his head to clear his thoughts. He slid the shirt over his head. It fit his frame snugly, and his stomach twisted with disgust at this fact. He was disgusting.

He twisted the doorknob and the bathroom door swung open, and Oliver slowly stepped out of the bathroom and into the dorm room. The first thing he noticed was Xavier was gone. His bed was neatly made, his backpack gone from the floor. Oliver was uncertain of the feeling that made his stomach clench-was it loneliness? Regret? Panic? He tried to ignore it, and made his way to his bedside, reaching out with one hand to sloppily pull his sheets up and throw his pillow on top.

The second thing he noticed was his phone. It lay on the nightstand as it had not been touched since all night. He hesitated, debating on whether to take it or leave it. Curiosity got the best of him and he cautiously picked it up with one hand, unlocking it with one swipe of his thumb. He had only opened it for one reason, and disappointment-or was it relief-immediately hit him. There was no new messages. They'd didn't care was the first thought that came to his mind, but then another thought slid into his mind. It's better, he realized, that they don't care. So I'm not a burden.

He began to set his phone down on the nightstand, but hesitated. He ran his finger down the perfect shiny screen, fighting an urge-what it was he couldn't quite place his finger on. He wrapped his fingers tightly around his phone, mind racing. He tried to tell himself to think, to think about what he was going to do. But he couldn't breathe, his heart thumping loudly in his chest.

He slowly made his way to the window, placing his hand on the glass window plane, scratching at it with his fingernails. He slid his finger under the lock and slid it to the right. He pushed the window open and leaned over the edge, gazing down at the sidewalk three stories below him. For a moment, he was tempted to let himself slip over the window sill and fall to his death. But he stopped himself, and took a step back, his breath hitching. He had been so close. He began to shake as this realization dawned on him. He hadn't meant to get that close.

He reached out to close the window, but before he could think, his phone was tumbling forty five feet to the ground, shattering at instant contact to the concrete. He felt a moment of satisfaction at the sound. But then his stomach twisted with regret and guilt. He shouldn't have done it, it was common sense. But he had felt relief, so wasn't it worth it? Wasn't it?

Or was nothing worth it? Was he not worth it? Stop, he told himself, not yet.

Yet.

(Xavier's Point of View)

The shirt looked good on him.