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*Trigger Warning*
Ashton:
Your wardrobe of oversized clothing makes it easy to hide your habit from him. With each hateful Tweet, it's all too easy to twist your nails into the flesh of your stomach. With each comment on Tumblr, it's all too easy to pinch and scratch at the skin until blood wells around your nails. With each careless comment from the people close to you, it's all too easy drag your fingers, the burning sensation of your stretching skin providing relief from the mental pain. At least until the sight of the marks brings back the pain. Your stomach and upper thighs are mottled with bruises, scratches and cuts, some of the bigger ones beginning to scab. As you twist around, the bedroom light catches the white scars of older wounds. The memory of each hateful word and message comes forward from the recesses of your mind, your fingers tingling with the urge to sink into your flesh once more. A rattling noise catches you off guard, unable to cover yourself before the door opens. Ashton's eyes drop from yours to focus on your stomach, taking in the marks. You can only watch as his face falls, remaining motionless when he walks forward and envelops you in his arms. Resting your head against his chest, you can feel the tremors rolling through his body as warm tears land on your cheek.
Calum:
It's an addiction subtle enough to pass off as natural, but dangerous enough to cause serious damage. The urge for relief is overwhelming as you fall apart, throwing your arm forcefully against the nearest surface. A loud crack echoes through the kitchen, drawing Calum's attention. Relief flows through you as the numbness spreads. "Baby? Oh, holy shit. Are you okay? What happened?" he asks frantically, rushing to your side. You nod, seeing that only the chopping board was broken and not the part of your arm you'd hit it with. "You can't have broken the board from bumping into it, babe. That's the completely wrong --" A look of unwilling realisation spreads across his face. "Did you do that deliberately?" Ashamed but unable to deny the direct question, you simply look away. "Why would you do that?" the brunette says evenly, anger evident in his tone. "All this time, have you been hurting yourself on purpose? Did it not occur that you could seriously hurt yourself? Look at me!" His brown eyes are wide and angry when you muster the courage to look into them. They soften at the sight of your tears, his hands sliding down your arms to grasp yours. "Please don't do this anymore. No matter what it takes, I'll do anything. Please... just get help, okay?"
Luke:
The cold temperature of the English winter brings with it long sleeves and pants, and consequently the perfect disguise for your habit. Neat rows of red lines decorate your inner arms, hips and thighs, grotesquely mimicking the perfection your mind ached for. You never felt worthy - of your family, of your friends, of the fans' admiration, and especially not of Luke. The self-hatred swells with every slide of the razor, a feeling of justice blanketing your mind with every sharp throb of your tears landing on the cuts. A clattering noise echoes throughout the bathroom as the blade falls into the sink, quickly followed by the sound of flowing water. The blood forms pale swirls in the water as it falls from the metal, the methodic movement lulling your anxious mind. Calm flows over you from the methodic cleaning, accompanied by the still stinging cuts. Covering them with your jumper, you turn to leave, coming face to face with Luke. His eyes are red and slightly swollen, causing guilt to swell in your stomach. The blond says nothing, simply grasping your hand gently and pushing up the recently straightened sleeve. He remains silent for a long moment before fixing the fabric, using the grip on your hand to pull you into his chest, cuddling you tightly and murmuring words of comfort.
Michael:
Hateful thoughts swirl around your head as you turn on the shower, steam filling the room and fogging the mirror. Falling to your knees, the voices in your mind scream louder as your fingers draw closer to your mouth, Every insecurity, insult and comment drowns out your environment as the first contraction rolls through your throat, the splattering sound muffled by the shower. It's almost as if each wave is turning down the volume of the voices, the screams gradually fading into nothingness. Exhaustion sweeps through you, your stomach still clenching painfully and tears blurring your vision. You don't have the strength to move as the bathroom door swings open, followed by the sound of footsteps and the squeak of the shower as it is turned off. Watching silently, you see Michael sink down beside you, his beautiful eyes dull with sadness. "I hoped I was wrong," he murmurs, brushing your hair from your damp forehead, "all I wanted was to know that I was being paranoid. I don't know why you think it's necessary to do this, baby," his lips brush against your shoulder, arms curling around your waist as you sit on the bathroom floor, "you're so beautiful. I love you so much. I don't know how to fix this, but we'll find a way. I promise you. You're worth so much more than you think."
