Archive of Our Own

"Sss..." Chema hissed through his teeth in pain as Bosco carefully sliced into his arm with a sharp razor blade. Bosco laughed, unfazed. "Don't be a baby," he said. "I've barely even started."

Chema flicked his eyes away from Bosco's grip on his arm to the recording camera set up in front of them. He was trying not to stare at the blood too long. It looked a bit different than in his movies. Of course, this wasn't his idea. When Bosco found out about Chema's cutting habit, he was strangely ecstatic. He couldn't stop talking about it every time they hung out after class, how beautiful it would be to get on camera, how perfect the shots would be. It was odd, even for Chema. But Bosco had a way of getting what he wanted from him. He barely even realized what he was getting himself into until he was sitting on his bed in some dumb horror movie shirt and pajama shorts, Bosco crouched on the floor and sawing away at his wrists like it was wood instead of his best friend's arm.

Bosco got the oddest glint in his eye every time Chema instinctively flinched away. He knew Bosco was into some weird shit, but he wasn't expecting it to go this far. As he forced himself to look at his arm again, his stomach turned. He hadn't realized how deep Bosco was going. Bosco noticed. "I thought you wanted to make a movie," he scolded playfully, that odd glint still in his eye. Chema just groaned.

Bosco seemed almost too skilled. He went deeper than Chema ever had on his own, but still always stopped before it became dangerous. Despite how fucking disturbing this all was, Bosco was right. Chema was excited to look at all this footage later, and even more excited for when it would scar. That didn't stop him from feeling sick. Bosco barely paused for a moment. He went over every line multiple times. It felt like the sharp pain shot through Chema's entire body somehow.

Nausea rolled through Chema in waves, each one worse than the last. He nearly gagged as Bosco went over some old scar tissue he had done on himself in freshman year. It didn't seem to discourage Bosco. In fact, he seemed to take this as a challenge. Before Chema could even react, he swiftly jabbed his razor deeper into Chema's flesh, making him bite back a scream. He didn't want to embarrass himself on tape, after all. Bosco beamed up at him despite his pained expression. "I hope I set up the mics right," Bosco said thoughtfully. "I wouldn't want to miss all these cute noises." Chema felt his face go warm. He wouldn't really consider this scenario cute.

The camera had only realistically been rolling for 30 minutes or so, but it felt like hours to Chema. It didn't take long for him to start to feel faint. He barely noticed himself slowly leaning back onto the bed. Thinking felt like trying to hold water. Just when he thought he might pass out, he felt Bosco grip his wrist even tighter, making Chema yelp at the sudden and agonizing pain. "Do you need a break?" Bosco asked, seeming genuine. Chema nodded frantically. Bosco pulled his blade back, hands stained from his friend's blood, stroking his exposed thigh sympathetically. Chema let out a sigh of relief.

The relief was short-lived. He barely realized what had happened when he felt the razor stab into his thigh. "We can give the arm a break, yeah?" Bosco said, his voice dripping with an oddly sadistic sort of affection. Chema let out a choked sob. He could barely catch his breath, let alone hold back the tears welling in his eyes. Bosco's smile turned into an expression of feigned disappointment. "I thought you would make it way longer before getting all whiny," he sighed. "Pretty pathetic, Chema." He felt pretty pathetic, watching the blood drip down his arms and thigh and staining his white sheets. "I'm sorry," he gasped, feeling his tears finally start streaming down his cheeks. Bosco kissed the deep cut on Chema's thigh, making him wince. "It's okay, baby," he replied lovingly.

Maybe it was the blood loss, but something about the way he said it filled Chema's chest with warmth. He felt like he could melt under Bosco's gaze. Bosco had never talked like this to him before. In fact, he always gave Chema a cold sort of vibe. They had worked together, but Bosco didn't seem eager to get close to him until he found out about Chema's self-harming habit. Then, suddenly, he had become his closest friend. Both his chest and thigh felt like they were on fire. Chema's vision throbbed. Even the air touching his open wounds felt like too much. He didn't think he could take much more.

"No more, please," Chema pleaded, his hands trembling as he struggled to hold himself up. Bosco's expression suddenly turned cold again. "I'm having fun," he said flatly. Chema was too shocked and too dizzy to respond. Almost as a punishment, Bosco quickly jabbed his tongue into Chema's deepest thigh cut. His whole body locked up at once, and he suddenly forgot any other cut existed. Everything got very loud, and then got very quiet.

When Chema came to, the light in the room felt wrong. Too bright, too still. He blinked at the ceiling for a moment before remembering where he was. Bosco was sat cross-legged at the foot of the bed, rewinding footage on the camera with the focused expression he got when he was editing. Like nothing had happened. "You're up," Bosco said, not looking away from the screen. Chema tried to sit up. His arms screamed at him. He made it halfway. "How long was I out?"

"Not long." Bosco tilted the camera slightly, reviewing an angle. "Long enough." Chema looked down at his arms. Someone — Bosco, presumably — had wrapped them loosely. Practical. Efficient. The thigh too. He didn't remember that happening. "You could've woken me up," Chema said. Bosco finally glanced over at him. Bosco smirked like Chema had gotten blackout drunk or something, not like he had passed out from blood loss. "You looked like you needed it."

He went back to the camera. Chema sat there in the still-too-bright room, bandaged and wrung out, watching his best friend act like the whole thing had been nothing more than an afternoon project. His chest hurt in a way that had nothing to do with the cuts. He wished, not for the first time, that Bosco looked at him like that when he wasn't bleeding.